02. Houses Like Me

<b>This chapter touches on topics of sexual harassment and predatory tendencies.</b>

<b>VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED</b>

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<b><span><i>02 | Houses Like Me</i></span></b>

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San Francisco's humidity streams along my bare forearms as I shove open the department's front doors. I pause along the sidewalk, taking in the view of the warm afternoon on the block and pass through the otherwise empty carlot in search of my ride.

The sun beats down heavily through the limbs of great palms. Humid winds hitting my neck, I pull out a tie and let my hair hang loosely as it sways with the day's wind.

Mother's old model S tesla rests between the edge of the bustling street and a conventional black SUV, gleaming silent but proud.

This beaut was one of the few things I decided to keep during the financial war after their death. My previous auto had long since lent the last of its strength, more of a pain-in-the-ass than anything else in its last two years. Faintly painted and sputtering to life each morning.

Don't get me wrong, it was a wonderful first ride. The joy of my life, as I had named her. The two of us had been through a lot, but all things go to waste, and it was her time to go.

I stop to lean over the front of the hood, swiping at a fallen branch. Six years ago, since I would find myself walking home after the shop's hours because the engine had quit on me. Again.

Six years since I'd set about making promises to Father as he drove me around the city so he could find that piece of junk.

He was always muttering loudly, if not louder, than the juiced-out engine itself. But he always had a smile on his face.

Dusting my blazer with a pair of slim and twisted fingers, I set about unfolding the sleeves and wringing myself out of the coat-jacket for a breath of hot air. Then the reflection of a still-minded girl catches my attention on the window.

Bright green eyes and a forward-faced nose stares back at me. Unruly brown hair cascades down my back, now damp with sweat. No longer severe-cut and short as I had been for years, but tall, and rather slim.

I lean in, strands of hair falling forward as I poke at my cheek, scrutinizing a thin face. It was clear: I'd lost some weight. And if one looked, they would find drooping eyelids over each glass-eyed socket.

I shake my head in disgust. Sucking in a breath, I shift the stack of unfiled paperwork and empty take-out up against my shoulder for support, and reach for the door handle with a wince.

It's a struggle to fit everything onto the passenger seat, and I find myself hissing as files creep their way to the dusty floor.

The door finally shuts and as it's seals close, I rub out another deep knot in my shoulders. A low chuckle trickles into an uproar as I shift the gears to Mother's tesla, bringing her ride back to life.

Raking a hand along my itchy scalp, my fingers snag up my hair into a knot, letting it fall.

Facts and witness opinions about this morning's phone call rings loud as I pull out of the car-lot. Although the man played it off fairly well, one could tell Mr. Phillips was keeping information from the department's case on file.

I knew Orval Weaver wasn't as innocent as Mr. Phillips tried making him out to be.

On the list of charges, Orval had been recorded as deceitful and cunning. His ability to persuade nearby positioning guards was actually quite fascinating. The boy received charges during two separate cases—one the result of thievery on guns and nearby weaponry stores.

He declared catastrophe among a group of uninvolved grocers, and claimed he'd been preparing for an invasion of some kind. He was sent to prison, one with that of a mental facility center. To my surprise, the boy was later confirmed free of any mental impairments within the stage of the day, and sent home with one-month house arrest.

Later he was confronted and tried for assault, so swiftly placed back in prison it was almost impossible to catch the mention in the records. Almost. He was charged with battery assault.

Days later—tired of the continual run-ins with police or so I would guess—Orval labeled himself dangerous.

That night his body was found hanging from a knotted sheet, pale toes dangling loosely above the worn concrete.

A flashing red light strikes the windshield, dragging my focus onto the road. A bolts-rusted, engine-blaring semi rolls down the side window, and a man with teeth yellowed shouts something, feigning arrogance.

Unable to hear their curses over the loud rumbling, I reach over the consul for my phone, connect it to the mapping systems of the Tesla and pull up an address.

The directions glow on the screen as I follow the lighted instructions, turning off the highway, merging with the flow of mid-day traffic. The blur of railings and brightly colored billboards slows into scathing pedestrians milling about and faded graffiti as I cross into Bayview territory.

I park on the curbside just outside a client's house address, gathering up a few papers and a more composed version of myself.

