An Unlikely Affair (closed for Initiate_me)

Bang. Beep Beep. A new day, the alarm summoned me loudly and without mercy and I threw off the covers, straight out of bed, over to the bathroom to wash my face of last night's ruined make up. I didn't look into the mirror to see the reminders of my failure, I just splashed and rubbed until I was fairly sure it was all gone.

I unscrewed a bottle of mineral water from out of the fridge and took a swig, before returning to the bedroom to get changed into my gym kit. I wanted to hit it hard today, push it, burn up all that regret and sadness and self-pity. My phone lay there on the table, off, and its blank screen looked reproachful as if in disbelief that I could dare to leave the apartment without it, but I did. Today I didn't want anyone getting hold of me. For anything.

On the treadmill by 8am, pounding along to the rhythm of some generic dance track which really wasn't suitable for the time of day. Only a few people in- it was pretty quiet anyway, one of the nicest gyms in town and therefore once of the most expensive. They inflated the prices a little higher than necessary, just to keep the membership on the low side, knowing that what their key clientele really wanted was space, a break, and immediate access to a personal trainer or instructor if needed. No one who came there was used to waiting, or sharing.

I enjoyed the sweat running down, my breathing becoming heavier and heavier. If I pushed myself hard enough, I could forget. And maybe some sort of answer would come to me. A way to be me, and for that to be enough.

Daylight filled the room. I grabbed my phone to check the time...10:08 a.m. Wednesday, the first day of my week-long foray into the evening shift. Seven straight days, strung across two pay periods so he city didn't have to pay overtime.

I really wanted to sleep later than this. I would have loved to have gotten two more hours, so that I would be at highly rested to start this string of days on duty. It's hard to catch up on sleep when you work this many days in a row. But plans don't often work out...as my life reminded me each and every day.

I got up and tossed on a t-shirt and shorts. I'd shower later, right before my shift started. I looked through the refrigerator for something easy to eat and found a contain of leftover Chinese I had picked up a couple days ago. Grabbing a fork and a glass of orange juice, I chuckled to myself...breakfast of champions.

I headed to the computer to file my report on the gallery opening last night. I reached for my notes I had left on the table. As I glanced over them, the memories of the event came sweeping back - my first introduction to Mr. Barrington, the initial aloofness of his daughter Clarissa, the "owner" of the gallery, and the twins, who would completely throw their sister under the bus with their own stupid behavior. I had to be extra careful since the incident didn't result in charges being filed, one of the perks of being a more experienced officer with the ability to look away in certain situations.

As I typed her name, I thought back once again to Clarissa, and how devastated she looked after working so hard to have a successful evening. Would the Barrington men ever understand what they had done to her?

More importantly to me - would I ever be able to get her out of my mind? She lived in a completely different world than I did, and I knew our paths would not cross again. So why did I keep thinking about her?

William Starks Barrington III hammered on the gallery's main door, wondering why on earth he hadn't insisted that his daughter gave him keys to the place too. It was his money, as always. Head-in-the-clouds, that girl. He gave her everything and yet she never seemed happy, or at least not for long.

Hadn't he set her up with an easy job, where she didn't even have to turn up every day if she didn't feel like it? Hadn't he offered to buy her a more suitable place than that mediocre apartment? hadn't he built this damn building, with the most expensive contractors, on the best real estate available? And indulged her every whim for the furnishings, the staff, and most of all the fucking paintings, God he'd heard enough about them over the past few months. It wasn't the money, Mason and Theo leeched far more than that, and the supply was still healthy as ever- more than he could ever use. It was the effort. And for what?

Ungrateful, he though darkly. That was her in a word. Ungrateful.

He slammed his fist against the door again and that young girl opened the door- her expression on seeing him was pure terror for a second, then covered by a subservient and inviting smile.

"Mr Barrington- it's.....it's wonderful to see you again, sir."

He pushed past her. "I'm here for my laptop and my jacket, I left them after last night's.... incident." Normally he would have sent someone round for his things, but today he had happened to feel like a drive.

"Certainly sir, I'll go and find them immediately," Deb was turning to rush off in search of Barrington's possessions but he grabbed her arm to stop her.

