Sliver Of Truth

Isn’t that what the truth comes down to? An agreement of variations? Think about your last family drama or the last fight you had with your spouse. What really happened? Who said what and when? Who was the instigator and who was the reactor? Is there an absolute truth, one that exists separately from the personal variations? Maybe. But maybe not. Quantum physics tells us that life is a series of possibilities existing side by side in any given moment; it is our choices that create our version of reality. Nick Smiley has chosen his memory of Max. I have chosen mine. Who’s right? But maybe the truth is that Max was a shape shifter, becoming what he needed to be to control whatever situation he was in. He controlled Nick with terror, me with adoration, and kept his true form hidden from both of us.

“So what are you trying to tell me?” I asked him. “And why are you following me?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” he said calmly.

I thought on it for a second. First they snatch me on the street and take my photographs, then they let me go after showing me blowups of a man they obviously believe is Max even though I know him to be dead. Then Agent Grace makes this call, clearly toying with me, clearly letting me know that they’re on my every move. I couldn’t figure out his agenda, what he was trying to accomplish. Maybe he was just lonely, alone with his obsession, like me, like Jake. Maybe he needed someone to talk to.

“You still there, Ridley?”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“You still there, Ms. Jones?”

“No,” I answered, and hung up.

OF COURSE, HE was waiting for me on the street in his sedan when the cab dropped me off. His partner stayed in the car as he climbed out the passenger side. I ignored him as I put my key in the lock.

“I figured you for a driver, not a passenger,” I said, nodding toward the sedan.

“I’m not allowed to drive the government cars for a while,” he said with a smile that told me he thought a lot of himself. “I’ve totaled three cars in seven months. I’ve got to pass an evasive driving course. Till then, shotgun.”

For some reason, I found myself comparing him to Jake. There was a kind of arrogance (or maybe it was just confidence) to him that contrasted with Jake’s kind humility. He lacked Jake’s essential sweetness but also the rage Jake held at his center. Jake was physically exquisite, not just handsome or sexy but truly beautiful to behold. Agent Grace…well, there was a hardness to him, a lack of artistry. If Jake was marble, he was granite. But in the curve of his lips, the lids of his eyes, there was an animal sexuality that made me nervous, like you would feel in the cage of a tiger that you’d been assured was as gentle as a lamb. Agent Grace made me miss Jake, the safety I felt in his arms.

I decided I didn’t like Agent Dylan Grace at all. I might have even hated him a little.

“Good night, Detective,” I said, just to be annoying.

“I’m a federal agent, Ms. Jones.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

I was shutting (slamming) the door on him when he stopped it (hard) with his hand.

“Can I come in? We need to talk.”

“In my experience, federal agents are like vampires: Once you’ve invited them in, they’re very hard to get rid of. Next thing you know, they’ve got their teeth in your neck.”

He smiled at this and I saw a flash of boyishness there. It softened him a bit. Then he ruined it by saying, “I don’t want to take you in again, Ms. Jones. It’s late. But I will.”

I didn’t want him to take me in again, either. I was way too tired. I considered my options, then stood aside and let him walk through the door. He let me pass and then followed me into the elevator. We rode to the fifth floor in silence, eyes on the glowing green buttons above as they marked our passage upward. It was so quiet I could hear him breathing. We were so close I could smell his aftershave.

“Nice building,” he said as we stepped into the hallway. “Prewar?”

I nodded as we came to a stop at my door. I unlocked it and we stepped inside.

“Your boyfriend home?”

I turned to look at him as I shifted off my jacket and dropped my bag on the floor.

“What do you want, Agent Grace?” I asked, anger in my chest, tears gathering in my eyes. I felt invaded and helpless against it. He was trampling on every boundary I had, and it was infuriating me. When I’m mad, I cry. I hate that about myself, but I don’t seem to be able to change it no matter how hard I try. “I mean, seriously,” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re playing with me, right? What do you want?”

He got that horrified look on his face that a certain type of man gets when he thinks a woman is going to cry. He lifted his palms.

“Okay,” he said. “Take it easy.” He spoke carefully, as if he were talking a jumper in off a ledge. He glanced around the room; I’m not sure what he was looking for.

“Don’t you get it?” I asked him. “I don’t know anything.”