Chapter Text
Emma pushes the frightened balding man down into a polished hardwood chair, gripping his shoulders as she forces him to face her employer. Sitting across from them, a lanky platinum-blond man leans forward. He looks like any bachelor one might find living in a trailer park: lean with his hair buzzed short and his arms on full display in a white tanktop. Unlike most of his people, Jared “Minor” Callahan sports no tattoos or prominent scars, has no record, and isn’t well known by local law enforcement. He is, however, known by every local business owner.
Emma’s mark, Gabriel, squirms nervously in her grip. Her fingers are damp with his perspiration, even through his crew cut shirt, and she has to resist the urge to wipe them on her crimson dress. A broad shouldered woman stands at the back of the room, subtly blocking the exit to the office. The building they’re in, formerly a brewery, has been for sale for nearly six years now - but no one’s foolish enough to buy it. So it sits, presumed empty by passer-bys, while Jared and his people conduct their business in peace.
Only after Gabriel’s stewed in his anxiety for several minutes does Jared finally release the man from his gaze and address Emma. “That was fast, even for you.”
Emma rolls her eyes, “Apparently his plan was to abandon his kids without a word and go into hiding - until a cute girl matched him on tinder. He even paid for the meal with his credit card. Easiest job I’ve had in years.”
Jared snickers and offers Emma his hand which she clasps in a firm grip. “Ah, nothing helps a man overcome his fear like a blonde in a low cut dress.” He then nods towards his bodyguard, “Irene, throw in an extra 10% for her haste and let Ms. Fisher be on her way. I’m sure we’ve wasted enough of her Saturday as it is.”
Emma tightens her grip in acknowledgement before releasing Jared’s hand and turning towards the door, ready to be out of this ridiculous evening wear and back in her familiar denim. Before she’s taken two steps, however, Gabriel calls out in panic, “Wait, Miss, you can’t leave me alone with Minor. You don’t know what he’s going to do to me. I have two sons, please!”
Emma turns on the ball of her foot, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. “I’m more concerned with what he’s going to do to me.” She accepts the thick envelope from Irene and lofts it above her head, “Pay my rent. Your sons will be fine. Child Protective Services already picked them up, they will find the boys a new home.”
Gabriel glowers and takes a potshot at one of the few real things Emma had shared during their date: “Like they found you a home? How can you condemn children to the life you live?”
Keeping her face unaffected, neutral, Emma shrugs. She turns back to the door, Irene graciously allowing her to pass. Stopping in the door frame, Emma says, “Not my responsibility. It's their dad’s, who should have stuck around and done a better job of protecting them. Good evening, Gabriel.”
The thick door muffles Gabriel’s response. It was a sign of great respect that Emma is allowed to find her own way out of the building, no chaperone keeping her away from the rooms she’s not meant to see, no lookout making sure she waits until the street empties before she slips back out into the chill evening air. She’s earned their trust, and it keeps her life comfortable, stable, and safe. Three things that have taken Emma decades to find. Three things she can’t imagine letting go of for anyone or anything.
Gabriel’s last words echo in her head as she clacks down the sidewalk in her uncharacteristic red heels. She remembers the shock and despair on the boys’ faces as CPS had herded them into the car. She imagines them in any of the homes she’d been condemned to, and in her mind’s eye their faces morph, taking on a mix of her and Neal’s features. “No,” she hisses to herself, putting all her weight on the blister forming on her left foot, letting the pain wash away the image. “Not my responsibility.” She looks down at herself then up at the littered city streets, addicts and the homeless finding shelter together on the stoops of businesses already closed for the evening. “This is no life for a child,” Emma reminds herself, trying to soothe the acid eating her up inside. “Most are luckier than me.”
She wishes she was as cold as people accused her of being. Maybe then she could be more than just comfortable. But happiness wasn't for people like her. She’d learned that a long time ago.
As Emma passes an alleyway, she hears a whimpered cry. She doesn't react, but stops just past the corner and cocks her ear to listen. One high voice, shrill and frightened. Two low voices, authoritative and dispassionate. She ought to walk away. Not her business.
Instead, she leans against the wall and pulls out a cigarette. Her ears strain as she takes her first drag, letting the smoke slip silently from her lips. “Please,” she hears a woman say, “I’ve nowhere else to go, this is my home!”
She can't parse what the man responds, but something clatters and the woman shrieks over the sound of fabric tearing. “Stop, please!”
Emma risks peeking around the corner. Huddled in the dark, two cops leer over a homeless woman Emma's own age who’s holding the tattered remains of a thin airplane blanket. Emma's never flown, but she knows the type from one particularly stingy foster home. The taller cop says, “You cannot loiter here, it's a crime. Now I suggest you move along or we’ll have to take you in.”
