The Case of Syrah Dubois

He gazed blankly out of the window of his second story walk-up office. The wind blew the snow against the glass in repeated dull taps, lulling him. The city was supposed to get fourteen inches tonight. A bit dangerous to drive, especially in his 1984 Chrysler Laser. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch again, he considered, turning his attention from the window to the mug of gin and tonic he was using to wash down his Chinese takeout. His office, consisting of a desk, chair, bookshelf, couch and a messy coffee table, offered little in the way of distraction.

Drawn by the unnatural sound the painted-over hinges and crooked threshold made when the door opened, the man looked up. A woman sauntered into his office without a word. She looked like a fantasy God had once. Her green eyes could be seen from the door thirty feet away. Her dirty blonde hair layered down effortlessly around her slightly oval shaped head stopping a few inches shy of her shoulders. Her bewildering complexion only added to how unrealistically beautiful she was. It was almost a light caramel or deep olive; reminiscent of a month-long tan even though it was the dead of winter. Instead of wondering what had brought this vision to his door on such a treacherous night, he rotated guesses in his head of where she was from: Southern Italy? Greece? Brazil? The man traced her face and body desperately trying to hold on to the silly notion that nobody was perfect. The result of which caused him to unintentionally stare.

The woman smiled shyly, aware of the effect she had on men but seemingly still slightly embarrassed by it. Carrying a small designer bag, she was dressed more for a gala. She wore no coat, a shimmering grey dress with a slit halfway up her right thigh and heeled boots. Not the attire for this weather, she must have been dropped off.

“Mr. Gregory?” She asked. Her Southern accent deep and rich.

Paul immediately felt insanely jealous of whomever she was looking for, until he realized that he was Paul Gregory. He nearly laughed at himself.

“Are you Paul Gregory?” She questioned again, unsure.

“Yes, I am.” Paul managed, trying to move past the shock of her beauty. He continued to study her. Rather investigate. Most beautiful people are pushed into bubble by the world in one way or another. However, when Paul looked into her light green eyes, he saw that her gaze carried shade of pain.

“Richard, from the Times… H- he said you’re the best investigator he’s ever worked with…. Umm… It appears I’m in need of your serves.” Her southern drawl dripped thick over her words like homemade country syrup on warm pancakes. It was a sophisticated southern. The kind Paul had only heard in movies.

He stood and extended his hand. She glided towards him, tilting the room back and forth with every step before reaching him and shaking it. He was suddenly acutely aware of his disheveled appearance. His fiancé, Brandy, found it cute; like a puppy who made a mess of itself, one she could straighten up and make adorable. Paul ventured a guess though, that his current audience didn't go in for "cute." He motioned for her to take seat on the couch behind her. Paul attempted to take advantage of her back being turned from him for two seconds to straighten his shirt and tie.

He sat as far away from her as he could without seeming awkward.

“Before you say anything you should know I'm not a licensed private eye or anything. So, their oath or whatever they have to protect you doesn't really apply here.”

“I don't think private eyes have oaths.”

“No?” He asked realizing he wasn’t aware either, “well they should.”

“Agreed.” She smiled. Her checks pushing her eyes closed at the corners.

He warmed at the fact that he’d made an angel beam for the better part of three seconds. He was convinced he’d just booked his passage to heaven.

“I say that basically to inform you that nothing you say to me is privileged.”

She looked disappointed.

“Legally speaking, I mean.” He said quickly, desperate to return the smile to her face so that the world could continue to rotate.

“I understand.” She said.

Her words carried a weight so heavy he could feel them land on him.

“Ma’am, in the spirit transparency. My last job, um… a buddy of mine; an author, paid me to write a research paper for one of his characters.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“He was doing me a favor more than anything.” Paul admitted.

“Mr. Gregory there’s no need to sell yourself short. The appearance of your office does that for you just fine.” She quipped looking around, “But I know you were the defense Attorney’s lead investor in the Grace McKinley trial two years ago.”

He could feel his cheeks getting red at the embarrassment of her knowing his one shining moment.

“Now, I appreciate your candor, but I am simply looking for help.” she said mercifully putting an end to the current subject. Paul thought he noticed a slight quiver in her voice.

“I will if I can, that much I will assure you miss…”

“Dubois. But Syrah, please.”

