Just Another Liar

Chapter 3: Milo

I had a restful night's sleep in my bed, only waking because of my alarm and the sun rays shining on my face. My eyes opened slowly, like water ebbing from the shore on a lazy summer day. I smelled my coffee already brewed in the kitchen as it did every weekday. Jazz played as my alarm urged me to wake up. I looked around my room and took in the bare walls; the room felt clinical. On the ground sat pictures and wall decor that I had not made the time to hang. I kept telling myself I would do so, but I was only two months from needing to sign my new leasing agreement.

I pulled the gray duvet off of my body and stepped out of bed onto the plush cream carpet. My feet sunk in and I could feel left over carpet deodorizer from the day before. I had showered less than six hours ago and put my underclothes on, so all I had to do was wash my face and brush my teeth. I then moved to my closet where my day's attire was hanging. I placed on the gray slacks that clung close to my body, my light blue shirt, and brown dress shoes. I finished by placing a tie around my neck and a watch on before leaving my room. I did not want to be late for my meeting with my office director.

I hastily made my coffee, two creams and a sugar before grabbing my brown work bookbag and left out the door. I practically sprinted to my car and made the twenty-seven minute drive to headquarters. I arrived and badged into the building; I did not have relationships with most of my coworkers other than passing greetings. Nobody said anything to me when I made it to my cubicle. I placed my things away before logging in and checking my emails. There weren't many, most did not apply to me, and a handful were reply-all annoyances. The most egregious chain was for a potluck I had no plans of attending.

I had arrived twenty minutes early, so I took my time sipping my coffee and then walked to the meeting room. Parker was already sitting down and going over several papers. She skimmed over seven before looking up at me. She wore a suit, and her nails freshly manicured. I had the tendency to pick up on things that were not always important. It helped me during agent training and specialized field training.

"Take a seat, they will be five minutes late," she said. Waiting was nothing new in the office. The director was only one person and constantly asked more questions than he could answer in a day. There were many inefficiencies in the office. Paperwork was routinely late to get signed and information passed at a snail's pace unless it was last-minute things that required you to stay later than you planned. It wasn't like I would yell at my boss, I needed the job or id be homeless and possibly blackballed in the criminal justice community.

"Are you prepared?" I was getting used to her not looking at me when she spoke. I wondered if she saw me as some annoying child, she treated me like a burden. She probably wished to be on the front lines, but leadership picked me instead. The bureau was a close-knit community who had hard set boundaries and social expectations. Nobody appreciated having their case taken by a fellow agent, especially someone as green as me, but I had been the best person for the job at the time and hoped she would understand at some point.

"I am. I have little to say on the introductory meeting," I spoke to her in a clear and concise manner. I kept my tone direct and my words were only to convey a message. She looked up at me tilting her head. I had struck a nerve and maintained a neutral exterior so she wouldn't know I was freaking out on the inside.

"Don't try working me Eaton. I am not a puzzle for you to figure out. If I wanted you to know my every thought, I would tell you. Also, I can change my responses a hundred times if I want to." She looked over at me her right brow reaching for her hairline. I nodded as I took a seat across from her and avoided eye contact with her. She did not raise her voice when she spoke, but her tone had an edge capable of piercing diamonds.

She went back to ignoring me and flipped papers while I looked at the while behind her. Now and then I would look at her fingers. The fingers that had pulled the trigger on cartel hitmen and human traffickers. She used to be known as the Rahuel, the archangel of justice, fairness, and harmony. The name a woman she had saved from a life of sex slavery had given her. Before I joined I was told to never call her that, under any circumstances. She had spent almost two decades working for the bureau, so there could have been dozens of reasons she rejected the name. She kept much of her personal life from everyone. I was not much different. The boundary between coworker and friend was impermeable.