Page 13 of Hunted Mate
My blood goes cold. No. Not the basement. Some part of me already knew it. Some part of me always knows when something bad is happening. But I didn’t want to hear it.
I run inside, dodging hoses through the lobby. I get to the basement door, where a firefighter catches me before I throw myself down the stairs, stopping me from breaking my neck, because the stairs are gone.
“All my research was down there,” I say, trying not to cry, and not knowing if I am succeeding or not.
“There was a lot of paper down there. It went up like, well, paper,” he says, clearly not given to metaphor. “Rest of the building was protected because the base is concrete and the fire door did its job, but everything down here was destroyed. I’m sorry.”
He’s an older man, squarely in silver fox territory. He has a thick salt and pepper mustache, more salt than pepper, and a kind face lined from a youth spent in the sun not giving a damn that the sun would make him wrinkled in his older age. He’s a real man, a nice man. I can tell immediately.
I swallow my fury and my rage and I thank him for his work.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with this,” I say.
“Dealing with fires is what we do, ma’am,” he says, seeming faintly amused by my politeness.
“Still. I’m sure you had better things to do.”
“No. If it wasn’t this fire, it would be another one. We sit around waiting for something to catch on fire.”
“Oh. In that case, I’m glad someone set my life’s work on fire. Sorry. That sounds bitter. I just think everyone should get to do what they want to do. You know? I think people who want to fight fires should be able to fight fires, and I think people who want to research were… various phenomena should be able to do that too.”
The fireman puts his hand on my shoulder. “There’s a real loss after a fire. You know there’s counseling available at various agencies…”
“Thank you,” I say, not adding the fact that I would rather set fire to my own research all over again than risk talking to some kind of mental health professional about the fact that I am sure wolves who are also people exist. I discovered for myself a long time ago that it’s best to keep my inner thoughts on the inside.
I smile tightly and I leave the building. There’s nothing for me there anymore. He’s seen to that.
I know who did this. The man in the mask. The man I have let fuck me twice for god knows what fucking reason. I must be insane. That’s the problem. I didn’t even call the police when he came the first time. Or the second. I let him do this.
I won’t let him do anything else ever again.
My fury is so complete it feels as though it animates every cell in my body. How dare he do this? How dare he destroy something so precious to me? Something I worked so hard on? Something that has become the core of my sanity for the past few years? Tears are blurring my eyes, but I sniff them away, and then wipe them.
This is not fair. This is not okay. I feel betrayed, but I can’t really say why because there’s no sense to it. He didn’t owe me anything, but it feels like he did. Fuck. I am so mad at myself—but I am even madder at him.
As my brain starts to work following the tidal wave of emotion, I formulate a plan.
He’s not the only person given to creepy surveillance. Anybody walking around with a fucking mask and exposed tattoos is going to be remembered by people. It is especially going to be remembered by the security cameras networked around the city.
I have contacts. I don’t often reach out to them, but that does not mean they are not willing to help me.
“Commissioner Brown, how are you?”
“Calista! I have not heard from you in years, how are you?”
“I’m afraid someone committed arson in the old newspaper archive,” I say, getting to the point immediately. “I was wondering if I might be permitted to review some of the nearby footage to attempt to get some leads. I know it’s usually something the police would get a warrant for, but they’re so busy.”
“Of course, Calista,” he says. “Just let me know the time and the area, and I’ll have the footage sent to you this afternoon.”
It’s really that easy when you’re well connected. I do favors all the time. Well, my estate does.
I go back home, set up my laptop, and wait. I sit in my armchair and I just look at my email, tapping refresh every now and then while thinking about all I have lost.
The footage comes in an hour or so later. There are three cameras facing the office. Every single entrance and exit is covered by our own security, which seems to have stopped working at the time the arsonist entered. That tells me he has someone on the inside. But I am more in the social interior than he will ever be, which means I have traffic, bank, store cameras. If I really wanted to, I could access cellphone footage. That would be a bigger ask, but I would ask for the moon if I thought it would bring him to justice.
He took it upon himself to stop me, to interfere in my research and my life as if he had the right to either. I am furious in a way I have not been in a very long time. This work is not some little dalliance to entertain myself, the way the people at the paper think it is. I am not some eccentric heiress who needs to busy herself with senseless engagements.
This mattered to me.