“Ok, Syrah.” Paul said nodding, giving her the floor.

“I wish-“ She paused as if revolving words in her head. “I want you to help me be something I once was… free.” Her eyes begin to well up at the mere thought of it. She cursed herself and quickly wiped them. Paul wanted to give her a handkerchief. He’d never owned a handkerchief; always thought they were quite silly, but he would have carried one every day of his adult life if he’d known a day like today would come.

“Although irrelevant to the issue, it’s important to me that you know I came into my marriage with my eyes wide open,” She continued, “I knew who Ben was when I married him. I am not naïve, Mr. Gregory, I can assure you.”

Paul nodded.

“No, I’m not, I just thought- … Rather, hoped that I would be exempt.”

Paul didn't respond. Syrah sighed

“Well, maybe, I was slightly naive,” she confessed, “Nevertheless, the innocence of youth is long gone. You follow me?”

“I do, Mrs. Dubois.”

“It’s Miss Dubois. My maiden name.” She smiled shyly through the pain, “My mother was debutante from New Orleans. She could trace her ancestry all the way back to France. Moved over here in 1800’s after the civil war. At that time the family couldn’t decide whether to go into vice or crops. So, we did both.”

“Wait.” The tumblers in Paul’s mind fell into place. “Antoinette Dubois?”

“Yes, my mother.”

“I know the family. Though I’ve never seen a picture of you. Only of your broth-“ Paul tried to stop speaking but his excitement had already pushed the words out.

“It’s ok, Mr. Gregory. I’ve made peace with my brother’s accident.” She said kind of melancholy, “But you are right about the pictures. I like to keep a low profile.”

“Well it makes sense.” Paul said. Then thought that statement was subject to various interpretations and followed up, “I mean- given your beauty. They would never leave you alone.”

“Mr. Gregory, you are going make me blush, sir.” She grinned. He felt the snow melting outside of his window from the warmth of her glow.

“So, there I was. Younger sibling to the heir of the Sugar cane and gambling empire of Southern Louisiana. Watching my brother, who absolutely adored me and I him, get ready to take over the reins. I had not a care in the world. So, I did what good girls what without a care in the world do.” She smirked deviously at him and raising a knowing an eyebrow. “Carried on an elicit relationships with a string of bad boys’ miles beneath my standing.”

“That sounds like trouble,” Paul observed.

“Most excitement is.” She accurately pointed out. Syrah crossed her legs. The slit gave way allowing a few more inches of the goddess hidden under the dress to be seen. “The day I found out about my brother’s accident was the day I found that my latest disreputable boy toy, Benjamin, had managed to get me pregnant.”

“His ploy into your net worth?”

“Oh no, believe me Mr. Gregory, certain times I feel I have more harmonies than the good lord ever intended. Times like that I can be blindingly stubborn.” She said with a knowing tone. “And the night in question there wasn’t a drugstore open for miles, and I was... in need; if you catch my meaning.”

“I do." Paul nodded.

“As you know, gambling is in my blood.”

Paul laughed. That was understatement. Outside of Louisiana Riverboats, The Dubois’ owed casinos in Biloxi, Reno, Mexico and Puerto Rico. A touch of diversity to the countless Sugar cane fields the family owned across four states.

“At the time I didn’t know how to process my brother’s death and the pregnancy. Didn’t know what to tell my mother who was grieving the loss of her first born. I-“ Syrah fidgeted a bit in her sit. “I guess I figured giving her a bit of good news would help the situation.”

“I see.”

“Therefore, there was a funeral and then a marriage.” She spoke the words with a sobering tone that can only come from the clarity of hindsight. “Sadly, I lost the baby, but during all of this I did succeed in cleaning Ben up real well. Even paid for him to go to business school with me when I was sent. Obviously needed. I majored in Art, if you can believe it. Never planned to be a businesswoman.” She said casually pulling a cigarette out of her bag.

She didn’t ask before she lit it, gazing off at nothing in particular. Paul excused this. He imagined there was rarely a room in which she had to ask permission for anything. He calmly got up and cracked a window and sat back down again. He must have been slightly closer than before because now her aroma filled his nose. She smelled of everything he felt she would. He’d never sniffed something so intoxicating before, it smelled of money and allure. Paul was afraid of this woman. Sure, he was pathetically in love with his fiancé, but he would be lying if he said this woman wouldn’t make him think twice. In fairness, she could make any man think twice.

