There was a beat of silence. "Operative Seven," he said. The voice was all hard edges and devoid of any emotion, but in that moment, it felt like the best sound in the world.
"I know," I breathed out.
"You need to change your locks."
I laughed before I could help it, but my pulse sped up. "Is this a socialcall, or?—?"
"Change your locks. The sooner the better. Do not use outside contractors. Pick someone you trust and know. A family friend."
My body tightened from the neck down. "Are you saying I'm in danger?" I kept the question sharp, almost clinical. It was the only way I could make it through the conversation without splintering.
"I don't know." He sounded like he was reading off a cue card. "But the last target might take time. Change your locks as a precaution."
"Why?"
"Because that is my instruction. Just do it."
"You're not very good at customer service," I said.
"My job is not to be pleasant. My job is to get shit done."
"Should I be worried?"
The answer was slow and absolute. "Be careful is all. Don't go to the pharmacy at night and on foot. Use your car or delivery service."
"Okay," I said.
He hung up.
I stared at the phone. The conversation left a mark on the air, as if the words were still rattling around inside the room. I set it down, then immediately picked it up again, just to make sure the call was really over.
For a while, I just sat in my chair, hunched and breathless, the laptop's screen saver eventually flickering on, filling the space with bouncing squares of color. I picked up my wine glass and finished the contents in one swallow.
I woke up to the noise of the street sweeper truck. The window leaked sunlight in a streak across my face. The couch felt like it had grown teeth overnight, the cushions biting into my ribs and neck. The wine hangover was mild compared to the cocktail of anxiety curdling in my chest.
I didn't remember how I'd fallen asleep in the living room.
So, I just sat there, looking at the carpet and realizing that even though my life had been upended I'd been sleeping better. Or maybe not better, but deeper.
It was strange.
I should have been rolling around in bed all night every night from insomnia but the fact that there was a man out there, looking out for me made me feel…not as hopeless. And no, the good kind of sleep didn't happen often, but compared to the time before I had contacted the Bureau, its frequency grew.
I took a quick shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail so tight it threatened to crack my skull, and got dressed for an errand I apparently needed to run.
The hardware store was a twelve-minute drive, or seven if I was willing to risk points on my license. I aimed for the early hour, hoping to dodge the weekend crowds of DIY dads and sugar-high children. I parked close to the sliding doors and forced myself out of the Accord, keys in hand, burner in the pocket of my jacket.
I kept my head down and moved straight for the aisle with locks. I did a full scan of the row, my eyes darting over every package like a scanner at checkout. There were at least twenty options, but I could tell at a glance which ones were trash, which were passable, and which ones a professional would actually think twice about.
I compared brands, then models, then fine print. I almost went for the gold standard brand, but I doubted my landlord would allow me to drill new holes in the door. I settled for a hybrid option— deadbolt and a knob with reinforced strike plate.
I flipped over the boxes, reading the specs as if I understood the metallurgy. Maybe I did. I'd had enough time in my life to develop a minor in security protocols, if not the actual degrees.
I picked a set. It was heavy. The weight of it felt like holding a barbell. I took it in both hands, rolling the package in my palms, running my thumb over the tamper-proof hologram.
On the way to the register, I found myself wondering if Operative Seven would approve. I thought of taking a picture to send it to him and asked if this would do. But then I changed my mind.
When I left the store, the sun had gone up a few notches in the sky.
