My faith in the justice system is, admittedly, not great. It's part of the reason I stayed out of the criminal side of my profession. The few cases I sat in on were miserable.
A case of fraud that couldn’t be proven, leaving a small business owner without a single penny to feed his family.
The heir to the Morrison Artillery Corp accused of murdering his father when he discovered he was going to be written out of the will.
And neither one of them had a happy ending.
The son, who was acquitted based on the sworn testimony of his dad’s security guard and no evidence of the supposed motive, still left that courtroom with a dead father.
The defrauded business owner who lost everything due to his business manager’s malfeasance tried to kill himself right there in the courthouse.
Even the few pettier crimes and the corruption scheme in the local PD were too messy for me.
"He was like an enforcer or something for the mob," my mom nods frantically, trying to assure me of the validity of the claims. "Used his company to find victims. The investigator in charge said they have more than enough evidence to put him away for life."
"Well, that's good then, I guess," I shrug, digging into the food placed in front of us. Mom has an affinity for true crime, and while I don't fault her for that, it holds no interest for me.
The conversation falls away as we eat in earnest until my obligatory time is up and I excuse myself, letting them return to thoroughly enjoying each other while other restaurant-goers look on in horror.
My afternoon slips by without incident, my prediction about the chemical plant being correct, ending my day an hour earlier than expected. As soon as they saw the projected numbers, they couldn't get away from me and my city fast enough.
Leaving me to prepare to attend my only vice.
One that no one in my life knows about.
Letting myself into my apartment, I take in a deep breath, enjoying the bright and fresh scent of lemongrass coming from my timed diffuser in the corner of my kitchen. The sparkling white marble and warm brown cabinets surround me, bringing me back to center from a day that left me off-kilter. My mom always has that effect on me, and I think she always will, no matter how many therapy sessions I complete, no matter how many years pass. Janet willalwaysthrow me off balance with her chaos and constant need for attention. As an adult, I don't mind her taking it all, but as a child? It meant keeping my joy small and my sadness even smaller so they didn't disrupt her.
As I slowly shower, taking time to shave and exfoliate myself into shining perfection, I wash away any thoughts I've had about my past and all the things I've done to outgrow it.
I don't bother curling my hair, letting the dark brown strands fall where they may.
Laid out on my bed is the dress I bought for this excursion. Falling to mid-thigh, the black number with slits up to each hip emphasizes my curves, pushing my breasts up and hugging my waist, showing off every inch of my full thighs and wide hips.
I'm sure some might say a dress like this is made for someone smaller than me, but they'd be wrong. This dress wasmadefor me. Made to mold to my every hill and valley.
Before darting out the door, I spritz my favorite perfume lightly, surrounding me with a light touch of coffee and caramel, muddled with heady spices, then drape my long peacoat around me, tying it in the middle to keep everything covered.
I'm nervous, though I know I shouldn't be.
It's hardly the first time I've done this.
Just like my hair color— the first Saturday of each month at nine AM— and my pedicures— every other Tuesday evening— I have a standing reservation, of sorts.
Instead of driving, I take a taxi to the destination. I don't plan todrink much, but it's less complicated than dealing with parking and the possibility of someone spotting my car.
Paying my fare, I slink out of the car a block away from my destination.
The inconspicuous door and the flashing sign above it make my heart pound.
Mingle, the sign reads as I approach, the neon fluttering, the slow, bass-heavy music leaking out onto the sidewalk, making my blood sing.
"Name?" The bouncer asks.
"Brigit Danaan," I respond, sliding my ID into his hand.
Scanning my license, he quickly and efficiently ensures that everything is in order before returning it.
"Welcome back, Brigit," he smiles, friendlier now that he knows I'm not only cleared, but a regular. With clubs like these, trust is everything. And I've more than earned theirs. I'm discreet, always follow the rules, and pay my debts the moment I receive them without argument.