“I’m sorry Miss Dubois. But how…” Paul trailed off; his intent somewhat clear.

“Oh, dear me. Here I am rambling on and I haven’t told you why I’m taking up your precious time. Forgive me.” She said and after a brief canvas of the disarray of the table flicked her ashes into paper coffee cup settled in among the mess. Paul wanted to punch himself in the face for being such a slob.

“Quite alright. Please take your time.” Paul assured her. Afterall there wasn’t a long list of appointments waiting outside.

“As I said, I never aspired to a businesswoman. But, surprisingly enough, Ben showed he had an aptitude for it. A far sight better than I was.” She lamented with another flick of ashes into the cup. “So, seeing a solution, I got Ben in the company. He moved up quickly, being my right hand and all. Lord knows I wasn’t worth a damn. Most of the time he was making the decisions for me.”

She smiled again feigning embarrassment. This time though, Paul felt deep down she wasn’t embarrassed at all. More disappointed that, as her presence here indicated, her new plan to return to a worry-free life didn’t work out as she liked.

“It was going so well that I presented him to the board as the new president of the gambling division. With my cousin running the Sugar cane and my uncle’s college roommate as a supposedly unbiased CEO. I could return the life I felt more befitting my Art diploma: I’d pop in the office twice a week for a few hours; Answer some calls; Vote at the board meetings. Ready for cocktails at 3pm.”

“Not bad.” Paul agreed, appreciating the simplicity and honesty. Most women these days would be ashamed to say that they held no yearning to be educated nor businesswomen. Feminist would balk at her desire to be taking care of. Even most, non-progressive women might look down on her mindset. Yet, there was a purity in her unapologetic openness that rivaled most Paul had encountered. In any case, power is rarely bestowed upon the deserving.

“Unfortunately, it seemed the man upstairs had other plans for me.” She started. The glint of pain shone through her eyes once again. “The more ingrained he became in the company, the more troublesome our relationship became.”

“Troublesome?” Paul repeated feeling her southern culture of understating the facts was at play.

She gave him a perceptive look.

“Well it didn’t start abusive. No sir. I wouldn’t have stood for it. But it slowly heated up to there. Quite the boiling frog I am.” She said with a smirk. But there was no humor behind it.

“The first time he hit me, I left the house immediately.” She continued, “I was not raised to subject myself to that type of behavior. No sir. But no sooner than I present my card at the check in desk at the Ritz downtown by the Quarter, do I realize that my debit card isn’t working. Credit cards neither.”

Paul was beginning to understand what bought this vision into a lowly office like this.

“It’s difficult for me to describe what it felt like in that moment. When the other shoe drops it rarely lands lightly. I thought I installed someone who loved me, as means to facilitate my freedom. And Instead, I enabled my own incarceration and empowered a man of pure evil to be the warden.”

The thought of her being trapped and abused struck a chord with Paul. He had an overactive aversion to injustice. It overwhelmed with a sense to act. He’d lost friends merely for having an unusual pet. Seeing a beautiful exotic bird locked in a small cage, never sat well with him. It had the entire sky available to it and some asshole decides to put it in 3-foot-tall jail. Paul could feel his blood beginning to boil at the thought of Ben.

“I looked into it. Well as much as I could without raising any flags.” She added sheepishly, “What I came up with is that my cars, house, even my phone bill are all in the company name. Which he now controls. As he controls my company stipend.”

“Well I’m sure there a way to remove him from his position. You must have considerable influence over the board.”

“Well that’s just cherry on the pie, I can't."

"Why not?"

" Well now, I’ve dealt with my current situation with the help unholy amounts of wine. One drunken night a went through his office and found a number of LLC papers, wire transfer receipts from various company accounts to other accounts. The accounts they were going to had no account holder name just a series of numbers. Very large sums, Mr. Gregory. But there was a name on the papers transferring the sums from my company.”

“Yours.” Paul stated plainly. She nodded. Paul had seen movie before. He didn’t like how it ends.

