Page 53 of Body and Soul

Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck.

My heart jackhammered against my ribcage as he approached the counter, each thud of his polished dress shoes against the scuffed linoleum a deafening drumbeat to my ears. He moved with the easy grace of a predator, a wolf among rabbits, and I found myself instinctively shrinking back, shoulders hunching inward. A trickle of cold sweat slid down my spine to pool at the small of my back.

Please don't be here for me, I prayed silently.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and my breath seized in my lungs, trapped behind the lump of dread lodged in my throat. But it wasn't a gun he pulled out. It wasa badge. The gold shield glinted under the buzzing fluorescent lights as he flipped it open, holding it up for us to see. “I’m Special Agent Valentine, FBI. I'm looking for an Elias Baker.”

Fuck. I was so fucked. What did he want with me? I didn't have any warrants out for my arrest and I hadn't even jaywalked since escaping the cult, keeping my nose so clean it fucking sparkled. But this was the FBI. They didn't show up on your doorstep for shits and giggles.

“I'm Eli,” I said quietly.

Valentine's piercing gaze locked onto me, pinning me in place like a butterfly specimen. “Mr. Baker, I need to speak with you. In private.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara. Cherry and Ketchup stared at me, a prickle between my shoulders that made me want to hunch in on myself. But they stayed silent, watching the scene unfold.

“I...” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, trying again. “Can I ask what this is about?”

Valentine's expression remained impassive, his eyes flinty. “I'm not at liberty to discuss the details in public. I must insist we speak somewhere privately. It's a sensitive matter.”

Unease churned in my stomach, a sickening whirlpool of dread. What could be so sensitive that it warranted a personal visit from an FBI agent? My mind raced with possibilities, each more dire than the last. Did they know about my past with the Children of the Light? Had they found out about my escape, the things I'd done to survive on the streets before the cult took me in?

I glanced at Cherry and Ketchup, pleading silently. They stared back, wide-eyed and helpless.

I swallowed hard, my heart racing as I gave a jerky nod. “Okay. We can... we can talk in the back room.”

Valentine inclined his head, a single crisp motion. “Lead the way, Mr. Baker.”

I glanced at Cherry and Ketchup one last time, trying to convey a silent apology, before turning and walking stiffly towards the back of the shop. I could feel Valentine's presence behind me, an oppressive weight bearing down on me, making it hard to breathe. The distance to the back room seemed to stretch on, each step heavy.

I pushed open the door with a trembling hand, the hinges creaking loudly in the tense silence. The room was small and cluttered, filled with boxes of supplies, a battered couch, and a rickety card table. I'd spent countless hours back here, sketching designs and shooting the shit with Cherry and Ketchup during slow shifts. But now the familiar space felt alien, hostile almost.

I stepped inside, Valentine close behind. The door shut with a thud. The overhead light flickered on, casting the room in a yellow glow.

My pulse thrummed in my ears as I turned to face Valentine, my back pressed against the edge of the card table. I gripped the table's edge, my knuckles white. “So,” I began, hating the way my voice wavered. I swallowed and tried again. “What did you want to talk about?”

Valentine regarded me with those piercing gray eyes, his expression inscrutable. He seemed to fill the cramped room with his presence, looming larger than his already impressive stature. “You're quite the talented artist, Mr. Baker,” he said, nodding towards the half-open sketchbook on the table behind me. “That's some impressive work.”

I blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. “I... thanks?”

“How long have you been tattooing?” Valentine asked, clasping his hands in front of him. The overhead light glinted off the polished gold of his FBI badge clipped to his belt.

“Uh, about a year now,” I said slowly, eyeing him warily.

“And you've been at this shop the whole time?”

“Yeah. Why? Is something going on with the shop? Because you should talk to Cherry if—”

“There’s no trouble with the shop, kid,” he said, lifting a hand. “This is about you, Mr. Baker. Specifically, your past involvement with a certain religious group.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins, a cold dread seizing my heart in a vice grip. No. No no no. This couldn't be happening. After everything I'd been through, all the pain and degradation I'd endured to escape that hellish place, my past couldn't come back to haunt me like this. Not now, when I'd finally started to build some semblance of a normal life.

I tried to keep my expression neutral even as panic clawed at my insides, my skin crawling with the phantom sensation of unwanted hands on my flesh. “I'm not sure what you're talking about,” I said, but my voice sounded thin and reedy even to my own ears.

Valentine's expression hardened. “I know you were part of the cult. You're not in trouble, but I have questions about your time there.”

My hands trembled. Valentine's words hung heavy in the air between us, pressing down on me like a physical weight. Each breath was an effort, my lungs constricting painfully in my chest.

“I... I don't...” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat like shards of glass. “I don't want to talk about that time in my life. It's...it's in the past.”

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