The traffic is as bad now as it was on the way to dinner, making it harder than necessary for me to find my way to the upscale Japanese restaurant Everett took Isabelle to. I should have just told him we fucked. Maybe that would have put a kink in his plan. 

I walk into the restaurant with a pit in my stomach, caused by several reasons as this point. However, it appears it's only going to grow larger as I come to find that they aren't here. 

Just as I'm walking out of the restaurant, I dial Everett's number, letting the phone ring a few times before my blood starts to sizzle. Where the hell are they?

I open the tracking app on my phone, and I find Everett a few blocks away in the middle of some alley. Great. All I wanted to do was go jogging in a suit tonight. 

The GPS tracker keeps changing direction, which happens a lot in this city as well as downtown Boston too. The streets are too close together, and the GPS’ can’t keep up. I’m not going on a wild chase tonight. Come on, Everett. I dial him again and listen to the six rings before his voicemail picks up. Now, I just have the desire to toss my phone across the street. Why the hell is he doing this?

I send him a text with the last bit of hope I have that he’ll respond.

An alert pops up beneath my message, flagging my text as "delivered,” then quickly changes to "read.” I’m going to kill him when I reach him.

After walking down at least two dozen side streets, my anger is turning into concern as I realize Everett wouldn't be playing games with me, not like this. I continue to call him, getting no answer, and the GPS on my phone is still going haywire. I don’t even have a clue if he's in a vehicle or on foot. 

I've circled around the same area so many times, I don't know which direction I've already gone in. Up ahead on the next block, which looks like a dead-end alley, I see a woman in a cocktail dress walking out of a bar—a bar with a neon sign, hanging above the door. 

As large as this city is, I can’t help but have an ounce of hope it might be Isabelle. I don't know how many women would be going in or out of a bar like that, dressed the way she’s dressed.

I'm quiet as I come up behind her, and nervous as I place my hand on her cold shoulder. She whips around, startled to see me. 

"Where is he?" I ask her. 

"Who?" Isabelle responds without missing a beat. 

"Everett," I hiss.

"No clue," she says in a way that tells me she doesn't give a shit that Everett is out looking for her and that's the reason he hasn't answered any of my goddamn calls. 

"What happened?" I ask her.

"Before or after he slickly put a move on me?"

It's unfortunate that we're walking past a dumpster because it's the first thing I can smash my fist up against, leaving a dent within the blue metal and blood dripping down the side of my hand. "Jesus, Axel, he didn't hurt me or anything."

She's looking at me as if I went too far. I have gone too far. I've been to the farthest place in hell a person can probably go, yet here I am, still getting lost along the way. 

"I don't want to be a part of this," Isabelle says. "I don't know what the real reason for you wanting to work with me is, but it's not going to work out. It's causing me more stress than I was already dealing with, and—I just need to go."

My mind is like a barren desert with nothing but dust circling around with nowhere to go. I get her frustration. I've lived it, but those explanations aren't going to make her stay. I have no explanation to make her stay, aside from the truth I can't exactly share with her. 

"I watched my dad shoot my mother in the head," I tell her. As the words gum up my throat, I realize I've never said them out loud before. I never had to admit to anyone what I saw at six years old. 

"What does that have to do with me?" Heartless as any response could ever be after hearing a confession like that, she continues walking. Does she have nothing left inside of her to feel for other people? If so, she’s more like me than I originally thought.

Regardless of how much I don't want to talk about my life or my past, it's made me who I am, and if I'm willing to share, maybe I can retrieve a bit of insight from her, as well. At this point, it's basically just knowledge to satiate my curiosity of what happened to the woman I sat next to in class. I can’t turn her in. I’d rather go back to prison than destroy her life.