Straightening sleeve cuffs, I creep open the driver-side door, stepping out into the sun-barren streets. The veranda sends a clean and classy mood as I make my way up the steps.

I raise my hand to knock as the front door swings open, revealing a clean-cut man in a navy tailored suit. Our eyes meet and he takes a step back, tilting his head, mousy brown hair falling over bright eyes.

"Hello, Haris," I say, pulling my arms up against the cool breeze.

He smiles, eyes twinkling in the sunlight. "Welcome, Ms. Meyers. Feel free to make yourself comfortable, or as one wishes."

My lips fall back into a wry smile as Harris shuffles back a step to prop the door open, fitting himself snugly along the back wall. Eyes strain as I take in the sights of the room against the dark masking of the place.

A prickling sensation flows along my dampened skin and shivers its way past when he places a hand on my lower back for just a moment as I walk by.

Then the room before me brightens.

No longer hidden are the ornamented stone-cut lionesses guarding the front entrance. Cherry oak floor lamps sit respectively in their corners, dazzling lights prancing along the walls and priceless vases scattered around the base of the room.

Nearby candles reek of expensive perfume and an incentivised portrait labeled The Naked Lady garnishes the mantelpiece above a roaring flame.

These damn feminists, I think to myself. As I stand between the living-room and one of the many hallways, I let my eyes wander freely, taking in the sight of delicate scenery surrounding me.

"Enjoying yourself?" Asks a voice from behind.

I turn on my heel sharply to face Mr. Harris, jumping back and smacking into the side of the wall. My breathing hiccups, a frown playing on my face in disgust.

I place a shaking hand to the beating of my heart and shake my head. "I appreciate you letting me into your home, Mr. Harris, but please. Do not scare me."

I raise my eyes respectfully in time to catch Harris's gaze drop. "Apologies, Missus Meyer. I meant no harm in the question."

"Oh, of course not," I say, forcing a grin. Tension burrows itself along the bridge of my nose, and I sigh in preparation. I set to flattening out the wrinkles on my trousers before standing straight with a start.

"Where would you like us to begin?"

- — * — -

The aura of the room falls between dim-witted and immaculate. Few bookcases filled with agency contact information and filed clients services.

I seat myself in one of two patched, leather-trimmed armchairs, and pick up a recently crumpled receipt. On the back it reads:

I'll be over Thursday night at eight.

Till then, xoxo Amy.

Never have I witnessed such altruistic tendencies from a law firm company manager.

If it were up to me, his new law firm would have been introduced as the Pansy-Pushover. I would have pleaded his case strictly profitable and under the order of re-facilitating his own receipts of good service.

Good God Almighty couldn't keep me from the pain of his tomorrow if only I were allowed a moment to—

Footsteps ring against stained wood slabs as Mr. Harris, walks into the room, shutting down rampant thoughts.

Harris stands behind the streaked coffee table, carefully placing two cool glasses of putrid green, sweet-smelling juice. His eyes meet mine and he reaches for one of the tumblers, handing me a drink.

"A Fresh kiwi-honeydew concoction I had made this morning," He said. "Left it in the fridge for a few hours to chill, it should be good now."

I nod my approval, peering into the glass for a moment. Mr. Harris watches intently, tipping me off to take a drink with his fingers, flicking them in the air at me.

I close my eyes and take a hard swallow.

The slush and crushed seeds hold a tangy, savoring flavor as it glides down the back of my throat. A surprisingly bitter aftermath, and I clench my teeth. I set the cool glass down, and Mr. Harris smiles.

"I'm so glad you were able to make it," He says, placing his own drink down on a blackened coaster.

"Honestly, I've been waiting four days—three days, sorry—for someone to come take my statement." I scoot farther back in the chair, resting my forearms on the ledge, wrapping one leg over the other for comfort. "I was starting to think you people didn't need me anymore—"

"Oh, but we do!" I say sweetly. "The board needs your statement, I promise you. Our department has just been busy, recently."

Mr. Harris perks up. "Busy, you say?"

I nod, a smile plastered in glue and duct-tape. "Yes, very busy. I only just got away from my desk to see you."

Mr. Harris watches me for a moment, calculating. Then he smiles.

"If I'm honest," He says slowly, shifting his gaze on a set of unopened letters thrown on the coffee table nearby. "I was wondering if you would have caught him by now."