Emma realizes with a jolt that she knows the woman. The name escapes her, but she recognizes the black hair and sharp face, even grown as she is. They bunked together for nearly eleven months once upon a time, before the girl had been fostered and Emma had watched her drive away with her new family from the window.
The woman asks, “Where am I supposed to go? The shelters are all full for the night.”
The second cop taps his nightstick against his thigh and warns, “We can always find a place for you in the drunk tank.”
The familiar woman shakes her head emphatically and moves to collect her things, “No! No, I’ll go, I’m sorry, Officer.”
A rap of the nightstick against her knuckles extracts a pained hiss from the woman and forces her to drop the bag she’d been packing. The taller officer says, “Leave the sleeping bag and backpack here.”
The woman's mouth works frantically. Clutching her swelling knuckles to her chest, she exclaims indignantly, “They're my things, you can't just take them! I know my rights.”
The officer jabs his stick in her chest, forcing her to backpedal in order not to fall. “You got a receipt for all this, lady?”
“A receipt?” She glances between the partners, clearly confused. “I’ve owned all of this since I was 18, of course I don't have the receipts anymore.”
The shorter officer picks up the bag while his partner explains, “Then we have to assume it's stolen. The sports shop down the street got robbed just last night. We won't charge you for it so long as you return the goods.”
“No!” The woman starts to cry and makes to grab the bag. “The lucky coin my birth mother left me is in there, give it back! It’s all I have of her!”
As soon as her fingers brush those of the officer, his partner shoves her to the ground. “She reached for your firearm,” he shouts while taking control of her arms. “Officer Therriault, help me restrain her!”
The officer named Therriault leaps into action, kneeling across her legs. “Stop resisting!” he shouts, even as the woman protests her innocence on both accounts.
Emma forces herself to tear her eyes away and trudge down the street. Her feet feel like lead. The faces of old foster parents seem to swim around her vision as she deafens herself to the cries trailing out of the alley. Nothing she can do. Can't afford a run in with the cops. Not here, not this type of cop, not again. Especially not with her record. She tries to swallow down the bile rising in her throat.
She only makes it three doors down before her feet refuse to take her a step further. The blood in her veins seems to have been transmuted into acid, and her heart pounds in her ears.
Not my responsibility, she tries to remind herself, but she steps out of her heels, picking them up in her left hand.
Nothing I can do, she reasons, but she still darts across the street in a lull between traffic, slipping into an alley on the opposite side.
I might lose everything I’ve built, she stresses as she retrieves her locksmith's tools and picks the backdoor of a closed Chinese restaurant. It only takes a few seconds for the lock to pop open and she quickly peeks inside. Despite the sticker on the door warning of a 24 hour security system, she spots no alarm panel and hears no beeping or ringing. Good enough.
Emma steps back out into the opposing alleyway and returns her tools to her inner jacket pocket. Her leather jacket is one of the few things she keeps organized. It’s always supplied with a neatly folded lock picking set, a single lipstick, zip ties, multi-tool, wallet, keys and a compact black pistol.
Checking that she's not being watched, and for security cameras, Emma slips the pistol from the inside of her jacket. It feels heavy in her hands. Her stomach flips under the gravity of the horrible mistake she's about to make; but at the same time a weight seems to lift from her chest, one she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying.
She raises the gun over her head and takes a deep breath. Come and get me, pigs. She fires three shots into the air and screams as believably as she can before darting into the restaurant and locking the door after herself. She stands with her ear to the door, trying to control her erratic breathing as she listens for the cops’ arrival. Seconds tick by and she's reminded too much of hiding from resource protection agents after lifting a few groceries. Emma hated the reminder of how little her life and wellbeing are worth. Those men were paid more than she stole in order to ensure she didn't eat that night. She grits her teeth.
Only after a couple minutes pass does it occur to Emma that the officers aren't coming to investigate. Had she really been shot, she would have died there, while two officers stood not forty feet away.
Formulating a new plan on the fly, Emma forces herself to walk out of the restaurant side door with purpose, as if she belonged there. She needn’t have bothered. No one was there to see, the streets having already cleared in fear.
Emma darts back across the street and into the apartment building forming one side of the alleyway. A cage blocks her from entering the building proper, so she hurriedly rings every doorbell attached to the mailboxes. With a loud buzz, one irritated resident caves and simply unlocks the gate. “Jackpot!” Emma says in victory, throwing herself through the cage and flying up the stairs.