"No need girl. I know where I left them. You continue doing.... whatever it is that you're doing." He watched her nod meekly and depart. Why couldn't his daughter be as obliging as that?

He found his jacket and laptop in the office, on the windowsill behind a potted plant, where he had set them down during the conversation with that rent-a-cop. He hated potted plants, the smell of the soil, their neediness. And he had little time for rent-a-cops too, although he could see their use.

But hold on, what was this? The desk was tidy as usual, but missing one thing. His five thousand. He grinned broadly, and then set about searching the drawers of the desk, under neatly-stacked papers, the floor, everywhere. The wad of bills was gone for sure. Victory! He laughed smugly to himself and rubbed his hands. No one could resist a bribe, especially not in the disarming way in which he had offered it. Loose change, but probably a large amount of money to that blue-collar public servant.

Excellent. He knew it had no practical impact, the Officer had promised to send Theo and Mason on their way anyway. But it felt good. It felt good to have the leverage, good to have won. And now he wanted to indulge himself, to really enjoy it. To let the other man know that he was aware, to emphasise his triumph in their little battle of wills.

Sitting down at the desk, Barrington put his feet up, and lit a cigarette. He knew his daughter would have hated that, but he owned this place, so he would make the rules. He picked up the phone and dialed the security agency's number. The call team answered immediately.

"This is Mr Barrington. Connect me to the gentleman who worked for me last night- Simpson." He was looking forward to making Simpson feel small, after he had tried to act all righteous and authoritative last night. time to put him in his place.

"No.... no, there was no problem. No problem at all, he did a fine job and I would have him again. Now just do as I say and put me through to his cell."

With the report completed and sent, I tried to figure out what I was going to do with my time between now and when my shift started at 4:00 this afternoon. I walked over to my recliner - the one item I had asked for in the divorce proceedings - and propped my feet up. The small TV across from me was hardly ever watched, and even now, the thought of trying to find something worthwhile to view while helping me pass the time was detestable at best.

My loathing party was interrupted by the ringing of my personal cell phone in the bedroom. As I scrambled to reach it before the call stopped, I tried to think who it might be. The police department provided us with work cells to aid in our communication with our dispatchers. Nobody knew that number - it was a closely held secret. But I also limited the people who knew my personal cell number to just a very few family members, which meant it was more than likely Kristy calling me, and that made me nervous. She should be at work right now so I didn't think this would be her usual call to try and get me back. I was afraid it was something more serious in nature.

But it wasn't Kristy at all. It was the number of agency who assigned me to work the gallery opening the previous night. I wondered if there was a glitch in the report I had just sent, which would have been a very quick response. I pushed that answer button on the phone - "This is Joe Simpson"

"Joe, it's Lara Yeager from Protective Services Unlimited. This is a very strange request - a man by the name of Mr. Barrington is asking that I put him through to your cell phone so he can talk to you directly about your work at the Barrington Gallery opening last night. He's being very pushy - says you did a fine job but he needs to talk to you immediately. Shall I put him through? It's probably safer - this way, he won't be getting your personal cell number from the call."

I thought I was done with that place! I had a hard time believing Mr. Barrington was going to be pleasant - it just wasn't his nature. But there was no sense in avoiding it, and it would save me from the horrible prospect of watching daytime TV.

"That's okay, Lara - you can put him through."

I waited to hear the telltale "click" to let me know that Mr. Barrington was on the line. "Mr. Barrington, this is Joe Simpson. What can I do for you today?"

Puffing on his cigarette, William Starks Barrington III waited a few seconds before replying. It was one of his common moves- on its own no big deal, but it was just another way to make some one feel a a little more uneasy.

"Mr Simpson, nice to speak to you again. I simply wish to give my thanks for your fine service last night. Your professionalism stands in clear contrast to most of the security I have employed over the years- so often lazy, slow, unfit.... well, you know what the average Police Officer is like these days."

He smiled to himself as he imaged Simpson's reaction to that backhanded slight of his colleagues.

"I'm especially grateful for all you did to ease things after my daughter departed. You must forgive her rudeness- she's twenty-three but in many ways still so childish. But then, she's never had to struggle for anything, unlike myself."