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Well it does me no good to piss off the man that’s controlling my livelihood; my family legacy, does it? Besides I could get a black eye for cold soup. I can only imagine…” She trailed off no doubt replaying one of many nights in her head. Paul just wanted to grab her and protect her. “Now I might not have a nose for business, Mr. Gregory, but I can read mischief like Maire Laveau could read your fate. What I need: is for you to figure out what he’s done. Then figure out how to undo it. And, I need proof. Enough that will make the board vote him out. THEN once that’s done, I can divorce him. Preferably from jail.” She said. Her lips unconsciously curled into a grin as she envisioned the scene.

Paul wasn’t a lot of things. He wasn’t successful. He never gave to charities. He wasn’t a big planner. He couldn’t tell you with any certainty where he’d be next month. What he was however was a protector. Not of himself, obviously, but others. He could never tolerate a bully; especially a bully of women. It was how he met his fiancé. A frail young woman from a broken foster home, trying to get out of a felony charge that she claimed to be innocent of. Paul believed her. No one else did. Eventually he found out that she was being used as scapegoat by her then boyfriend. He could still remember watching her face when he told her the charges were dropped. She ran into his arms for a hug and clung to his neck. They’d been together ever since. It was his only good trait, he figured.

Situations like this burned him. A creature like one sitting next to him on his couch was meant to be honored. To be celebrated. To be exhibited for all to see just how much beauty this world was capable of. Paul had unquestionably been shown just how much darkness there was in his years of doing this job. It had all but submersed him and he’d be damned if he would let the darkness drown her out too.

“One question?” He inquired, though his mind was already made up and out the rickety door. “Why me?”

“Can I be frank?”

“Painfully.”

Syrah took a breath.

“You’re one of those rare birds who, by either lack of ambition or self-esteem …or hell, maybe just providence, are very good at your craft and yet manage to be unknown and unheralded.”

“Well umm-“

“The same way you’re probably sitting there self-conscious about sitting here with me, when, in truth, you are handsome man. Hiding behind ... I don’t know … a safety net of some sorts.”

Paul never experienced so many reactions at once. He was flustered to say the least. Not to mention, Embarrassed; Flattered; Intimidated. He opened his mouth but decided nothing he was going to say would make him look less dumb then he did with his mount open right now, so he closed it and said nothing.

“What I’m trying to say is: He won’t see you coming, Mr. Gregory.”

If nothing else that was true. And he didn’t need Syrah to tell him. He knew he’d found himself a nice little patch of sand to bury his head in and hide from the world. Who could blame him after what he’d been through? Whenever he dared to peak out, all he saw was evil, destruction and greed. In truth, he hated his job for displaying to him the most disgusting side of people. He was certain this one would be no different. Worse even, because of the angelic victim. But he needed the money. The rent from the downstairs neighbor paid most of the mortgage on this tiny building he’d inherited. But not all, and Paul still had five years left on the loan.

He looked at her again. Every fiber of being still wanting to hold her. Protect her. He tried to stop his mind from making the obvious connection of the last time he helped a beautiful woman in need. It was not lost on him, that act resulted in his current and only successful relationship. Paul figured seeing him in a savior-like light gave women a different perspective than the one they currently had walking into his failed excuse for an office. Paul’s mind drifted, wondering what he would say to his fiancé if Syrah came on to him after all of this was over. He abhorred cheaters. Especially in his line of work. But he also had a strong connection to reality and knew he wouldn’t be able to turn her down.

“My fee would be substantial, Miss Doboiur.” Paul said in an honest effort to put her off him and someone more talented.

She smiled.

“Aww Bless your heart. You think I won’t be able to afford it?” Her eyes briefly scanning the room. She didn’t do it in a demeaning manner. If anything, Paul assumed it was a subconscious reaction. Paul felt his cheeks redden again.

“Tell you what,” She said pulling a small planner out of her clutch. “Write your fee down here and I’ll know what to bring you for your services when I return.”

She handed him the small binder, opened to an empty ‘to-do-list’ sheet. He scribbled nervously.

“Is that doable?” He said tilting page towards her so that she could read the number he wrote. She put her hand up to shield her face as if a great glare from the page had caught her eye.

