Page 41 of Love at First Sighting

Carter

For a few days, El helps me pretend there’s not still a mystery that needs solving.

We’re both excited to return to my place after the motel bed left us with minor back pain, but I was even more excited to spend a weekend with her in my arms, watching movies, hardly bothering to put clothes on, knowing nothing could hurt me with her around.

But on Monday morning, the peace comes to a close when I walk back into the office.

Meanwhile, I’m sure Marcus spent most of his weekend smoking like a chimney and hitting up Palm Springs casinos, gambling something more mundane than lives.

I’m sure at no point in the weekend did he think about me.

Or miss me. Or want me around. I’m sure he didn’t think about the fact that he played a role in my dad’s death and I’m nothing more than a pawn to him, which I heard him admit.

He was able to wash his hands of the things he said with little issue, but I haven’t been able to let it go.

I’m dreading the moment when I’m going to have to face Marcus again.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at him and pretend things are normal when I know enough of the truth to cast the blame, though I’ll never have the full truth.

I have never liked my job, but days in the office have always been dull, if anything.

I grumble at having to fix the coffee machine or show someone how to open a new tab on their browser, but I’ve never hated it.

I’ve never feared being here.

Marcus doesn’t come to work Monday, and I’m grateful for it. I’m still trying to parse through the memories—fifteen years of them—and figure out who the person really is who kept leftover dinner out for me and taught me to drive.

Maybe I was naive, but Marcus might also be alarmingly good at covering up the truth.

I have no idea how I’m supposed to face him.

If we’re at work and there are other people here, it’ll be another day at the office.

Except this time, I’ll be shattering inside while everyone goes about their day and Brad clips his goddamn nails at his desk again.

I’ll know there’s no chance of getting justice for my dad. Not with my dad’s file gone.

The rest of the office has gone home for the day. I kept Toby occupied all day with finding new UFO videos so he’d be out of my hair. I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle anything else. The rain pelts against the grimy old windows and apparently isn’t supposed to stop for another hour.

My phone buzzes on my desk. I glance down at El’s message.

El (6:52 pm): Hi.

Seeing her name makes the ache in the pit of my stomach hurt just a little less.

I type out I love you , then delete it. I keep almost saying it and pulling back.

I think she feels the same, but right now, my emotions are so complicated and ever-changing.

Except when I’m with her. She has no idea how much her presence alone helps steer me through the stormiest waters.

Carter (6:53 pm): Hey waiting for the rain to slow before I head home. I’ll see you soon.

El sends me a gif of two animated cats hugging.

I watch it over and over again and feel the simple, warm love I have for her deep in my chest. I felt the same way the first time she packed my lunch.

She was so excited to hand me a brown-bag lunch (it was a very fancy sandwich and an overpriced yogurt), and at first, I thought she was eager to do something nice for me.

Then I found the secret note she left inside my napkin: “you hide those aliens ”

It’s deathly quiet at the office, with only the sound of the rain, the buzzing ceiling lights above me, and the hum of a computer trying to open an email on our archaic software system.

Instead of the rain slowing, it pours harder.

I may as well get comfortable. I pick at the loose string along the lining of my hat and scroll through the internet until my eyes flicker over toward Marcus’s office.

The file is long gone, but giving up now feels like a disservice to my dad’s legacy. I should make what I can of this unsupervised time.

I head over to the front door of the office and turn off our MacGyvered security cameras, then approach Marcus’s office. I might be grasping at straws, but at least I’m trying something.

I jimmy the key into the lock and push the door open.

A puff of nicotine wafts into my face. It feels like a lung cancer–laced metaphor.

Facing my fears. Facing what’s wronged me.

Fifteen years ago, my dad and Marcus had matching desks in the bullpen.

They could look across the aisle at each other and swap intel and facts about their cases, both thinking they’d be able to work their way up one day.

Instead, it’s just one of them.

I scan the top of Marcus’s desk. There’s the calendar we found the Brazel Airfield appointment in.

I skim it quickly for anything interesting.

