High schooler, Helena Gallagher is still recovering from life's latest tragedy when chaos occurs.
Another murder.
Only this one is much closer to home. And when fingers start pointing towards her boyfriend-Elliot-she has no choice but to intervene...
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He is sitting with his feet on the desk as I barge into his office, a hot rod up my ass. The officer in charge of reception does very little in stopping me; his insistence that I, "Stop this second!" doing very little to deter my mission.
"Ahh—Helena!" delights Harry. "I've been expecting you."
"Sorry, sir," apologizes the officer who—for the most part—is underqualified for this position. "She just pushed by."
He huffs and puffs as he stares me down, unimpressed by my behavior.
"That's okay, Jones. Helena and I are due a chat, anyway."
Harry slides from his position at the desk and shuts the door, dropping his smile the second we're offered some privacy. He's a bit older than me—maybe in his mid-twenties? The experience behind his eyes would certainly suggest so. If only when he looked at me, I didn't fear for my life. I suspect it's the coloring that does that. The cold, sharp shade of his irises has the potential to cut straight through me. And the scar that runs from the middle of his forehead to his right eyebrow doesn't help either.
"Come to return the file?"
I scoff. "No. I have more important things to discuss."
"More important than committing a felony?"
This shuts me up.
"What the hell were you thinking, Gallagher?"
Don't freak out, don't freak out, do not freak out!
"Actually—you weren't thinking at all," he accuses. "If Penn found out..."
"How d'ya know I'm going to Penn?" I ask, cutting him off.
His interest in me is unnerving.
"Does it matter?"
I say nothing.
He continues. "Do you even care?"
"I care about Elliot."
He huffs out a response, nostrils flaring. Before I can even blink, he shoves me into his chair and turns off his body cam. "And you're no good to him if you're locked up!"
He positions his head parallel to mine.
"I need you on my side Helena. Don't get reckless on me."
Huh?
"Where is it?" he asks. "The file."
"In my bag," I reply, ignoring the pounding of my heart.
I hate that he intimidates me.
"Give it to me."
I falter, unsure of my next move. "Why?"
"So I can put it back and pretend it was never missing."
I fail to move, unable to think straight. To rationalize. "I don't trust you."