Grit and cigarette butts litter the stained stairwell. Emma arrives in front of a heavy steel door chained shut and padlocked. It only takes her a few seconds to pop the lock and slip out onto the flat roof. Thick calluses, built up from years of having threadbare shoes or no shoes at all, protect her feet; however she’s still careful to avoid the broken glass and garbage scattered in her way. She creeps to the short ledge at the edge of the roof and peers down.
She sees the woman they’d been harassing curled in on herself. Her things litter the alley, strewn about in the tussle. The cops, however, are well hidden behind a dumpster. Were she to look from the entrance of the alleyway, Emma might have believed they’d fled. She’s glad that they’ve at least ceased their aggressions, but she can’t do anything for the woman while they remain there. She wishes she could remember the woman’s name.
Drawing her firearm and taking aim, Emma fires a warning shot beside their heads. Both men throw their arms over their heads, one shouting in fear. Firing another few rounds into the dumpster and the wall beside them, Emma backpedals, hoping they haven’t thought to look up yet. She hears one call, “Shots fired, need backup on Essex, near the food court!”
Picking up a few discarded bottles from the rooftop, Emma lobs them over the edge, letting them crash to the street below. Hearing their apparent assailant turning tail, the officers suddenly grow a spine and risk peering out from behind the dumpster with their own pieces drawn. Seeing no one, they dash to the entrance of the alley, shouting, “Hands up, drop your weapon!”
Emma holds her breath. They don’t know where she was firing from yet. She braces herself for the moment it dawns upon them. She’s a sitting duck up here. If they come after her, will they even let her surrender? Her fingers tighten around the grip. She won't go back to prison. But it seems inevitable because surely the apartment building has some kind of cameras. They’ll discover her eventually, no matter what. She bites her tongue in frustration. She couldn’t have just walked away, could she?
“Come out with your hands up!” the taller officer shouts, the anger in his voice betraying his fear. Could she be so lucky? She hears their boots crunch in the broken glass as they advance down the street, then hears them shout for her to come out again from the alley on the other side of the building. Emma grins. Maybe her luck is finally turning around.
Emma resists the urge to panic as several more cop cars arrive on the scene. They talk loudly as they organize into groups and begin to sweep the alleys. An officer takes out a megaphone and calls out, “There is a shooter on the loose. Everyone remain calm and stay where you are. For your safety, do not leave your homes and do not open the door for anyone but the police.”
Minutes stretch on as the sweep extends out, voices drifting further away. Only when Emma’s sure that none of them will see her exit the apartment building does she dare to slip back down the stairs and around to check on her childhood bunkmate.
“Hey, can you speak?” Emma whispers as she kneels by the woman.
The woman raises her head, face pinched in suspicion. Then surprise takes over her features and she asks, “Emma Swan? Is that you?”
Emma debates how to respond for a fraction of a second before admitting, “Uh, hi. It’s Emma Fisher now. Sorry that I don't remember your name, I just thought you could use some help.”
“Haley Gray,” she says, “from that home in Jersey, remember?”
Emma nods. “Haley, that’s right. You used to lift me those Swiss Rolls from the gas station after school. I try not to. Remember, that is.”
Haley grimaces. “Me too. Listen, we gotta get out of here. Some lunatic started a firefight with the damn cops.”
“Yeah. Me. I just needed to get them away from you. I saw that cop tackle you. I’ll call an ambulance,” Emma says.
Haley shakes her head and winces from the movement. “Are you mad? You’ll get us both shot. Besides, I can't afford that. No hospitals, please.”
Emma looks her over and says, “I can't just leave you battered in an alleyway.”
Haley rolls her eyes. “I’ll be fine. This ain't the first time a cop’s decided he don’t like my face.”
Emma says softly, “It might be the last time if you don't get that shiner looked at. You might have a concussion, or a broken rib. At least let me cut you loose.” She flips out the blade in her multi-tool and carefully removes the zip ties around Haley’s wrists.
Haley grunts, pulling herself up. Emma tries to support her, but Haley brushes her off and drags herself to the wall where she catches her breath. “I can't afford the ambulance and I can’t afford the doctors. I don't have insurance. You know how things work in this country.”
Emma meets Haley’s gaze. She's afraid, but she’s hiding it well. Haley adds gently, “You should go, Emma, before you get caught up in this mess. Don’t worry about me. People like us gotta look after ourselves.”
Digging her fingers into her palms, Emma whips out her phone. To hell with this. Punching in 911, she barks, “Hello, we need an ambulance on Essex, before the Kingston intersection. Near the food court. Battery victim. Thank you.” Emma snaps her phone shut without giving any more details.
Haley sneers, “Do you think you’re doing me a favor? They patch me up once only for the bills to haunt me for years? I’ll just get another bruising in a few weeks. Fuck off, Swan.”
