How does one go from a depressed and neurotic adolescent to a top ranking FBI agent?
For Agent A, it was as simple as taking candy from a baby. All she needed, however, was a plan and a set of rules. Luckily for her, she was a fast learner.
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HE STOOD UP, using my body as support, but not before he almost dragged me down with him.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Nowhere for now," I muttered, looking around the floor for lingering shadows. That was the thing about death, it never quite left. Walk into any funeral house and it'll be easy to tell, death was there and it would never leave. Perhaps that's why I never visited the four graves a few towns over. I did not need to. Death was everywhere. The graves were just a reminder.
I pulled him towards me and dug my nails into his chin. "Tell me the truth. Is there anyone is those rooms?"
He glanced at the locked rooms, before our eyes made contact. His chocolate brown eyes bored into mine, but the stare-off did not last long. He removed his eyes from mine as if they burnt him. The gray contacts I wore were irritated with the amount of strain I had put on them, but even my eyes hadn't been burning red, they would not have been able to hide the demons I carried with me. They were ever-present, a replacement for the light in my eyes, which had been stolen from me a long time ago. It became clear to me, by the way he was shielding his eyes, he had saw them.
"No...only the four of us guarded the second floor."
"Open them," I demanded.
His eyes met mine again, a clash of metal. "What? Why?" he sputtered.
"I don't believe you—open the doors. Now." I bit my tongue to distract myself from the stabbing pain in the back of my head. It would cover my entire skull soon, like a hoodie, if I wasn't careful. I thought back to the morning: had I taken my medicine? I knew the answer before I had finished retracing my steps. I hadn't.
"I-I can't!" he exclaimed. There was a bewildered look on his face, draining the life out of him before my eyes. "I don't have the keys!"
I kept calm. "Who does, then?"
His face was feverish as his eyes trailed towards the corpse. "M-Micah has them—I swear!"
I released his arm and muttered under my breath. "You better be telling the truth."
Leaving him to watch, I dragged my limbs toward Micah's body. I fell down beside him, being careful to avoid his eyes, and fumbled through his pockets. He was still warm. Taking one look at him, ignoring the bright red circle on his forehead, it was simple to think he was only asleep. Bile rose in the back of my throat, and I gagged. Touching dead bodies had always been my weakness. Besides a wad of cash, a pocket knife, a couple of rubber bands, and a wallet without a driver's license, I found not much else.
"I thought you said he had it!" I barked.
"He does! I swear," he said, sweat dripping down his spiked hair. "Check his shoes. He sometimes hid important stuff down there."
It was unlikely that he hid the key inside his shoe, comfort being the primary reason. In a crime show, once, I had seen the detective discover a note hidden in the heel of a man's shoe. As it seemed the most logical, I hauled myself toward his feet. I twisted the heel of his left shoe, but it did not move to reveal a hidden stash of keys. Growing desperate, I slipped his right shoe off his foot and analyzed it. It's heel, too, did not budge. Inside of it, however, right above the heel, the padding was extra soft.
