Chapter 4 Status Quo

{Alex}

The car smells like leather and regret. Two weeks. Fourteen days of silence. Fourteen nights replaying the gunshots, the shatter of glass, David Loraine's conviction as he fought by my side.

'It should've been me.'

The driver turns onto a street lined with cracked sidewalks and sagging oak trees. This isn't my world. My world is steel and glass, boardrooms and bulletproof windows. But here I am, rolling through a neighborhood where the houses wear their weariness like old coats. The middle class. Not that I have any problems with them, I am here searching for someone.

"Number 17B, sir," my driver says.

The Loraine house crouches at the end of the block, neat, lawn-groomed. I adjust my cuffs as I make my way to their porch. The door swings open before I knock.

Anya.

Her hair's tied back, loose strands clinging to her neck. Wearing a faded band t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. No makeup. Just sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. "He's not here."

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

"To apologize."

She snorts. "Not needed."

I don't blink. "To your mother, then."

That stops her. Her jaw tightens, but she steps aside. The house smells like lemon polish and burnt toast. A TV drones in the living room. Jeopardy. A woman with Anya's eyes and David's smirk sits on the couch, legs tucked under her, a mug steaming in her hands.

"Mom," Anya says, voice brittle. "We have... company."

Mrs. Loraine pauses the show. She doesn't stand. Just look at me, slow and steady, like she's reading my pages. "So you're the man who got my son shot."

"I'm sorry things went as they did. Your son is a brave man."

"Mhmmm," she hums. Sips her tea. "I don't blame you young man.... But what do you want from us?"

Anya leans against the doorway, arms crossed. Watching. Always watching.

"I'm here to help," I say.

"We don't need your money."

"Not money. Answers."

Mrs. Loraine sets her mug down. "About?"

"Your husband."

The room freezes. Anya straightens. Her mother's face hardens. "Martin's dead."

"No, he isn't."

A beat. Two. The clock on the wall ticks louder.

"Get out," Anya says.

I don't move. "He vanished ten years ago. The same month as my father's incident, he didn't make it; Vincent Carlisé did. The same month, your father persisted as the whistleblower in Vincent's case."

After a short pause, I continued, "He isn't the type to make people disappear, he would've made an example of your husband."

Mrs. Loraine stands. She's shorter than Anya, softer around the edges, but her voice could cut a diamond. "You think I don't know what they did to him? What will they do if we keep poking?"

Anya steps between us. "Leave."

I pulled the envelope from my coat. "For David. Medical bills. Scholarships. Contacts at the Times."

She doesn't take it. "We're not your charity case."

"It's not charity."

"Then what is it?"

Guilt. Fear. A debt I can't name.

"An exclusive," I say. "In David's place." The Harbor Gala. Thursday."

She laughs, bitter and bright. "You're joking."

"Black tie. Be there at eight."

I left the envelope on the coffee table. Mrs. Loraine doesn't look at it. Anya follows me to the door.

"Why?" she asks.

The rain starts. Drops slide down her windows, warping the streetlights into smears of gold.

"Because you're the only one who'll tell the truth," I say.

***

Two days later, she's standing on the cliffs.

The gala is a circus of silk and lies. Politicians laugh too loudly. Heiresses spill champagne like it's water. I spotted Anya by the terrace, her dress the color of midnight, hair straight, glossy and wind-tangled. No embellishments. No pretense. Just her.

She turns.

And in a heartbeat, I'm twenty-three again. Cindy's laugh in my ear, her hand in mine, the roses in her hair. Love is easy, she'd said. You just have to let it be.

But Anya's not Cindy. No one is.

"You came," I say.

She doesn't smile. "You owe me answers."

"If that's how you see it."

"Then why am I here?"

"Professional curiosity," I lie.

She steps closer. The wind carries her scent. "You're terrible at this."

"At what?"

"Being human."

The band starts a waltz. Cindy's favorite. Anya's gaze flicks to the dance floor.

"Dance with me," I say.

It's not a request.

She hesitates. Then he took my hand.

Her palms are soft. My heart quickens. We move stiffly, out of sync, until I spin her. Her breath catches. My hand slips to her waist.

"You're staring," she says.

"You're... unexpected."

"And you're a terrible dancer."

The song ends. She pulls back, but I don't let go.

"You seem awfully energetic today. "How'd you heal so fast from your injuries?" she asks.

"I wasn't beat up too badly. Thanks for helping me. Your entire family, in fact."

She scoffs, her jaw tightening at the mention of David. He's mostly recovered, but the bitterness lingers. Yet here she is, close enough to count the flecks of gold in her eyes. There's another reason she's here. Information maybe?

I don't want to admit it, but she was breathtaking. Because she saw through the armor. Saw me beaten. Because she didn't flinch.

"You're good at asking questions," I say. "Bad at hearing answers."

She smiles. Just a flicker.

Off the dance floor, we start the interview. She's professional. Knows just what to ask, what buttons to push. I wish the night could continue just like this. Alas, all good things must come to an end. I offered her a ride home.

The car idles outside her house. She steps out, but freezes. The front door hangs open, a jagged crack splintering the frame.

"Anya_"

She's already running inside. I follow, my shoes crunching over broken glass. The living room is chaos - cushions shredded, drawers yanked out, photos torn from the walls. Mrs. Loraine's mug lies shattered on the floor.

Anya stands in the center, seething. "They didn't take anything."

"They weren't here to steal." I kneel, brushing my fingers over a boot print near the doorway. "They were looking for something."

Her voice cracks. "Or someone."

David's name hangs unspoken.

But one thing was clear. Her home was no longer safe. Neither was her family. So I make a proposal, one which could solve all this while giving her the freedom and resources to investigate, and so the words come out;