Did he attend the same gallery opening I did last night? I knew he would be able to smooth talk with the best of them, but there wasn't much he was saying right now that I was buying. As I listened to him, I could just picture the smarmy smile of an important person who is having to communicate with someone beneath position on the social chain. Forget about the crack at the other officers who provide security - that really didn't warrant much of a thought, and so I dropped it immediately after he brought it up.

But when he mentioned Clarissa's name, I perked up again. Why wasn't she calling me - isn't she the gallery owner? Why would Mr. Barrington make a call like this himself? I was starting to get a little nervous about this conversation, but I couldn't pin it down as to why.

"How is Clarissa feeling today, Mr. Barrington? I could tell she wasn't having a very good evening, so I hope she's doing better this morning."

Barrington was never a man to hold back, or to be shy in discussing other people's business. As long as telling something didn't put him at some sort of tactical disadvantage, and didn't reveal anything important about him personally, he always enjoyed the casual semi-honesty of conversations with almost-strangers.

"I imagine she'll be just fine, thank you for your concern. A sensitive little soul, but she bounces back quickly- easily distracted, that's the key. She works for my business group you know, as the PR face and occasionally spokesperson. I'll assign her a special task and she'll forget all about last night. I may have to sell the gallery I expect, but it won't be much of a loss."

He stubbed out his cigarette on the mahogany desk and yawned. "I imagine you yourself are feeling much better today also, Mr Simpson? With your pockets a few thousand heavier?"

He took the silence to mean what he wanted. "Don't fret, I intended you to have that bonus and it's right that you took it, although you needn't have been so coy about it- this is the way things are done in my world, as you would know if you spent time with the better class of people. I'm merely glad that we understand each other."

I had to admit that Barrington knew how to work on a person's emotions, even on the telephone. He wanted to be in charge in at all times, including brokering high end business deals. So dealing with a lowly patrol cop like me was no challenge at all for him. I, however, knew I must remain on my guard at all time.

So when he basically swept Clarissa under the rug, I wanted to stand up for her, defend her honor against the patriarch of the Barrington family fortune. I had seen William and his twin boys destroy her last night, and now I was hearing a continuation of that.

But then the conversation changed, and suddenly I was being being talked to as if I had accepted his "bonus" he had offered me last night. I don't know where he got his information, but he was completely wrong. I felt my anger rise just in time to hear his crack about "hanging out with a better class of people." It was time to employ my anger management techniques I had learned years ago at the police academy.

"Mr. Barrington, sir, you are mistaken. I told you last night that I wouldn't take the money, and I kept my word. Instead, I stashed it safely into the middle desk drawer in the gallery office. If your security camera system was working, you can see that for yourself. Then before I left, I told Clarissa's assistant Deb what I had done, so someone else would know."

"If the money is not in the desk drawer, then we have a problem."

Barrington paused. His instinct was to dismiss this as a ploy from the other man, an attempt to save face. But he had mentioned the security camera, enabling the story to be verified.

He had miscalculated. He was on the back foot. He was not happy, not at all.

"I see... in that case.... we will need to get to the bottom of this. I made sure that the money was nowhere in that room when I departed. Someone has moved it. If not you.... someone else."

He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable now, and leaned forward to tap his finger on the desk as he spoke, in an unseen display of his seriousness.

"I want you to meet me at the gallery tomorrow morning, 7AM. Bring whatever you expect you will need in order to work this out. I will ensure that my daughter and the staff are present, and you will be reimbursed for your time."

Not waiting for an answer, he put the phone down and sighed. He knew he was too busy for this, and shouldn't give time to such a trivial matter..... but the idea of someone profiting from him in such a sneaky way made him deeply angry. He would not, could not, allow it.

The phone went dead in my hand before I had a chance to protest that obscene time. Not that it would have done any good, because I knew Barrington was going to get what he wanted, when he wanted it. And I really didn't have much say in it, because if I wanted to clear my name and help find out who actually took the money, I pretty much had to play by his rules.

So that meant a midnight shift and going to bed probably after 1:00 a.m. or later would be followed up by getting up by 5:30 a.m. in order to make it to the gallery by 7:00 a.m. All in all, it was a shitty way to begin the first of his seven-evening shift.

