Chapter 6: Mirror Reflections
The steam from the shower wrapped around them like a second skin, smudging the reflection in the vintage mirror into a watercolor impression of entangled limbs. Channah slumped against Ryan’s chest, her back to him, her red hair darkened to a deep auburn and clinging to her wet shoulders. The hot water pounded against her breasts, streaming down the valley between them, washing away the last visible traces of their filth.
His hands, large and adorned with intricate ink, moved slowly over the curve of her stomach, slippery with soap. There was no urgency now, only a primal stillness. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, his lips, still swollen from their passion, brushing her damp skin. “I feel like I could sleep for a week,” he murmured, his voice rough with spent exertion.
She chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against him. “Speak for yourself. My ass feels like you rearranged my internal organs.”
“I might have.” He squeezed her tighter, one hand drifting lower, fingertips grazing the soft, wet hair between her legs. She flinched, a jolt of oversensitive nerve endings. “Sore?”
“Exquisitely,” she sighed, leaning her head back against him. The warmth of the water and the solid comfort of his body were a balm. For a few precious minutes, the world was confined to the four tiles of this shower stall. The text message, the camera, the mess in the office—it all existed in another universe.
Eventually, the water began to cool. They stepped out onto the plush bath mat, drying each other with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the violence of their earlier coupling. He patted her down with a soft towel, carefully dabbing at the red marks his stubble had left on her inner thighs. She returned the favor, tracing the lines of a tattoo that snaked across his shoulder blade, a complex design she knew held meanings he’d only hinted at.
Wrapped in robes, they ventured back into the office. The air still hung heavy with the musk of sex. The desk was a disaster zone of spilled files and toppled knick-knacks. Ryan righted the chair while Channah began gathering papers, her movements slow, languid.
Her phone, facedown on the floor where it had fallen, lit up again. A second notification.
Ryan saw it too. His posture straightened, the domestic spell broken. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know.” The lie came too easily. She bent to pick it up, her heart suddenly drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The screen showed another message from the same unknown number.
Unknown: Did you like my present? The one I left you years ago? It’s still there. In the desk.
Her blood ran cold. She stared at the words, the letters blurring. The desk.
“Channah? What is it?” Ryan’s voice was closer now, laced with concern.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked stiffly to her desk, the centerpiece of so much recent chaos. It was an old, heavy piece of furniture, bought secondhand when she’d first opened her practice. She’d always loved the hidden compartment, a small, useless little drawer that slid out from underneath the main writing surface. A secret spot for… she didn’t know what. She’d never used it.
Her fingers, suddenly clumsy, found the nearly invisible seam. She pressed. A thin, shallow drawer slid silently open.
Inside, resting on the bare wood, was a single, faded photograph.
It was crumpled, as if it had been balled up and smoothed out again. The image was dim, but unmistakable. A younger her, maybe early twenties, her face contorted in a very different kind of ecstasy. And a man, his face pressed between her legs, his features obscured by shadow and the angle, but his build, the shape of his head… it wasn’t Ryan.
Written on the back in a faded, familiar scrawl were two words: Property of… The rest was torn away.
A wave of nausea washed over her. This was from a lifetime ago, a bad chapter she’d tried to burn. Someone had not only kept a trophy, they had hidden it in the very sanctum of her new life. They had been here. In her office. Touching her things.
“What the fuck is that?” Ryan whispered, looking over her shoulder. His relaxed demeanor vanished, replaced by a stone-cold stillness.
She couldn’t speak. She just handed him the photo. He took it, his jaw tightening as he studied it. The air in the room went from post-coital warmth to an Arctic Chill.
“Who took this?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.
“I… I don’t know.” This time, it was the truth. The memory was a fog of beer, cheap perfume, and regrettable choices. “It was a party. College. It was supposed to be destroyed.”
Ryan’s eyes, usually so warm and teasing, were chips of flint. He looked from the photo to her face, then back to the photograph. “This wasn’t just found. This was planted. That text…” He picked up her phone, his thumb scrolling. “ ‘Saw the video.’ They saw us. And now this.” He held up the crumpled photo. “This is a threat.”
The word hung in the air, ugly and final. The erotic haven of her office now felt violated, the scene of their passion transformed into a crime scene. The camera bag by the door seemed to mock them.
Ryan crumpled the photo in his fist. “We need to find out who this number belongs to. Now.”
But Channah was no longer looking at the phone or the photo. Her gaze was fixed on the darkest corner of the room, near the baseboard. Something small and dark was nestled there, almost invisible against the wood. It wasn’t a part of the room she ever looked at. A tiny, unblinking red eye stared back at her.
It wasn’t just the desk. They had been watched. They were still being watched.