“Do you need a hand?”
“No, no,” I said, shifting the weight from one arm to the other, not even bothering to stop. The automatic door was a yard away, less. My car was idling outside. “I got it.”
“Here, let me help you.”
I heard footsteps running behind me; felt the weight lifted slightly as his arm snaked between mine.
“Good God,” he grunted. “What do you have in here?”
“Books, mostly.” I pushed a strand of sweaty hair from my forehead as he lifted the box from my grip. And that was the first glimpse I got of his face—blonde hair and lashes to match, teeth that were the product of expensive adolescent orthodontia and maybe a bleaching treatment or two. I could see his biceps bulging through his light blue button-up as he hoisted my life into the air and balanced it on his shoulder.
“You get fired?”
My neck snapped in his direction; I opened my mouth, ready to set him straight, until he glanced my way and I saw his expression. His tender eyes, the way they seemed to soften as he took in my face, scanning his way from top to bottom. He stared at me as though he were staring at an old friend, his pupils flickering over my skin, searching for a trace of familiarity in my features. His lips curled into a knowing grin.
“I’m just kidding,” he said, turning his attention back to the box. “You look too happy to have been fired. Besides, wouldn’t there be some guards escorting you out by the armpits before throwing you down on the pavement? Isn’t that how it works?”
I smiled, let out a laugh. We were in the parking lot then, and he placed the box on the roof of my car before crossing his arms and turning toward me.
“I quit,” I said, the words settling over me with a finality that, for a second, almost made me burst into tears. Baton Rouge General had been my first job; my only job. My coworker, Shannon, had become my closest friend. “Today was my last day.”
“Well, congratulations,” he said. “Where to next?”
“I’m starting my own practice. I’m a medical psychologist.”
He whistled, poking his head into the box on my car. Something caught his eye and he twisted his head distractedly, leaning in to pick up one of the books.
“Got a thing for murder?” he asked, inspecting the cover.
My chest constricted as my eyes darted to the box. I remembered, in that moment, that situated next to all of my psychology textbooks were piles of true-crime titles: The Devil in the White City, In Cold Blood, The Monster of Florence. But unlike most people, I didn’t read them for entertainment. I read them for study. I read them to try to understand, to dissect all the different people who take lives for a living, devouring their stories on the page almost as if they were my patients, leaning back in that leather recliner, whispering their secrets into my ear.
“I guess you could say that.”
“No judgment,” he added, twisting the book in his hands around so I could see the cover—Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—before flipping it open and starting to thumb the pages. “I love this book.”
I smiled politely, unsure of how to respond.
“I really should be going,” I said instead, motioning to my car and offering my hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“The pleasure was mine, Doctor…？”
“Davis,” I said. “Chloe Davis.”
“Well, Doctor Chloe Davis, if you ever need to move any more boxes…” He dug into his back pocket, fishing out his wallet before pulling out a business card and pushing it into the open pages. He flipped the book closed and thrust it in my direction. “You know where to find me.”
He smiled at me, winking in my direction before turning around and walking back into the building. When the automatic doors closed behind him, I looked down at the book in my hands, running my fingers against the glossy cover. There was a tiny gap in the pages where his business card lay wedged and I stuck my nail into the crack, flipping it back open. I looked down, feeling a foreign twist in my chest as my eyes scanned his name.
Somehow, I knew that wasn’t the last time I would be seeing Daniel Briggs.
CHAPTER FIVE
I excuse myself from Shannon and Daniel and slip outside through the sliding door. My mind is spinning by the time I make it to the back porch, my hand clutching my fourth variety of alcoholic beverage. The endless small talk is buzzing in my ears, the bottle of wine I’ve polished off buzzing in my brain. It’s still muggy outside, but the breeze is refreshing. The house was getting stuffy with the drunken body heat of forty people bouncing off the walls.