Burt’s Bees. Vanilla bean. Found in the other pocket. The label is worn off the edges, the yellow plastic scratched, like she fidgets with it. It’s such a mundane, innocent object. It stops me cold. A soldier carries a knife. A spy carries a cyanide pill. A florist carries vanilla lip balm.
Finally, a plastic card.
I feel the hard edge of it tucked into the hidden waistband pocket of the leggings.
I pull it out.
It’s a driver’s license. I haven’t looked at the name yet. In the garage, I patted her down for weapons, but I missed the waistband. I didn’t want to know her name then. Knowing the name makes them human.
Target, asset, hostage, liability…
These are safe categories that allow you to pull the trigger without losing sleep.
Knowing the name makes mistakes harder to bury.
But now...
Now I know what she looks like with her clothes cut off. Now I know she fights back with soap bottles and steals security codes to save a Senator from allergies.
I can’t keep calling her “The Girl.”
I need to know who she is. To run a background check and see if she really is a florist, or if that cover story is as paper-thin as it sounds.
I hold up the license.
It feels light. Insignificant. A thin piece of polycarbonate that defines a life.
I flip it over.
The photo is terrible, like all DMV photos. The lighting is harsh, washing her out. But she’s smiling. It’s a small, polite smile. Forced. Like the photographer told her to smile, and she obeyed, but didn’t mean it.
I shift my eyes to the text next to the photo.
NAME: Iris Elizabeth Hale.
I freeze.
The sound of the storm outside drops away, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The hum of the security rack in the corner goes silent. The whiskey in my gut turns to acid.
Hale.
My mind blanks, rejecting the input.
It’s a common name. There are thousands of Hales in the city. It’s a coincidence. It has to be.
It doesn’t mean anything.
I look at the address.
ADDRESS: Estate Road, Southampton, NY.
I know that address.
I’ve stood at those gates. It’s the home of the man who saved my life.
Judge William Hale.
My hand spasms around the whiskey glass I didn’t realize I was still holding.
