Page 3 of Refrain

Workers and patrons alike congregate near the entrance to the club, and I squint to tally up what little features I can decipher. Dark hair, not red. Thin, but not petite. One question lingers no matter how many details I hunt for. After all this time, will I even recognize her?

The engine of the truck cuts off with a death rattle–like hiss, mercifully drowning out the thought. “Take it all in,” my partner, Grey, warns as he rolls down his window and spits onto the pavement. “Thisis what you volunteered for rather than taking that nice, cushy desk job.”

“Very funny,” I counter, making my voice snappy on purpose. After less than a month of working with him, I’ve learned that he doesn’t tolerate fear from anyone. “Are you going to suggest I wear kid gloves, too?”

“Fair enough,” he says. “But this isn’t like our usual beat. Andit certainly isn’t like that Podunk town in Montana you transferred from. Welcome to the goddamn strip.”

He doesn’t know of my past. The horror unfolding in my gaze could be a result of my so-called innocence as far as he’s concerned.

Not painful recognition.

Seven years later, the rundown block looks untouched, as if the past few years only affected me.

“Parker?” Grey snaps his fingers beneath my nose.

“Huh? Oh.”Parker.That’s right. I’m not Ksenia anymore, the urchin who escaped to the west. It’sChloe Parkernow, someone supposedly stronger. Harder. Braver?

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out,” Grey adds. “Though I wouldn’t blame you.” With twenty years of experience on the force, he doesn’t miss my nervous swallow. His eyes narrow. “Remember, it’s straightforward, but let’s go over the basics. You are here because…”

“Because I’m the only one who could fit into a size two.”

“Smart ass,” Grey mutters. “For real, kid. Why are you here?”

Because I’m stupid. Because I’m an idiot for returning to this damn city. Because I’m desperate enough to chase a ghost.

“Because I spent two years in special victims,” I say out loud, “even if it was in a ‘Podunk’ town in Montana. I’m trained to carry a weapon, as well as consult on sex crimes, and I transferred here to make a difference—”

“And you’re our cover if any of the press find out about this fucking suicide mission and whine about how we’re taking advantage of a bunch of hookers.”

“Or that,” I say. He always did have a way of getting to the heart of the matter.

“Let’s cut to the chase. You mingle. You see if you hear anything interesting. Piotr’s been busy these days. Word on the street is that he’s cutting a deal with Arno Mackenzie, the gun runner. Not to mention his dealings with the Cartel. See whatyou can learn, but then you leave. Don’t speak to anyone for too long. They may seem like harmless little girls, but don’t buy the act. They’d sell your ass out in a heartbeat.”

He’s referring to the women gathered along the sidewalk with even less patience than me and my so-called humble roots. So many haunted, battered faces. Hope and dread mingle into a painful mixture that lumps in my throat. No red hair or blue eyes. Maybe I don’t want to find her after all. Not like this.

“I’ll let you off here,” Grey announces. “And for god’s sake, stop fidgeting. You never wear a dress before?Icould blend in better than you.” He scoffs at the black fabric clinging to me like a second skin, and I let my hand fall from the plunging neckline. “Don’t forget. You’re the one who volunteered for this. Though, if you’ve changed your mind, I could get us another assignment before the end of the shift—”

“No.” I push the door on my end open and climb out without giving him the chance to reach for his radio. “I can do this.”

I adjust the red wig shielding my natural hair and spot my destination. Memories taint the air, as tangible as the cigarette smoke and polka music seeping through the walls of the nearby club—a repulsive enough combination to deter even the drunkest local. If not, the burly bouncers stationed on either side of the entrance do the trick.

They stare right through me as I pick my way across the street. Either luck is on my side, or something else consumes their attention. Keeping my head down, I don’t question. In and out. Information. That’s all I need.

Red hair. Blue eyes. Petite.

“The fuck are you?” Someone nudges my hip the moment I mount the curb. Not a redhead, but a lanky brunette with a thick Russian accent. The remnants of a healing bruise circle her left eye, and she hasn’t even bothered to hide her mark—the indigo tattoo at the nape of her neck that proclaims her name and her number. 23.

I ignore her, pushing through the thick of the crowd, but her breath remains hot on the back of my neck.

“This street isPiotr’sterritory,” she hisses. “He doesn’t like competition.”

Istop cold. That name shouldn’t affect me the way it does. Not now.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the girl adds, continuing to follow me the moment I remember how to move. “Most girls usually don’t look so…clean.”

She’s right. Everyone here is sporting some bruise or another. Each injury serves as a painful incentive to fight for the next car that slows before the curb. A panting blonde wins this round and claims the passenger’s seat of some creep’s Volvo, slamming the door behind her.

I stare long after the car has turned the corner. Once upon a time, I was that girl.

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