"After shooting my mom, my dad shot himself in the head, right in front of me. I was covered in his blood. It was like someone had hit me with a water balloon filled with red paint. It was all I could smell, taste, and feel for months after. I stood over both of my parents’ dead bodies, wondering when they were going to pop up and tell me they were just playing a good guy/bad guy game. I waited two full days alone in my house until a neighbor knocked on the door. Still in my blood-covered clothes, I answered the door. It wasn't until that moment when I saw the horrified look on Mrs. Helmsly's face that I knew my parents weren't playing a game." 

Isabelle finally slows her pace as she likely digests the details of my gory childhood. Her head is still lifted, and there isn't a loss of confidence in any part of her body language, but I’d rather her be like that because my objective isn’t to break her down. I'm trying to show her that other people are given shitty lives too. 

She glances over her shoulder at me with her eyes wide and a film of tears lining her bottom lashes. "Then what?" 

I take her by the elbow and lead her to the end of the street we're on, finding a cut through to a grassy area and an empty bench settled in a small patch of grass. I try to forget about Everett still trying to hunt Isabelle down, but I gather he’s the reason she ran, so I'll let him continue hunting for a little while longer before I send him another message. 

"Well, I didn’t have other family. My grandparents had already passed, and my parents were both only children. I was placed into the State’s care and moved from foster home to foster home. I never got adopted, but I did get the shit beat out of me at two of the eight houses I lived at between the ages of six and eighteen."

She lifts my hand that's been resting on my knee and holds it up in front of her. "Where did these come from?" she asks, pointing to the dozens of scars lining my knuckles.

"After getting beaten so badly by one of my foster dads, that I landed in the hospital for a week, I started training myself to fight back."

Isabelle places my hand back down on my knee and wraps her arms around her shoulders. It didn't even dawn on me that she doesn't have a coat or anything to keep her warm. It's sure as hell warmer here than in Boston, but the chill is biting. I remove my coat and wrap it around her shoulders. "Thank you," she says in a hush. 

"Is that what landed you in prison?"  she asks after a moment’s hesitation.

Her question surprises me. Not because I forgot she knew about my prison time, but because I had my anger problem under control way before the night I was arrested for homicide. 

"Ironically, no," I tell her.

"Then, why were you in there?" She still isn't giving me much empathy, but her questions lead me to believe I've at least scratched the surface of her iced-over soul. 

"I was blamed for a bar fight that went south. The guy who caused it got it away, and I was standing too close. Along with that, I evidently looked like the perfect prototype for a convict." 

"So, you're innocent?" she asks.

"Yeah," I sigh. 

"Me too," she says. 

"Isabelle." I take her hand and warm it between mine. "You can't leave." I'm aware that my statement sounds more like a plea than a dictation, but she has to understand that she doesn't have the option to run away like she apparently tried to. 

"Don't call me that," she says, her voice sounding against her words. "I can't stay." 

"Why?" It's like a battle of the minds right now. I know I won't be able to convince her to do anything she doesn't want to do, which means I'll have to become forceful, and that will complicate things to a degree that I don't even want to consider. 

She twists her head to look at me, seeming breathless against the evident thoughts beating her down. "I was offered an internship," she says. "An internship, Axel. You know … a type of job that doesn't pay you but works you to the bone just so you can say you walked away with some experience?" 

"With Dr. Phillips?" I ask, careful not to give up more information than I should know about her.

"Yeah, he was only taking three interns, and I couldn't believe it when he hired me as one of them." 

I want to continuously sit here and ask what happened after that, but there's a part of me that is afraid to know the truth. What if she was sitting there when Phillips murdered all those people? It would justify what I've been hired to do, but if I find out that she's as innocent as I am, I'm going to have to give it all up—probably my life too. Agent Roberts doesn't strike me as a forgiving type. 

"I better let Everett know I have you," I tell her.

"No," she snaps, standing up from the bench as she wraps my coat tightly around her shoulders. "Just because we shared bits and pieces of our pasts doesn't mean I want to stay, Axel. This isn't what I want to be doing, not anymore. 

"But you're good at what you do," I tell her. 

"Yeah, and how exactly did you know that when you hired me?"