Chapter 1: Down Memory Lane
The light over Agatha’s sofa was a warm, focused pool in the otherwise dark apartment. A single glass of cabernet sat half-forgotten on the coaster beside her, its surface catching the glow. Pages of a witness briefing were spread across her lap, the dense legalese a familiar puzzle. Her reading glasses, sleek and modern, were perched low on her nose. She highlighted a contradictory statement with a precise yellow stroke, the soft scratch of the marker the only sound.
Her phone buzzed against the cushion. Once. Then, a second later, again.
She didn’t glance over immediately. This was her time, the quiet hour after work where she compartmentalized the world into facts and arguments. The third buzz held a different, more insistent quality. With a quiet sigh, she put the cap on the highlighter and picked up the phone.
A preview from Rio lit up the screen: Rowen’s hands are getting very close to groping territory. I’m not sober enough for this, Ags.
Agatha’s eyebrows drew together. She could picture it instantly: the noisy college reunion bar, Rio in some vibrant, flowing top, that luminous smile starting to tighten at the edges. Rowen had always been handsy, even back then. A possessive, cloying type of friendship Rio was too polite to violently sever.
Agatha didn’t reply. She took a slow sip of wine, the tannins bitter on her tongue. She watched the three dancing dots appear on the screen.
A new message appeared. I don’t need you to come rescue me. I just need you to know I’m uncomfortable.
The words were a key turning in a lock. I don’t need you to come rescue me. It was Rio all over—bratty, independent, and yet secretly broadcasting her coordinates. I just need you to know. That was the heart of it. That was the silent, screaming request.
Agatha was moving before the thought fully formed. The briefing sheets were swept into a neat folio. The wineglass was carried to the sink, rinsed with a quick, efficient twist of the wrist. Reading glasses folded, placed in their case. Her purse was by the door, her keys already in the ceramic bowl beside it.
She didn’t change out of her soft linen trousers or her simple tank top. She just shoved her feet into flat leather slides and was out the door, the lock clicking shut with a final sound. The hallway lights were harsh, a jarring shift from her warm pool of lamplight.
Her car, a sensible sedan, felt like a cockpit. The engine purred to life. She backed out of her parking spot with smooth, practiced movements. The digital clock glowed 10:47 PM.
She didn’t speed. Agatha never sped. But every stoplight was an agonizing pause, every slower car in front of her a minor affront to logic. Her hands rested at ten and two on the wheel. She didn’t turn on the radio. The silence was filled with imagined snippets: Rio’s laugh, a little too high; Rowen’s wheedling voice saying ”Oh, come on, we’re all friends here!”; the clink of ice in a glass that was no longer refreshing.
She navigated the downtown streets, the neon signs of bars and restaurants smearing color across her windshield. She found a spot two blocks from The Grotto, the bar Rio had mentioned earlier. The pavement was still warm from the day’s heat, and the night air carried the mingled scents of fried food and spilled beer.
Pushing through the heavy door was like entering a wall of sound—bass, laughter, the shriek of a blender. Strobing lights cut through a haze of vapor. Agatha’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the crowd. She didn’t belong here, in her quiet clothes and her calm demeanor. She was a slice of silence moving through the noise.
She spotted them in a curved booth at the back. Rowen, her face animated, was indeed wedged too close to Rio. One arm was slung along the back of the booth behind Rio’s shoulders, fingers perilously close to touching bare skin. Rio was leaning forward, away from the contact, nodding at something another friend was saying, but the usual easy grace of her posture was gone. It was rigid, a slight tilt of evasion.
Agatha didn’t stride over. She wove, a slow, deliberate path, until she was at the side of the table. Rio looked up first. A wash of relief, so profound it momentarily erased her flirty bravado, flooded her features. Her smile became real, reaching her eyes.
“Agatha!” Rio exclaimed, the name a happy exhalation. “You’re out! I thought you were buried in briefs.”
“I was,” Agatha said, her voice calm and clear, cutting through the bar din. She gave a small, polite smile to the table at large, her gaze lingering just a second too long on Rowen’s proprietary arm. “Needed a break. Mind if I steal her for a second? I’ve got a floral emergency that simply can’t wait.”
It was a ridiculous, perfect lie. A Rio-esque reason. A floral emergency.
Rio was already sliding out, deftly avoiding Rowen’s descending hand. “A crisis with the peonies? I told you that supplier was shady.” She linked her arm through Agatha’s, the contact firm and grounding. “Guys, duty calls. This was so fun! Let’s not wait another five years, okay?”
There were drunken protests, promises to text, and Rowen’s narrowed, assessing look. Agatha met it with a bland, impersonal smile, all polite angles. Then she was turning, guiding Rio through the crowd, a steady current pulling her out to sea.
The night air was a shock, clean and cool. Rio leaned into her, a slight unsteadiness in her step. “You didn’t have to do the whole ‘emergency’ bit,” Rio murmured, her head dropping against Agatha’s shoulder. “You could have just glowered. Your glower is very effective.”
“You texted me coordinates,” Agatha said simply, opening the passenger door.
“I texted you a status update.” Rio slid into the seat, the vibrant colors of her dress a splash against the grey interior. “There’s a difference.”
Agatha shut the door, walked around, and got in. She started the car. The quiet was immense. “What’s the difference?”
Rio looked out the window, her reflection visible in the glass. “A status update is just information. You choose what to do with it.”
“And what did you want me to do with it?”
Rio was quiet for a long moment. The city lights slid across her face. “Exactly what you did,” she said finally, her voice soft. “Know. And then choose to come anyway.”
Agatha put the car in drive. She didn’t ask for the address. She just headed toward the river, toward the part of town where the streets were quieter and the old buildings housed things like flower shops and apartments with mismatched lamps. The momentum of the night had shifted, the frantic energy of the bar replaced by the steady hum of the engine, a new and quieter tension threading the space between them in the dark, moving car.