After the Golden Age

The assumption lay between the lines of every news report she’d seen today. It was the question that no matter how much she denied it, no one would ever believe her. Her father hadn’t believed her, not even after she let Mentis into her mind, let him see whether or not she was lying. She’d let him broadcast her thoughts to the world if it would do any good.

“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t interested.”

“Wasn’t interested? Does that mean you tried?”

She’d been seventeen, fond of miniskirts and too much makeup, fascinated by her own burgeoning sexuality and the ways it could be used. How did she explain that to a thirty-year-old police detective who’d already branded her a criminal?

He was angry at himself, she realized. Angry at himself for falling for someone with a past like hers. He hadn’t seen it, and maybe he thought he should have.

“Mark, I’ve been trying for years to redeem myself. I guess I’m not there yet. But give me a chance, please.” She shouldn’t have to beg. Damn him for making her beg.

“It’s just … it’s hard, looking at you now. Knowing what you did.”

She lost it. “I made a mistake! I know I made a mistake! Everybody makes mistakes! What do I have to do to make it up? Adopt a kitten? Crucify myself on my parents’ doorstep? What? Just tell me and I’ll do it. Tell me what you want me to do!”

“This really is all about your parents, isn’t it? You really do hate them.”

“Have you even been listening to me? Why can’t anyone talk to me without talking about them?” She kept getting louder.

Which might have been why he hung up on her.

She threw the phone. It hit the wall by the kitchen, chirped, and thumped to the floor.

If she could, she would go back in time and warn her seventeen-year-old self:

A mistake like this, you’ll never get away from it. It will mark you, brand you. A petty crime is one thing, but joining the Destructor? You? Don’t you know what this is going to do to your future?

The trouble was, the seventeen-year-old always replied, What makes you think I have a future?

* * *

She couldn’t remember what that had been like, wanting to seek out Sito, wanting to join him. Rather, she didn’t want to. She’d been a different person eight years ago. But the memories were still there.

She’d only put one foot inside the entrance of the eastside bar when a man with greasy hair and a scuffed leather coat put his arm in front of her, stopping her.

“Hey, baby, I’ll take you home. I got the cash.”

“I’m not a hooker,” Celia stated, frowning. He could possibly be forgiven for making the mistake. She didn’t even know if it was a mistake. She wasn’t for sale to him, and that was what mattered. She wore a short-short leather miniskirt, black stockings, high-heeled sandals, and a lace camisole. Clothing bought in secret and hidden at the bottom of her dresser drawer. Someday, she’d always told herself, she’d put on the outfit, walk out of the penthouse, turn into someone no one would recognize, and never look back.

She hunched inside her bomber jacket, glaring up with narrowed eyes. Something about her manner made the guy back off, even though she was half his size. If he’d wanted to press the point, there wasn’t much she could do.

It was all about attitude.

The smell overwhelmed her. Sour beer, sweat, the press of bodies. The place was popular. Tough-looking guys crowded around a pair of pool tables. No music played, only the rumble of voices talking low, punctuated by a few barks of laughter and a few calls for the waitress. This was a place to do business. That was why the guy had stopped her. There were other women around, dressed a lot like her. More vinyl, maybe, and more hairspray. Older women, worn around the edges.

She’d had to do research to find this place, looking through newspaper articles and public record arrest and investigation reports. She’d told the guys at the police station she was doing a report for school on law enforcement, and since she was Celia West, they ruffled her hair and said how proud her folks must be that she was following in their footsteps.

It was all worth it, because she found out that one of the Destructor’s informants set up shop at this bar. He was one of the guys who recruited for jobs, served as eyes and ears on the street. He might have been one of the guys who helped lure her to the park and the Destructor’s clutches last year. Whatever. Didn’t matter. He’d know how to get in touch with the Destructor.

Again, attitude got her through the bar to the back room. Gazes followed her, sizing her up, judging her, but no one stopped her. She walked with a purpose, and they could see that. They were supposed to assume she belonged there.