“Please Mr. Gregory. It’s impolite.” She took the notebook and closed it without a glance. Sliding it back in her small purse she gave Paul a disapproving look. He felt like he’d been scolding by his schoolteacher that he had a not-so-secret crush on. It was emasculating and arousing at the same time.

She handed him a white keycard. On the back was a sticky note with an address and series of numbers written on it.

“He’ll be back here in the city, staying in the company penthouse next Wednesday. This will get your through the elevator and the foyer. The first number is for the alarm.”

Paul rotated the card in his hands. It was all happening rather fast. He wondered if that’s what their relationship would be like? Then shook his slightly trying to shake away the idiotic thought that had landed on his subconscious.

“At 8pm he’s scheduled to be at some fund-raising dinner. Plenty of time for you to grab his laptop. The second number is the password. Might take you sometime to unbungle it from there.”

Paul looked back at the sticky note. He wondered what kind of man had a ten-digit long password that was all numbers and special characters. Paul’s password was ‘password.’

Syrah rose to leave. Instinctively Paul did the same. There was an awkward moment that passed between them. As if the air was to delicate to handle all the things that they weren’t saying.

“Mr. Gregory…” She hesitated as turned away.

“Yes, Miss Doboiur?” Paul coaxed.

“Mr. Gregory, I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve asked someone for help. It has either turned out very well or very poorly.”

She looked Paul over. His disheveled appearance, his obvious lack of success. He could tell she was wondering which category he’d fall in. He was indisputably not her first choice, but he was the choice.

“Miss Doboiur… I am cannot make the claim to many grand accomplishments. But if you protect one of god’s angels doesn’t that mean he owes you one? Trust me, I need all the divine favor I can get.”

Paul had no idea where this back-alley poetry came from. He was terrified as soon as the words had escaped his lips. He fantasied that he could grab them out of the space between them before they reached her ears and put it in his pocket.

Paul awaited her reaction and the lost of a client. Instead she stepped closer to him and kissed him on cheek.

“See you soon, Mr. Gregory she said. The floorboards which creaked when the mice crossed them at night didn’t make a sound as she floated across them and out of the door.

It was several moments before the oxygen felt safe re-entering the room and Paul could breathe again.

---

Paul paced back and forth in his office, much to the chagrin of the floorboards which creaked loudly in protest at his every step. He tried to avoid eye contact with the laptop that occupied his unusually clean conference table. The object sat like an anvil in his mind; he half expected it to break the table and fall through the floor below.

In his head, he tried to work his way out of the maze he’d found himself dropped in. But every path his mind took led him to the same place. He figured the odds were 4 to 1 against him that the police would come storming in at any second. Even if they didn’t now, he couldn’t see a scenario in which they wouldn’t eventually.

“You’ll wear a hole in the floor like that,” Syrah said from the doorway. He jumped; startled. She hadn’t made a sound on the way in. She stood leaning against the door frame in a dark blue dress. This one much longer than the first he’d seen her in, but certainly more form-fitting. Two splits on each side ran almost up to her hips. She wore a wide brimmed felt fedora low over her eyes that matched her charcoal overcoat. She must have been dropped off a couple of blocks away. Paul was sure she didn’t want her car parked in front of his office anymore. He rushed over to her. Pulling her inside, he slammed the door closed behind her.

“How long have you known?” He growled loudly. His intention to keep his voice down lost a pitifully short battle.

“Known what, Mr. Gregory?” She said innocently. He wanted to strangle her where she stood.

Syrah reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a cigarette. Tauntingly, she smiled at Paul’s overt frustration.

Paul took an aggressive step towards her; hands clinched. He raised his fist, thinking only of getting the truth out of her. She didn’t react at all. Which only served to infuriate him even more. At this distance his rage could be seen boiling through the red veins in his eyes. She stared blankly back. Calmly. He didn’t have it in him. She held all the cards. And she knew it.

Syrah could smell the gin on his breath as he slowly unclenched his hand and walk away.

“How long?” He repeated. His voice sounded deflated as he began running the maze in his mind again, trying to find yet another way out.

“Your fiancé and Ben? Oh, going on eight months now I suppose.” She stated matter-of-factly. “Could be more.” She added tilting her head to light her smoke. The glow from the lighter cast her green eyes in a devilish hue. A far cry from the God sent angel that floated across his office a week ago. “You know for an investigator you’re a few nickels shy of a dollar.”

