She saw me, lifted a hand in greeting, then went to place her order before sliding into the seat across.
"I hope you didn't wait long," she said with an apologetic smile when she plopped into a chair across the table.
"Fifteen minutes."
"Sorry. Traffic." She didn't elaborate. We both knew she meant existential traffic—her bed, her phone, her own thoughts, maybe another project she was working on. Because anyone who lived in LA knew that this was acity of perpetual traffic and if you wanted to be on time you always left early.
Brynn folded her arms and leaned across the table, voice dropping. "I talked to Lena."
"You did?" My throat was suddenly dry.
Brynn nodded. "She says it's legit. She does know someone who used them."
"Can you give me her number?" I asked.
"You do remember Lena, right?" Brynn's brow pinched upward.
I looked down at the mug, at the little puddle of lukewarm foam. Lena was one of Brynn's friends I'd met the other night at The Crypt. Tall, confidently calm, black leather trench coat, dramatic eye makeup. Very mysterious. The one who'd brought upthe Bureauafter I'd accidentally spilled some of the things I'd vowed to never say out loud. I blamed too much vodka and anxiety.
"Yes," I said. "Of course, I remember her. That's why I'm asking you for her number."
"She does give off those crazy vibes."
I scoffed. "So do you."
"No, I don't." Brynn fell back in her chair and folded both arms across her chest.
"Said the girl who's obsessed with true crime and didn't refute anyone the other night when they suggested she was the only one they knew who'd actually go on a date with a real psycho as part of her personal research."
Brynn rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
"Look, I just wanna talk to her."
"You know she's got a wild imagination. She writes serialized horror fiction online."
"How is it different from your fixation on true crime?"
"At least I don't make shit up. I just study it."
We sat in silence for a little while. Brynn's face looked tense as if she was struggling with something on the inside. Finally, she pulled out her phone, her fingers flicking over the screen.
My own phone buzzed. When I looked at it, there was a text from Brynn with the link to some messenger profile.
I shot her a questioning stare.
She shrugged and explained, "I don't have her direct number. We've ever only communicated using this app."
Weird, I thought to myself. "Thanks."
"You sure you want to get into this again?" she asked quietly.
"I didn't say I was gonna get into this again, but I just wanted to?—"
The barista behind the counter called Brynn's order. She rose up to grab it, leaving me to mull over my unfinished sentence.
What was it that I wanted? Justice? My life back? Perhaps both. I barely left my apartment these days while the men who'd ruined my career—among other things—were living their fucking lives like nothing had happened. And nothing actually had. Not to them.
Because it'd happened to me.