There are a couple meetings listed ( Rick check in , Brad 1-2-1 , budget call?

? ) but the juiciest detail on there is that he has a dentist appointment on Friday morning.

The part of me that views Marcus as someone so ordinary and, honestly, even a bit boring wars with the part of me that now thinks that was calculated, too.

There’s an ashtray, a pale yellow pad of Post-it notes, a couple of bitten-up pens.

I can’t see these as being parts of the person I once called a father figure anymore.

I need to see them as evidence. What kept me from doing this for so many years was my respect for Marcus. But that respect is in the garbage.

I tear through drawers, looking for signs of anything suspicious.

There are random files, expense receipts (that I’ll have to file), and plenty of cigarette cartons.

That’s not good enough. That doesn’t get me answers.

He may not have anything written on paper for me to find.

I might have to look harder. I might have to look elsewhere.

I shake the mouse on his computer and wait for the ancient log-in screen to boot up.

Marcus has had the same computer since his days as an agent with my dad.

It’s begging for death with each click. I might have a degree in computer science, but I’m no hacker, so my best bet is hoping Marcus zoned out on our IT-mandated security training. I think half the division ignored it.

I type in Dodgers123 on a literal fucking hunch, and I feel like the president of the United States when it works.

What they leave out of hacker movies is the detrimental potential for Windows Vista.

It takes three minutes for the computer to boot up and another minute for his email program to open.

I slide into his chair, where years of work have carved out his shape in the cushions.

I look out at the PIS offices from this perspective.

I think of how Marcus might look out and feel power.

Instead, all I see is the same ugly office with shoddy air-conditioning and a faintly mildewy scent.

I question if this is something I’d kill for.

And by no means is the answer yes.

New emails populate and I sift through them.

Most are dull—emails from Jim in accounting about budgets, reports from Senior Agent Rick about his latest case, and an overdue thank-you email from Toby, which I advised him to send Marcus’s way on day one.

I make sure they all remain unread to avoid raising any suspicions when Marcus comes in tomorrow.

I do what I should have done years ago and search my dad’s name.

Marcus has had this computer for so long that emails from my dad actually populate.

It feels like a punch to the gut seeing his words again.

Most of the emails are boring and basic: file reports, expenses, and a ton of chain emails he sent Marcus.

While Marcus types short and simple messages, my dad was always eloquent and clear in what he said.

Perfect punctuation, little room for misinterpretation.

I scroll until I hit a spanject line in all caps from a few weeks before my dad’s death that catches my eye.

To: John Brody

From: Marcus Pearson

Subject: UNIFORM VIOLATION PENDING

J—

Hate to do this, but I’m gonna have to write you up for a uniform violation. That stitch job on the inside of your hat is a federal crime and goes against regs.

Marcus

P.S. It’s also crooked.

To: Marcus Pearson

From: John Brody

Subject: RE: UNIFORM VIOLATION PENDING

I think you need to get some hobbies besides looking at the inside of my hat.

It’s weird.

J

To: John Brody

From: Marcus Pearson

Subject: RE: RE: UNIFORM VIOLATION PENDING

I take it very seriously. But maybe cover the next round at Bender’s and I won’t send this to the chief.

And here I thought I was on to something juicy.

It grabbed my attention because my dad was militant about his uniform.

He was militant about most things, including his affection for those he loved.

Years of cautiousness from a paranoia- inducing job left a mark on him.

Back up your files (you never know when your computer’s going to crash), keep your receipts, take a picture so it’ll last forever.

Meanwhile, this is just stupid.

I scrub my hands over my face and lean back in Marcus’s chair, knocking into the coatrack behind his desk.

It wobbles once, twice, and then a hat clocks me in the face before tumbling to the ground.

Marcus is always leaving his hat behind at the office, so it’s rich that he’d write up my dad for a uniform violation.

Or maybe I’m looking for reasons to be pissed off at the man.

I reach down and grab the hat, eyeing the cream-colored lining. Satin, off-white, with…white stitching.

PIS uniforms are standard issue. The same brand of suit, hat, and suspenders, with people able to “express themselves” via horrendous ties as long as they’re not on mission.