"Caught who?" I ask curiously.

He chuckles. "The culprit of your case, Miss."

I watch curiously as he picks one of the letters up, pressing it firmly between his index and forefinger, twirling it within his grasp.

His head snaps up. "You caught them, haven't you? The man who did this, I mean."

"No," I respond quickly, eyeing him. "We have not."

"That is unfortunate." He says softly, and I almost believed him. Almost.

Stephen C. Harris; age thirty-four, forever un-tainted with countless acts of harassment and failed rape charges. Also known as the man seated before me.

"So then, Miss Meyers," He starts, standing up and walking around the room carefully. His arm grazes the part of my back unprotected by the backrest of his couch, before sitting down in the armchair right across from me.

"What do I owe such a pretty lady like yourself for stopping by my home?"

His eyes cradle a sensual look as he watches me closely. I try to gather my composure.

"I'm here, actually, on account that there have been quite a few reports, with a lot to say about you." I say with a biting tone, hoping to spite him.

The look in Mr. Harris' eyes vanish, replaced with an indifferent gaze. "Yes... I'm quite aware of those. But, as of this moment, you have no evidence to accuse me for any such actions."

Mr. Harris leans forward in his seat and stares at me, searching me for what seems like forever. "I know who you are."

Suddenly feeling the urge to leave causes me to tightly grip the sides of the couch. I glare at him, remembering why I'm here. "You're not nearly as discreet as you may think you are, Mr. Harris."

Pausing for only a moment, he sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a very serious business manner. "Oh, Darling... I've never tried to hide who I am."

The sudden boisterousness of his voice brings a sting to the back of my eyes, and acid pushes itself to sit in the back of my throat.

"...It's just that no one has disagreed with my ways of persuasion." He finishes, his smirk melting into a sly smile.

The arrogance of this man makes me feel more self-conscious than I already am. "It's one of my best qualities." He adds mischievously.

I stand, unable to sit beneath his lustful gaze.

"That's not what I've heard from many young women." I reply coldly, his piercing gaze holding onto mine.

I refuse to show the man how scared I am, forcing my lungs to expand and contract.

I wince. "I have quite the handful of reports that suggest you be put somewhere where your persuasion can be subdued, Mr. Harris. I will not let you continue to live high and free, harming innocent girls."

He shouts. "Harming them? I give them the kind of satisfaction that no one else can!"

As Mr. Harris suggests this, I look down to see the man unconsciously rubs the bulge in his trousers.

I pinch my nose to keep it from scrunching in disgust. "Why did it feel as though I knew you'd say that?"

Mr. Harris frowns as I turn to face the streets.

Where are they?

As if on cue, sirens blare loudly as Lincoln's force teams rushes up to the curbside. I glance back at Harris, who sits stoically, looking from the front door to me.

His facial features begin to change, his brows furrowing in confusion. Then, slowly, comes the realization.

Harris stands up suddenly, his eyes searching.

He bolts for the back door, and my body jumps up after him before my brain realizes what's happening. A cloudy mess of frustration, surprise, and admiration.

He really believed he could make it.

As he turns down the hall, I reach out for the cuff of Harris's shirt. Gripping down hard, the fabric rips but holds enough for me to pull him back.

As he falls, his left foot snags on a side-end table, catching in the legs. Harris strikes out his palm against the blunt force of the fall, but before he can regain his footing, I've pinned him to the ground.

I pin his arms behind him, kneeing the back of his head to the floor. My heel clicks on the hardwood as I do my best to detain his flailing feet, accidentally stepping on his ankle.

He curses in pain, and I shove his face into the floor to keep him from wriggling his strong body free.

"Well, well." He mutters. I imagine his lips brushing the cool flooring, collecting dust. "More guts than I'd've thought."

Mr. Harris attempts to forcefully curl his lips into a smile before giving up and attempting to slam me into the wall.

I grab the back of his neck with a fistful of hair, shoving his face down."Nervous?" I say sarcastically, an amused smile playing on my lips.

This time, when his smile returns, it bursts with satisfaction, making me sick. "Not at all."

When the police department opens the door to find us two inside, he laughs.

Lincoln's men barge into the house from the front door, stopping when they see the two of us on the floor.

My head spins as I take a stand, facing the wall to vomit on the cherry-oak stained wood.