Paul glared at her. How could this be happening? How this be face of his current demise?

“At first I thought it was just another torment to add to the collection in my own personal hell. Albeit this one odder than the others,” Syrah continued casually. “Then one day, Ben forgets to close his computer. His Facebook account open on your fiancé’s page and who do I see in her pictures?” She smiled wildly, it made him want to throw up. “Oh, you were standing there all proud, I tell you. Like the only rooster in the henhouse. So, then I wondered: If not maybe, this latest distress might be the very key to my cell.” She looked at him. It was only now that he could see the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Rather the devil in the Angel’s. “Turns out I was right.”

“Give me one,” Paul gruffed, holding out his hand and nodding to the tobacco smoldering in hers.

“Of course, Mr. Gregory.”

He lit the cigarette with her lighter and inhaled deeply. He hadn’t smoked in ten years. In that very moment, as the smoke filled his lungs, he couldn’t remember why he’d stopped. This would be a good habit in prison he noted.

“How’d you know I would kill him?”

She shrugged.

“I didn’t. But I know people, Mr. Gregory. You hate injustice, probably despise infidelity as well. I bet you’ve never been able to walk past a bully, have you? Venture a guess that little trait earned you your fair share of ass-kickings in grade school, didn’t it?”

It had. Paul always spoke up but sadly was never much of a fighter.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” She asked rhetorically, “When you consider that lady you had there could really take a beating,… if I do say so myself.” She shook her head. “Kept wanting more and more…. Well you saw it.” She trailed off.

Paul wasn’t quite following.

“Wait.”

Syrah stared at him.

“You are telling me what I walked in on…. She …. enjoys it?”

“Enjoys it?” Syrah exclaimed. Eyes alit with repressed laughter. “Demands it, is more like it. Something to do with some childhood drama; broken home or some such thing, from what I gather.”

Paul didn’t know where to put his face.

“Don’t take it personally, hun. Girls like that always find some sad sap or helpless romantic doormat to hide behind.” She went to take another puff of her smoke but stopped short. “No offense, of course. I find you quite endearing.”

Paul couldn’t make out if this was sincere. Not that it mattered. He’d been picked up and moved across the board like the pawn he was. Sacrificial pawn apparently. What made it worse is that he’d gone willingly.

Syrah watched Paul’s expression in amusement as he tried put the pieces together.

“You didn’t have a clue, did you?”

Paul didn’t answer. Never had a man fell from such heights, he assumed. He slummed at his desk and poured more gin into his glass. His eyes wandered to his top desk drawer. He opened it slowly. It was still there. Wrapped in an unassuming piece of cloth.

A small sense of calm brushed by momentarily, like a light breeze on a hot day. The knowledge that he could always just pick up that cloth and end it was refreshing. No one would care too much. Some slob they found dead in his office. He mulled it over with a sip from his gin.

“Not going to offer a lady one,” Syrah said put her cigarette out on the bottom of her heeled boot.

Paul just gawked at her. Her arrogance. Her confidence. Her casual dismissal of all the lives she’d ruined just to regain her own. He got up reluctantly to get another paper cup, as the mouse in his head continued to run the maze with no exits. He'd gotten out of bad situation before, but this felt final.

‘Why was she even here,’ he questioned to himself? ‘Be an investigator!’ Paul’s inner voice screamed at him. ‘Why was she here? Is it just the laptop?’

“You could have just ordered a hitman.” Paul said, stalling for time as he handed her the cup of gin.

“Oh no, sir. My Christian morals won’t allow me to order another man’s death.” She said, looking almost offended at the notion. Paul, for his part, looked confused. “To be clear I never asked you to kill him. I do declare I could never be capable of asking such a thing.”

Paul and the mouse in his head stopped to stare at that statement.

“Now a crime of passion?” She continued, “Well… that’s not even a crime if you ask me. The good lord gave us the passion and guile to act upon it. Why a crime of passion is just … Emotional collateral damage. Now yours might take quite a few ‘Our fathers’, but I suspect you’ll be just fine when your time comes.”

Paul paced. Slowing puffing his cigarette. She watched him.

