A feeling that felt a lot like anger flickered somewhere deep in my gut. Flickered but didn't quite catch.
When Brynn returned, my own latte was finished.
Again, we sat in silence for a few heartbeats.
"I don't want you to have false hope," Brynn finally spoke. "You tried already to go against them and look where you're at right now."
She was the kind of friend who lacked filter and was brutally honest to the point of insensitive, but she was my only real friend—and the only good thing that had come out of group therapy I'd attended a couple of years ago.
"Maybe I just want to humor myself," I supplied quietly.
"Or maybe you're just grasping at straws."
We went back to silence. The espresso machine screeched. Somebody's phone rang with a burst of pop music that instantly faded.
"I got to get back to work," I finally said rising to my feet.
"Sure. Text me at the end of the week. Let's hang out."
I stumbled into the brightness of midday, my blood buzzing a little. The city was rumbling and alive. The coffee shop doors swung shut behind me. I rushed over to the parking lot at the rear of the building, halted in the alley, leaned against the building's brick wall, feeling its solid, cool support.
If you have money, you can cover up anything. Justice system doesn't apply to you.
I beg to differ.
What do you mean?
If the system designed to safeguard you doesn't, there are alternative methods.
What? Like hiring some thugs to send a message?
You've had too much to drink, bitch.
Not in the slightest…There's an organization. They call themselves the Bureau. They help people like...well, people who've been failed by the system. For a price.
This kind of stuff only exists inmovies.
My pulse slowed at first and then sped up to match the frantic rhythm of the street as I inspected every memory of that conversation that had taken place at the table the other night, wondering what the hell was I doing.
After catching my breath, I resumed walking. As I entered the lot, my phone buzzed. The sound startled me. Margaret's name lit up the screen. My finger hovered over it for a second before I took the call.
"Kimmy, sweetheart!" Her voice was warm like one of her hand-knit cardigans. I clutched the phone tighter, trying to hold onto that feeling.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"How are you doing, dear? I've been thinking about you."
"I'm fine. Just...leaving an appointment."
"Oh, I hope everything's alright." Concern edged her words, and I pictured her peering over her glasses, brow furrowed.
"Don't worry. It's a work thing," I lied.
"I won't keep you long. You remember Katrina's birthday is coming up, right? We're having a little birthday dinner for her."
Katrina. My older foster sister who'd blown through her teenage years and college with whirlwind ease. Margaret's place would be full of chatter and noise, especially if Katrina brings friends over…or that new boyfriend of hers Margaret wouldn't stop talking about.
My chest tightened at the thought of it, at the thought of being surrounded by all those people I called my family. I felt undeserving being there. "I'm not sure," I said, faltering. "I've got a really big project at work."
