Karen Rose - I Can See You

Eve guided her own avatar through the virtual dancers, searching for the ones she’d come to find. Her heart sank when, once again, she saw Desiree’s corner table. Empty .

She moved to the next “red-zone” case-slinky, sexy Gwenivere, aka Christy Lewis, real-world secretary by day, dancer extraordinaire by night. Hours and hours every night and lately, during the day as well. Christy had been escaping into the game from her computer at work. Christy had confessed it last week, on one of her frequent visits to Pandora’s shop. If her boss found out, Christy Lewis would be fired.

Eve did not want that on her head. She was worried enough about Martha Brisbane. Martha’s Desiree had been a regular both at Ninth Circle and at Pandora’s Façades Face Emporium, Eve’s virtual avatar shop. Desiree had come every week to check Eve’s inventory of “Ready-to-Walk” avatars as well as her assorted mix-and-match body parts. Martha had upgraded her avatar’s face six times in the last three months.

Up until a week ago, Martha Brisbane had been a resident of Shadowland an average of eighteen hours a day. Eighteen . Considering the woman had to sleep sometime, that didn’t leave much time for anything else. Martha was an ultra-user, one of the many who comprised the negative control group of Eve’s study.

They’d had so many applicants they’d had to turn gamers away. Too many people lived their lives in Shadowland. Like I did , Eve thought. She desperately wanted to bring those people back to the real world. Into the sunlight. Like I did.

Hey, honey, can I buy you a drink ?

Eve stopped scanning the crowd and frowned at the message at the bottom of her screen. She maneuvered her camera, staring into a nice face. Quality merchandise, if she did say so herself, and she did. She had, after all, designed it herself.

But the gamer wouldn’t know that. Tonight she wasn’t Pandora, the avatar designer who only hung out at Façades. Tonight she was her new character, Greer, the private investigator. Tonight Greer was searching for Christy Lewis and had no time to play.

Sorry, but I’m not interested , she typed back.

Then why are you here? he asked logically. This was, after all, the place to hook up.

Really not interested. Good night , she typed. She turned away and resumed scanning the crowd, hoping rudeness was a language he better understood.

Ah, there she was, Gwenivere, aka Christy Lewis. Christy was five-two, and while her real-world face was pleasant, she wasn’t gorgeous. Not true for Gwenivere, a six-foot blonde with a very expensive face. One of Eve’s, or Pandora’s, finest designs.

Gwenivere was dancing with a very handsome avatar, one of Claudio’s designs. Claudio was the best. Which was fine. Eve had started Pandora’s Façades to observe her subjects without them knowing she did so.

Without anyone knowing she did so. Especially Dr. Donner, her graduate advisor.

She winced. If Donner found out… That didn’t even bear consideration because if it ever happened, all her research would be nullified. She would probably be kicked out of the grad program. Expelled from Marshall University. And that could not happen. She’d worked too hard to come into the sunlight, to establish a real life for herself.

But at what cost? She’d believed in this research when she first started.

Now… Now she wasn’t so sure. But that wasn’t something she could resolve tonight. Christy was okay, flirting as usual. Eve had five more red-zone cases, three here in the Ninth Circle bar. Two others hung out in the Casino Royale, dancing and playing poker. She’d check up on them, then get busy on her Abnormal paper, the topic of which was the pathology of serial killers.

Eve flinched when she realized she was tracing the scar that she could now barely see, but still couldn’t feel. She didn’t need to research. She had all the background any professor could ever want. It was always in her mind, that voice that still taunted. It was, after five years, eleven months, and seven days, still written on her face.

Sunday, February 21, 11:55 p.m.

Noah locked his front door, worn. He and Jack had spent an hour going over the missed homicide, trying to glean any detail that would connect her to Martha Brisbane but so far, nothing. The two were connected in the most obvious way, of course. They’d been killed in the same exact way. But why? And who? And why those two women?

Then he and Jack read months of suicide reports, praying there would be no similar scenes. They’d found none, but after reading all of those accounts of suicide, Noah’s relief was mixed with sadness and a feeling of hopelessness he was finding difficult to shake. There but for the grace of God , he’d thought more than once.

He sat wearily on his bed. Jack had no understanding, no compassion for those who’d taken their own lives. But I do. I understand all too well.

One night, ten years ago, he’d been so close… He’d been sitting right here on the edge of his bed, his revolver in one hand, their picture in the other.

His eyes strayed to their picture on his nightstand, the frame worn smooth by years of rubbing. The boy was only two and looked just like the woman who held him. A woman who, twelve long years later, could still make him wish for just one more day. If only .

It hadn’t been twelve years the night he’d decided to end it. It had only been two years since the night his car spun out of control, taking his world with it. Two years that he’d sunk deep into the darkness and crawled deeper into a bottle.

He’d been drunk that night he’d held his gun in his hand. Almost drunk enough to pull the trigger and end the pain that never seemed to fade. But he hadn’t been quite drunk enough. It had been Brock that he’d called, Brock who’d come, Brock who’d dragged his ass to AA. Brock who’d saved his godforsaken life.

Ten years , Noah thought. Sober for ten years . But there were times, unguarded moments when the pain still speared deep. Tonight was one of those times.

It was no longer grief as much as loneliness. The house was so quiet. Too quiet. Brock had Trina and the kids. What do I have? Or who?

He picked up the novel he kept next to his bed for nights he couldn’t sleep, pulled out the glossy postcard he’d shoved between the pages. It was Sal’s holiday card. Sal and Josie stood in the middle, surrounded by all their employees. Sal’s arm was solidly around Eve’s shoulders, as if holding her in place for the picture. Her lips curved in her little sideways smile, but her dark eyes were serious. Too serious.

Eve had drawn him the moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he’d convinced himself to approach her a million times. But in the end it was his own voice he heard. Hi, I’m Noah, and I’m an alcoholic . It was a hell of a burden to ask any woman to share.

Anyone with eyes could see that Eve bore her own burdens. There was no way he’d add his to her shoulders. His heart heavy, he put Sal’s holiday card in his drawer.

Tonight, after reading all those suicide accounts, he’d wanted a drink so goddamn bad… If he’d had any booze in the house, he’d be halfway to drunk this very moment. If the craving got any worse, he’d be calling Brock for a midnight workout. A few rounds in the boxing ring usually got him through the worst of it.

Somehow Eve didn’t strike him as much of a boxer. He thought of her slender hands and the pain in her eyes every time she lifted a heavy pitcher to the bar. A million times he’d nearly jumped out of his chair at Sal’s and done the lifting for her, but he hadn’t. Because along with her pain was a determination, and then satisfaction that she’d done it. Determination and satisfaction, he understood.