Resonable
1090 Words
*Ava*
Detective Morales does not let me leave the rink through the back entrance.
This is reasonable. I dislike it anyway.
I sit in the Pelicans conference room with my laptop open, a printed map of downtown Charleston spread across the table, and Rasmus's last message preserved in three separate places. Morales stands at the window overlooking the marina lot. Two unmarked police cars idle near the service road.
Ethan is nowhere visible.
That does not mean he is not there.
Ginnie arrives twenty minutes later with Caleb behind her and Butterscotch straining at the leash between them. Caleb must have left the house in a hurry. He is wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and the expression he gets before a game.
Butterscotch spots me and abandons all dignity.
"Excellent security procedure," Morales says as the dog shoves his head beneath my hand.
"He is emotional support," Ginnie says.
"He is a golden retriever with no operational discipline."
"Exactly."
Caleb crouches to untangle the leash from a chair leg. "You good?"
The question is simple. He does not make it softer than it is.
My fingers tighten in Butterscotch's fur. "I am working."
"That wasn't my question."
I look at him.
Caleb's jaw shifts once. He has known me long enough to understand that my first answer is usually a locked door.
"I am scared," I say.
The words sit in the conference room, ugly and exposed.
Ginnie pulls out the chair beside me. She does not touch me. I appreciate that more than I can explain.
"Good," she says.
I stare at her.
"Fear is information. We use it. We do not let it drive the car."
Caleb gives her a look. "You practiced that one in the mirror?"
"Several times. It is very effective."
Despite myself, I breathe out a laugh.
Morales comes to the table and places a second map over mine. "The marina lot has cameras, but the sightline to the service entrance is poor. We checked the footage from this morning. There is a gray sedan registered to Vale near the lot at seven fifteen. It left before patrol arrived."
"He was watching practice," I say.
"Possibly. We cannot prove he saw you."
"He named the entrance."
Morales nods. "Yes."
I pull my phone toward me and open the folder labeled facts. Every message. Every call. Every location where I noticed a car behind me or a figure near the apartment garage. I have already arranged the dates chronologically. Now I drag each location onto the map.
My apartment in North Charleston.
The rink.
The grocery store on King Street where I buy tea I never drink.
The urgent care clinic where Malik had his wrist checked last month.
The Harbor Walk, twice.
Ginnie leans closer. Her perfume is citrus and something expensive. "That is not random."
"No." My throat tightens. "He is following routines."
Caleb folds his arms. "You told him any of this?"
"I mentioned the rink. He knew I worked there. The rest is public. My apartment address was on the package he sent."
"But your brother's clinic?" Ginnie asks.
I zoom in on the date.
The clinic check-in had been after a game. I wore my Pelicans jacket. A fan had asked for a photograph in the lobby because he recognized me from the bench. I had thought nothing of it.
I think of Dr. Bell in Trauma Two, his tired hand held up when I tried to explain that my patient's blood pressure had changed. I had documented everything. Times. Vitals. My exact warning. Later, when the patient deteriorated, he read my note and said, You did your best.
As though the record had been a consolation prize.
I flatten my palm over the map.
"People always think documentation is enough," I say.
Morales watches me carefully. "Documentation gives us options. You are giving us more now."
Ginnie taps the harbor route with one purple-painted nail. "He keeps choosing places where Ava is expected to be. Work. Home. Family. He wants her to feel like there is nowhere he cannot reach."
Rage moves through me so suddenly it makes my hands shake.
Not fear. Not this time.
Rage.
Ginnie sees it. Of course she does.
"You are angry," she says quietly.
"I am being practical."
"Ava."
I look down at the map because I cannot look at her.
"He gets to decide where I go. Whether I check my locks. Whether I can walk into a building without wondering if he is there." My voice stays level until the last word. "I am tired of behaving as though that is something happening around me instead of something he is doing."
Caleb pulls out a chair and sits across from me. His tattooed forearms rest on the table.
"Then tell us what you want," he says.
The question catches me harder than it should.
I look at the marked streets, the blue line of the Cooper River, the crowded block around Waterfront Park. Tourists. Vendors. Ferry traffic. Cameras on nearly every corner. A place with exits, sightlines, witnesses.
"He wants control," I say. "He expects me to come to the rink alone because that is what he told me to do. I want to change the location."
Morales studies the map. "Where?"
"Waterfront Park. Near the pineapple fountain. There are people, cameras, and enough space for officers to position themselves without standing on top of us."
Ginnie is already opening her legal pad.
Caleb looks toward the door. "Rasmus is going to hate this."
"He is not part of this decision."
The sentence comes out too fast.
Ginnie lifts an eyebrow. "He is not part of the police operation. He is, however, likely to notice you are walking into a controlled confrontation with a man who has been stalking you."
"I will tell him when there is something to tell."
"That is very Ava of you."
"Thank you."
"It was not praise."
Morales takes the map. "I can make Waterfront Park work. We need him to agree to it, and we need him to be clear that he expects you there."
My phone lies between us.
I type slowly.
‘The rink is too public. Waterfront Park. Tomorrow at noon.’
For several seconds, nothing happens.
Butterscotch presses his warm side against my ankle. Caleb's knee bounces beneath the table. Ginnie straightens a coaster that is already straight.
Then my screen lights up.
‘No. Tonight. Harbor steps by the ferry dock. Come alone, Ava. I need to see you in person.’
- Writer
