Where the Violets Grow

Chapter 11- Legacy

It takes me a little too long to realize I haven't answered him. He becomes obviously impatient.

"Are you going to ask me in?" he says after a minute of silence.

I say nothing but stand to the side, letting him pass me through the opened door.

He steps to the middle of the room and looks around.

I shut the door and wait.

The tension is palpable. I break the ice first.

"How can I help you, sir." My voice is dry.

He sighs. "You can drop the 'sir' nonsense."

I swallow the irritation creeping up my throat like acid.

"Okay." I fake a smile. "What can I do for you, Dad?"

"Your request for promotion has been rejected."

My body freezes while everything else comes crashing down. I keep my face as unreadable as it can be.

"Okay."

"That's all you have to say?" his voice sounds incredulous, but I refuse to look at him. I look past him to the ugly maroon wallpaper behind him.

Don't you show him any emotion.

Don't you f*****g dare.

I take a steadying breath. "What would you like me to say?"

He straightens his tie. "Perhaps you'd like to know why."

He waits for me to respond, but I say nothing. I won't take the bait.

After a moment, he sighs and turns towards the window.

"I couldn't recommend you for promotion," he finally says. "Too many politics. You haven't made enough of a name for yourself to rise through the ranks without some schmuck raving about favoritism and personal biases."

"You blocked my promotion because of an imaginary schmuck raving about our family ties when my work and service speaks for itself?"

"This is not an imaginary problem, Vivian." he snaps.

"Yes, Dad." I speak without thinking. "It is. This has nothing to do with my work performance."

His eyes grow dark as stormclouds. "Everything has to do with your performance."

"If it did, then promoting to Sergeant would be no problem." I am on a roll.... right off a cliff."I have the highest number of closed homicide cases of any detective in the state. I've served on this force for a decade. I didn't need your name when I went through the academy. I didn't need your name when I solved my first case, or any of the dozens that followed. The only thing holding me back is you."

I notice my voice getting louder, growing in volume and intensity. All the while, he grows more calm. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he is amused. Pleased. As if...

...as if he has me right where he wants me.

"You're right." he says finally.

I stand frozen, suddenly too weak to say anything. He walks to the window and stands gazing outward, like I had been not even twenty minutes ago. He folds his arms behind his back, wrists crossed. Out of habit, I keep my eyes on his hands.

"You will never assume my legacy until I feel that your affairs are in proper order."

I nearly choke. "My affairs?"

"Vivian."

He turns around, eyes pinning me down like a moth to a flame.

"You don't engage with the public. You have high statistics, but with no community outreach you are just another number."

I open my mouth to respond but he cuts me off.

"Furthermore, you are twenty-eight years old and haven't even attempted to begin a family of your own to produce any heirs."

Screech. Crash.

I beg your finest f*****g pardon?

Heirs?

What is this, the fourteenth century?

"I have no interest in marriage or in... producing heirs." I say flatly. "I am committed to my service to our city. I will create my own legacy, and I don't need to saddle myself with a husband or children to do so."

Even I didn't know until now how much I loathe the thought of marriage or children. I certainly don't hate kids, I'm rather good with them. However, the idea of surrendering my body and life to something I cannot fathom caring about above all else is beyond my reach.

"Your own legacy." He repeats the words, each one weighted and deliberately oppressive.

"How exactly do you intend to do that?" He takes a step towards me. Then another. Then another.

"Nobody moves up in this precinct without my say so. Nobody moves without my authorization."

He is now directly in front of me, his vast authority makes him appear ten stories tall, and I shrink back inside myself. On the outside, I stand my ground.

If only I wasn't actually scared shitless.

He lowers his eyes to be level with mine.

"Most importantly," his voice is low and it makes me want to cower. "Nobody in this family defies direct orders without consequences."

He holds my stare for another moment before straightening up. He reaches out and grabs my long braid between two fingers, examining it thoughtfully.

"You really do look exactly like your mother when she was your age."

He drops my hair and walks past me to the door. His footfalls add weight to the pressure building on my chest.

"I'm glad we have an understanding now." he says over his shoulder. "I expect you to hurry up with that Ashford case and be done with it. Your attention is needed elsewhere."

He turns in the doorway and faces me one more time.

"Goodnight, Detective Cross," He says with a smirk. Then he shuts the door.

It may be hours that have passed since that door slipped shut.

Realistically, I know it hasn't even been a full minute.

Even so, I collapse.

Pressure is building in my chest and blocking out my ability to breathe, think, or feel.

I feel like I am suffocating. I gasp and I fumble with my hands, reaching... searching...

They close on something cold and slender.

I pull my hand back and find that my fingers are enclosed around a pair of scissors.

They glint in the low light of my desk lamp, and I clutch them like a lifeline. Still wheezing, still gasping for air, I bring them towards my neck.

Shhk-shhk...

Sshhhhhkk...

Silence.

I hold the limp braid in my hand, tiny pieces of hair falling like dust motes all around me.

I can breathe again.

Dropping the scissors and discarding the braid in the trash bin, I look at the window again. Staring back at me is a hollow shell with an uneven, choppy haircut.

She isn't the detective the city needs.

She isn't the daughter that her father wants.

But she is me.

I'm glad we have an understanding...

My father's words echo in my head. I clench my fist until my nails draw blood.

"No, Commissioner Cross." I say out loud, "We certainly do not."