I inherited my dad’s hat. When we played our little spy games, he let me wear it and promised it’d be mine when I was old enough. It was the least I could do to honor him and keep him with me as I tried to follow in his footsteps.

I knew the stitching inside my hat was black.

It never felt off to me until now. I mean, of course the Men in Black would use black thread. It felt silly to question it.

But I’m shutting down Marcus’s computer and racing back to my desk. I pick up my hat and eye the inside of it. The same cream-colored lining is there, but where the PIS label is at the inner crown, the stitching is crooked. And black. Like it hasn’t been there from the start.

Memories of notes hidden in my lunch box, treasure hunts within our own house, and secret messages left in homemade invisible ink flood through my head.

I hope I’m on to something here. I reach for the scissors on my desk and begin to slice into the lining of my dad’s hat.

I trim along the label and pull back the satin to reveal a small piece of paper folded into the lining.

I almost cry at the concept alone. Another note. One last little game for us to play together.

I unfold it slowly. It’s undeniably my dad’s handwriting—clean, legible, like a time capsule I’ve cracked open.

1995 PIS Code of Conduct Sec. 5: Reminder to always back up your work

It hits me like a bucket of cold water. There’s something in the book meant for my eyes only.

And it’s someplace Marcus would never deign to look.

Downstairs, in our fallout bunker, collecting decades of dust, is every single rule book since 1947.

As evidenced by the hokey uniforms, old operating systems, and attachment to the Cold War era, we don’t update them much.

Every couple of years, we get a new chunky handbook of rules no one reads.

The last time one arrived—when I first started at PIS—Marcus ordered me to “put it with the others” in the fallout shelter.

My dad was someone who always wanted to do the right thing, who followed the regs to a T, who taught me the value in being a good person. He would have read them.

Marcus, clearly, would not.

A week ago, I would have looked for anything to exonerate Marcus, but now I’m out for vengeance. I need my proof and I need him to pay.

Shit. I need to get down there, but it’s under lock and key, with the scanner pad on his desk.

I’m in Marcus’s office again, searching around his desk for clues to get me in there, when my phone rings in my back pocket.

El’s name and picture flash across my screen.

It’s a photo from our first date: we’re lying on the grass next to each other, her lips at my hairline and my smile brighter than I’ve ever seen it.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Carter? I…” There’s a wariness in her voice I don’t know how to decode.

Even at El’s most terrified, she’s so formidable.

Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I’m heading to my spin class, and there’s…

there’s a guy following me. In a suit. And fedora—sorry, trilby .

He’s been trailing me for a block or two. ”

Fuck .

There’s someone after El, putting her life at risk, keeping her under watch, and it’s no doubt because of me. And if they want to hurt me, they know hurting El is the way to do that.

“What’s he look like?”

“He is ginormous .”

Fucking Brad.

It’s the only answer. Who else is that big? And Marcus knows El is snooping around. Shit. Shit. Shit. It put a target on her back. I put a target on her back.

I know that since she started living at my place, El’s been going to spin classes in Studio City, which is at least twenty minutes from here without traffic.

We’re at the tail end of rush hour, so at least I have that in my favor.

All I can think about is getting to her and protecting her. Fuck the rest of it.

I grind my molars to keep the tears and anger from spilling out.

I try to remind myself Brad and Marcus can’t hurt El.

Her followers would know and she’s too big of a public name to make disappear.

But then again, everything I knew about PIS has gone tits up, so who is to say they wouldn’t try to hurt her?

Jesus, I taught her hand-to-hand skills, but it was only one lesson.

She needs like fifty more. Her punches are still so weak.

The only thing that gives me comfort is I have a feeling, no matter what they do, El isn’t going to show Brad her fear.

She’ll take one look at Brad, make a displeased face, and taunt him.

It doesn’t mean he won’t hurt her back.

“El,” I say, “you need to get somewhere safe. Get in your car or go somewhere public and I’ll come for you. Send me your location. Don’t worry. I’m going to get to you.”