He had said he'd have the entire staff there at that time, including Clarissa. I decided before my shift started that I'd go back through my gallery notes to see if I noticed anything about the workers - what their role was, where they were stationed that night. The girl named Deb was the only one I told about the money, after I had shown the security camera where I was placing it. She would have to be my first interview.

As I got changed into my uniform for my shirt, my mind wandered to Clarissa - how was this news going to affect her? More importantly, how would she act seeing me again, especially in front of her father and the staff? Only time would tell.

My phone rang aggressively and I wanted to ignore it, but I saw the number and thought better of it.

A few minutes later, after the conversation, I wandered slowly into the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water at the basin. Dad wanted me at the gallery tomorrow morning, with the staff. Something important. It was the last place I wanted to be but I'd had no strength to protest, no drive to refuse his request- a request in clothing only, underneath it was a hard command.

I stared in the mirror. A lot of people had called me beautiful, and not all of them just to try to get something out of me. I knew that my name was passed around the right social circles as a desirable and available girl, and I knew that there were a lot of wealthy young men in the city who had at least half an eye on me. Including Pierce- the guy I loved to hate. Charming, sensitive and often quite perceptive....but also spoilt and prone to sudden fury.

I looked at my reflection long enough for the criteria of beauty to blur in my mind. What was it they saw, what was it they liked.... the compliments were always so vague- pretty, delicate features, soft lips, good cheekbones... did it really mean anything when I couldn't see it for myself?

I always took pleasure in the kind words and admiring glances, but I knew, deep down, that I had never really seen it for myself. I was just me- conflicted, neurotic, stressed and conflicted again. Dear God when will I be where I should be?

Usually the first night back on after being off for a few days is refreshing - you're finally back to doing what you believe you were called to do. But I wasn't feeling it tonight. There was something that was off. I knew what it was, of course, but I was hoping getting back to a regular patrol schedule would take my mind off of the missing money at the gallery - as well as the people I had met there.

It was a fairly quiet night, as Wednesdays usually are. A couple of minor traffic stops - both let go with warnings, and a couple of calls to check out domestic disturbances. Those we had to take seriously, both for the parties involved, as well as for our own safety. Too many officers have walked into a domestic violence situation and not made it out unscathed.

The night was so slow, in fact, that twice I ventured out of my zone and drove by the gallery. I honestly don't know why - it just felt like I needed to do it. I knew I'd be there in the morning at 7:00 a.m. - 0700 in police time. I knew I had a potentially long day ahead of me tomorrow, interviewing the employees who were at the gallery last night, reviewing security tape, etc. I had asked the Crime Scene unit to be ready to come and dust for fingerprints if I couldn't figure out what had happened without them.

So as I drove around the city tonight, my thoughts were on the gallery, and in particular, one employee whom I still could not figure out.

I rolled out of bed with my 5:30AM alarm, and trudged to the bathroom. After a cold shower, I was halfway awake. After oatmeal and some soothing music I was more or less okay, and I returned to my room to dress.

As I fastened my bra it occurred to me that I hadn't worn any fancy underwear in months. Nothing to put it on for, I supposed. I checked myself in the mirror. Staying lean was one thing I was good at, one thing I had some discipline with. Semi-religious adherence to running five times a week, plus some regular push-ups, crunches, and light weights work, had kept me looking slim and toned. A strong body for a week mind.

I opted for a black pantsuit, in a flattering slim-cut, over a pale pink blouse. My feet had had enough of heels, still slightly sore, so I put on matte-black brogues with no heel and accepted that I just wasn't a a tall person. "They don't make diamonds as big as bricks", my uncle had always used to say to me. I missed him. A good person, whom my parents had driven out of our lives. I'd last seen him two years ago. I knew I could visit him on my own, but I never did.

I pulled up at the gallery. The space reserved for me, as the manager, had been taken by Dad. His chauffeur was leaning on the hood and smoking a roll-up. He quickly stubbed it out and stopped leaning on the car when he saw me get out. I ignored the tip of the hat, in no mood for his awkward fawning, and walked through the lobby entrance.