“You worried I’m going to turn you in, aren’t you?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Oh, Mr. Gregory.” She giggled. “We’re a team. Besides it won’t look too well, me being here, if the cops came for you. They might think I had something to do with it.” She smiled evilly.

There was some truth hidden in this subterfuge. If she’d tipped off the police. They would have eventually given her the laptop back …and had evidence to place Paul at the scene. Paul felt a slight ease of tension as she sipped her cup.

“What is it you want?” Paul finally gave up and asked.

Syrah squared her shoulder to him, meeting his gaze. Her flighty disposition melted away in an instant.

“For starters, I want you to drop the act, Mr. Gregory. Or Robinson. Or any of the other boring names you’ve used throughout the years.”

Paul froze in time. Not a fiber of him moved. The maze in his mind morphed into some sort slithering snake-like creature that coiled around his brain; drawing incrementally tighter and tighter. He could feel the pressure behind his eyes.

“How many times have you done this, Paul?” She asked, “Started over.”

Paul could feel the blood shooting through the artery in his neck. One could have mistaken him for statue if not for that twitch.

“About four times, right Paul?” She asked rhetorically.

‘Five times,’ he thought quietly to himself but dare not speak. Instead he negotiated with the unknown hand that had gripped him, to loosen its hold on his lungs so that he can breathe.

“I bet every time you say to yourself. ‘This time it’s going to be different…. This time I’m going to get it right. Live right.’ Normal life, huh? Do you ever though, Mr. Gregory?”

“No,” Paul finally spoke. “I don’t.” The words blew out of him like air from a punctured tire. There was little resistance to his compromised shell.

“You know I spent years trying to fight who I was. Trying to be this person that apparently, I’m supposed to be. When in truth, I’m like you. “

“Like me?” Paul raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, you. You see I have a real investigator on retainer,” She smiled sheepishly. “You’re not a good man, Mr. Gregory," she stated as plainly as would the weather. "It’s not by choice. You want to be good but you’re not. And I am not a good woman. I propose that we take what’s squirreled away in the confines of that there laptop, Float down to Mexico and see what trouble we can get ourselves into.”

“Together?” Paul sought to confirm.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I found you endearing. The real you that is. This adorably helpless, mess of a creature. One who, despite your best efforts, find trouble around every corner.”

Paul’s core needed a moment to process what she’d said. After which his ego needed a moment to bask in it. His conscious was apologetic he’d ever doubted her. She was truly heaven sent. Had to be. The very part of him he tried daily to bury, is the part of him she found appealing. It gave him goosebumps. And not just someone. Her. His ego did a victory lap around her face and body. She was like no woman he’d ever seen. He’d always been in love with the idea of catching the wind with his hands. Waking up with the impossible and going to sleep with unfathomable.

She smiled at him, watching his face light up. He was very cute when he was like this. She was sure that it was all come crashing down eventually. But if her brother’s death had taught her anything. It always came crashing down. The point was to enjoy as much of the ride as she could. Paul would be her chauffeur on her ride to hell.

She coughed slightly and bought Paul out of his blissful trance.

“Unfortunately,” He sighed deeply, “I always find a way to ruin it. Nevers fails.”

Syrah shook her head slightly. He wasn’t getting it.

“You can’t ruin it Paul. “

“I already have.”

An eerie silence coated the room like thick oil.

He nodded to the cup of gin that she was drinking out of. On cue she coughed again. She understood his meaning and put the cup down. Staring at it for a moment. She smiled at the irony. She couldn’t blame him. She’d have done the same.

“Shame.” She said, “Hate to miss a good ride.”

Paul looked away as she stared coughing again. More violently this time. Within the hour she’d be gone. He wondered if there was a special place in hell for people who killed angels. Probably next to place for the people who for squandered opportunities; adjacent to the corner reserved for imbeciles.

Paul grabbed the laptop on his way out, avoiding eye contact with Syrah. He didn’t want to remember her like this.

Mexico did sound good, however. He could rent jet skis to tourist. Lay out by the beach. ‘No way I could possibly mess that up,’ Paul thought. ‘I’m going to get it right this time. Live a normal life. I'll get it right.’

Somewhere in the deafening quiet, between the library of what we say and the catalog of what we do. Paul knew he wouldn’t.