Up at 5:15 a.m after getting home at 12:45 a.m. the night before - that's not a good way to start your week. But I knew I had to do this - I had to clear my name, even though I'm sure Mr. Barrington would just as soon hold this over my head for the rest of my life. Then again, perhaps after he had proven he had won, maybe that's all he'd need - just another low-class nobody crushed under his superior standing.

I dressed in full uniform - I wanted to make this look like an official investigation, which it really was - except I was conducting my own investigation on my own time. Hopefully the uniform will carry some weight as I tried to figure this mess out.

I pulled up to the gallery at 6:55. I wanted to make sure I was early, but when I saw his limousine already there, I felt like I was late. Why was I letting him get to me already? A was shrouded in a strong sense of dread as I trudged into the gallery.

He didn't look too happy to be here. I supposed that he generally liked to get his jobs done and then move on- any further entanglement unwelcome. I thought it must be a lonely way to work. We assembled in the office, our little group- the Officer, myself, my Dad, Deb and Rodrigo, along with two agency staff workers who had been at the opening as extra help.

We moved slowly into a circle, all exchanging glances and wondering what was going on, with Dad and the Officer quiet and grim-faced. I felt tied and being back at the gallery, the scene of the disgrace, was painful in a dull way.

My father allowed us to squirm a minute more and then he stepped forward and clapped his hands loudly.

"Thank you for coming, thank you all." He smiled widely, arms outstretched, Happy Host Mode. "I won't delay, I think it nest just to come out with this. We.... I..... was robbed. At the grand opening." He sniffed, and tugged at his blazer, and I could tell the very idea that someone could do this to him was upsetting.

"I left several thousand dollars in this very office. Someone..... someone took it. I'm sure you can appreciate that the amount is not the issue- it is the broken trust." He paused dramatically and looked around us all. "The shattered trust."

It was something watching Mr. Barrington holding court in this little office. He truly was in his element, and I honestly think that in a different time and place - and without the fact that his net worth was several thousand times higher than my own - we could be friends. He would have made a good cop, with his strong attitude and self-absurdness. He would have commanded people pay attention to him - criminals, citizens, fellow officers - all would have snapped to do what he said.

I was glad he was taking charge of this meeting, because it gave me a time to study the others gathered, looking for any clues that their faces might show as he announced the theft. Clarissa was not a suspect here. I knew that as much as she wanted to...as much as she needed to...she would not do anything like this to disappoint her father. Of the four remaining, I really only remember Deb and Rodrigo, as they were the two with whom I had the most contact. Of course Deb was high on my list of suspects, because she was the one I had told where the money was in the first place. I felt she was smarter than that, because I think she was a very loyal employee with whom Clarissa had high confidence. But I had to consider her the most likely suspect at the moment.

I glanced at Clarissa. Once again, I felt sorry for her. This was her gallery, supposedly. This should have been her meeting to run, because it was dealing with her employees. I couldn't help but wonder if she would ever allow herself to break away from this control the men in her family had over her. I couldn't help but wonder what she would be like if she were allowed to spread her wings and fly in her own direction.

My gaze met the security guard's (Joe- I remembered suddenly. The name was Joe.) and I thought I saw the hint of a smile on his lips. I wasn't happy about that-easy for him to look happy, this was just extra work for him, with a side order of family drama. He was probably laughing at me. He probably told all his copy buddies about how I'd been humiliated. I could see the scene now, a loud, masculine group of them, drinking and making fun of me.

I clenched my fists behind my back and shot Joe the darkest look I could muster.

Meanwhile my Dad was droning on.

"...and because of what we have lost- we, not I, because we have all lost the innocent mutual trust here, there has to be an investigation. I want you all to cooperate fully with Officer Simpson in this- it's for your own good and I'm afraid I have to insist."

He shook his head, a grim smile, a regretful shrug of heavy shoulders. "We will be starting with individual interviews. Completely necessary I'm afraid. Mr Simpson, who would you like to speak to first? You can use the office."

As Mr. Barrington continued to drone on, I caught a glimpse of Clarissa, and received what could only be considered a hateful face thrown at me. Immediately two thoughts went through my head - what did I do to deserve that, and at least she could show an emotion other than the poor little disadvantaged rich girl for a change.

I snapped back to attention as Mr. Barrington explained that each employee would be interviewed, and that I would begin those immediately. He asked if I wanted to speak before the interviews began. I was grateful for the opportunity.

I stood up in front of the employees and said, "I'm giving that person involved in this an opportunity to come clean now, which would be much easier for you than if I have to pursue this as a full fledged investigation. Anybody ready to spare all of us this unnecessary pursuit?"

As I expected, nobody volunteered. "Fine, here's how we are going to do this. One at a time, you will come into the office to answer my questions. We'll start with Deb."

"Oh, one more thing - Ms. Barrington, I want you to sit in on these interviews with me."

It wasn't surprising that no one volunteered. Who would? And that was only if there even had been a crime... could it be an elaborate ego-trip from my Dad, for some twisted purpose? I mulled it over for a few seconds. Yes, it could be. It definitely could be.

I wanted to turn around and retreat to my apartment and my bed but I could see that wasn't happening any time soon.

He chose Deb for the first interview. She looked terrified, a small deer about to be run down by a ten-ton truck and turned into red sludge on the road. I tried to give her a reassuring smile, happy in the knowledge that she would never do anything untoward, ever. She always seemed so.... pure, with her very modest life, and her quiet ways.

Sit in on the interviews? Was he serious? I shot Simpson another vicious look but he pretended not to notice. Dad raised his eyebrows and gave a slight nod to me, and I knew what it meant, I knew it well- do as you've been told.

And I did, silently following Simpson and Deb into my office. "My office"- what a joke that was now. Simpson took the chair behind the desk and gestured for Deb to sit down on the other side of it. I pulled a chair up at the side, to view both of them, though I wasn't sure what on earth was expected of me. Surely he could see that I'd been completely humiliated? What authority could he believe me to have now, really?

I began to wonder if I made a mistake insisting that Clarissa join me in the interview process. The truth was that could be a valuable member of the interview team because she knew these employees, and could tell if anything about their answers or their mannerisms was different from their normal persona. But it seemed as if she didn't want to help. It seemed as if she didn't want to be there at all. And she was certainly making it clear that she thought less of me than she did the emotional abuse she took from the actions of her father and brothers.

So it was clear that helping her was not on the agenda anymore. Instead, it was all about clearing my own name, and finding out who the perpetrator was. But before I asked Deb her first question, I quickly scribbled out a note and passed it to Clarissa - Please watch their faces and their mannerisms and listen to their answers, and after each one is dismissed, we'll talk about their interview. I NEED your help with this, Clarissa.

No response after reading the note - great. I had to go on. I greeted Deb and told her to relax, and that if she didn't take the cash, she should have no reason to be nervous. I then asked her questions - if she remembered coming in and having me show her where the money was placed; if she saw anybody else go in after we left the office; if she came back after the gallery was closed for the night; if she saw anybody act suspiciously between the time I showed her the money, etc. While her voice was weak, her answers were given without hesitation, which was a sign to me that she was telling the truth. I thanked her for her answers and told her not to discuss the questions I asked with the others who were waiting to come in after her.

After she left, I turned to Clarissa. With impatience in my voice, I asked, "Are you going to be able to help me with this investigation? You're the only one who knows these employees, and you knowledge of their actions and mannerisms in this interview vs. on the job could be key in solving this problem."

I looked her directly in the eye and asked, "Am I going to be able to count on you?"

Seeing Deb put under the spotlight made me feel uncomfortable, but having Simpson race his voice towards me sparked a moment of anger.

"Don't you..... how dare you speak to me in that tone," I was shaking and my hands gripped either side of my chair tightly, I met his stare and all my suppressed frustration from the last few days was suddenly gushing out and a small voice lost deep whispered that I was overreacting but I didn't listen to it, because it felt good to let go.

I tapped the desk hard with my index finger and I knew I was blushing severely as I spoke. "You should know to treat me with some God damn respect, you should show some manners, some acknowledgement of who I am, and who you are by comparison- and maybe start with please and thank you- or better still, just leave me alone," I rushed the words out and the bitterness behind them stung the air.

Upon hearing her outburst, I suddenly remembered an old acronym from my academy days many years ago - STAR - Stop Talking and Relax. It was used for situations just like this. When someone became agitated, it wasn't going to do any good to raise the level of agitation by responding to them in a similar fashion.

So I calmly looked Clarissa in the eyes and said, "Ms. Barrington, I'm sorry if you are upset with my tone of voice. I didn't mean to offend you. I can tell by now that you have a very low opinion of me. I was just hoping that you could see this from my perspective, as an officer of the law trying to clear his name from being accused of taking money I did not take.

"I was being sincere when I told you that you could really help me by watching these interviews and looking for anything out of the ordinary. But it this is too much, then I don't want to take anymore of your time. I would like to have you stay, but if you don't, then would you at least send Rodrigo in next, so I can visit with him?"

I lowered my head back down into the notes I had been taking during the interview with Deb. It was in Clarissa's hands now as to what happened next. I needed to focus on the investigation, since I didn't think I was going to have any help going forward.

His gentle words made me feel a little guilty for my outburst. Going too far, as usual. He probably wasn't enjoying this either- we all just wanted to get it done and be gone, back to our respective shitty lives no doubt. I felt I should at least try to cooperate.

Showing a pretend interest in my shoes, I said quietly "I'm sorry Mr Simpson. I know you're just doing your job. It's been.... a tough few days for me. But I'll try to help."

I breathed a little easier, knowing that she was willing to help. "Thank you, Ms. Barrington. I appreciate that. I'm going to go get Rodrigo.

As I left the office, I couldn't help but think about Clarissa again. There was so much turmoil in her life, and yet she always tried to present the image that everything was fine, that she had it all under control. Her outburst to me in the office might have been a healthy thing, because for the first time I got to see an emotion other than resigned acceptance to her place among the Barrington family ladder. Even though her outburst was directed at me, it was almost refreshing to see.

I brought Rodrigo in and we sat down and began the questioning. He answered all of the questions without hesitation, and on the surface his answers seems to make sense. In fact, he projected a cool arrogance as he answered, as if to say that it was beneath him to have to answer these questions since this kind of behavior was not like him at all. As if to illustrate the point, he would annoyingly clack his ring on the desk with each answer. It was as if he had his own drum section to accompany the beat of his words.

A couple of times during the interview with Rodrigo, I noticed that Clarissa did seem to be paying attention to his speech patterns and physical mannerisms. A couple of times she would smile at his answer, and I could tell the two were familiar with each other after working together for a while. It was going to be interesting to hear what she had to say when the interviews were done.

We dismissed Rodrigo and next called in the two other workers who were there that night. Janell was first, and it was obvious that she had no clue what we were talking about. The only thing I picked up from her was that she left right after I did, so she was still a suspect. The other worker was named Rachel. She seemed very nervous, which ordinarily was a sign that she was hiding something. But Rachel had left before me, so that ruled her out.

I escorted Rachel out, then came back in and sat down on the chair at the front of the desk, where we had the employees sit while I questioned them. It was just Clarissa and I remaining in the office. It was time to see how well she was paying attention. "Okay, Ms. Barrington - what can you tell me about these employees that you saw today while we were talking to them? Did you spot anything out of the ordinary that needs to be shared?"

"They were all just as I would expect, to be frank." I shrugged, trying to think what I could add. Be helpful. "I'm not surprised that Deb was nervous- she's such a.... pure, innocent girl. I think all of this must be quite disturbing for her, especially to feel like she's a suspect."

Simpson nodded encouragingly. I bit my thumb, as I often do when trying to think.

"Rodrigo.... he's a great guy. So much fun, so much life." I really envy him in that, I thought darkly. "He seemed normal, I don't think he's scared at all. I can't imagine he would ever steal. But.... well.... I don't know him as well as Deb, you know? I don't feel I can give a confident judgement about him. But I don't think.... I mean..... what do you think? It's all a big mess to me. Can't you just tell me Dad that the money's gone, he should forget about it?"

I sighed and fiddled with my bracelet. White gold, a single perfect emerald. "It's spare change anyway," I said.