Emma tugs the envelope from her breast pocket and tosses it to Haley. “You can afford it. Just accept the help, okay? People like us gotta look out for each other.”
Haley feels the wad of cash through the envelope and shoots Emma a wary look. “This isn’t stolen, is it?”
Emma shakes her head. “Of course not. I might not be a decent person, but I’m not about to frame a friend for robbery.” Her voice shifts from sincere to bitter.
Haley nods, not prodding. “Ain’t no shame in dancing or companionship; whatever keeps a roof over your head.”
“There’s no shame in dancing,” Emma agrees. Then, turning away, she mutters, “But there’s shame in what I do.”
She feels cold fingers brush her own and Haley says, “Whatever you’re mixed up in, it might have saved my life tonight. Thank you.”
Emma smiles. “Freeze!” The smile falls right off her face as a flashlight shines into the alley and an officer shouts, “You, in the red dress, hands up!”
Swearing in her head, Emma stands slowly, raising her hands. She’d been distracted, she should have heard the man coming. Hoping against hope that her gun was well-concealed in her black leather jacket, she says, “This woman is hurt, I’m just making sure she gets treatment.”
She represses a gasp as she feels something hard prod her back. Rifle or night stick, she can’t tell through the leather. “Hands behind your head, down on your knees.”
Carefully controlling her breathing, Emma complies. She risks a glance at Haley and is relieved to see that she’s done a fine job of concealing the envelope. At least she would be taken care of, for one night.
The officer clicks on his radio and says, “Therriault, I’ve got a suspicious woman in cheap leather and an expensive dress back at the crime scene, I don’t know how she slipped by us, she must have left one of the apartments. Meet me here.” Then he asks Emma directly, “There’s an active shooter in the area. Where did you come from? Where are you going?”
Emma answers with the question, “Am I under arrest, Officer?”
The cop’s face tightens and he says, “You’re not helping your case by being difficult, madam.”
Emma’s indignation finds her tongue before self preservation can reign it back in. She snarks, “Well don’t let the dress fool you, I’m not easy. But I’ll confess that I don’t have a receipt for it, so maybe you’ll order me to leave it on the ground, like you did with all of her things?” Emma nods towards Haley whose eyes flash, protesting being brought back to the officer’s attention.
The officer responds with a sharp blow to Emma’s temple. She yelps in pain, stars flashing behind her eyes. Before she can get her bearings, his knee is already on her spine and he’s wrenching her arms behind her back, zip-tying them together. The plastic bites into her skin and she fears her shoulder will be dislocated as he tugs her up by one arm. “You know what, you are under arrest under suspicion of domestic terrorism. I’d read you your rights, but from the look of you, I’d say you’ve heard the speech enough times to know it by heart? The outfit isn’t fooling anyone.”
Emma’s stomach flips. Was he really this cocky? She schools her expression and grits out, “I exercise my right to remain silent.”
Twisting his grip on her arm until it starts to bruise, the officer says, “Smart girl.”
Refusing to show that he’s hurting her, Emma refrains from retorting. They have no evidence, yet. They will as soon as they search her, however. The idea of being sent back to prison causes her to break out in a cold sweat. She shouldn’t have run her mouth.
As the cop starts to march her out of the alleyway, Haley says, “Wait!” She wraps her arms around Emma under her leather jacket and says, “Thank you for helping! No one ever cares about folks like me.”
“Step back, you’re interfering with police business,” the officer warns, wrenching Emma back around. Emma feels something tug loose from her coat as she's separated from Haley, who melodramatically tumbles to the ground as if Emma had been the only thing holding her up.
Haley lifts her head to ask, “What was your name, Officer?”
The cop snaps, “Officer Bradley.”
Haley smiles, and it’s so bright you’d think she hadn’t just been harassed. “Thank you, Officer Bradley,” she says. “You treat my friend with respect now, she’s a good sort. I’m sure she’s innocent.”
Officer Bradley snorts and steers Emma towards the street just as the ambulance rolls up. “I doubt that,” he says dully, giving the stink eye to the emergency responders exiting the ambulance.
A chubby woman with a ponytail leads the team. She addresses the officer, “Let us take a look, we got a call about a battery victim. That looks like a nasty cut,” she gestures to where Bradley had struck Emma across the temple.
Emma nods her head at Haley and says, “She’s the one who needs help, I made the call.”
A small man moves past the paramedic and crouches down to start asking Haley about her condition. The lead paramedic remains unconvinced, however, and insists, “We still need to take a look at you.”
Officer Bradley steps into the woman’s space and says, “She’s a suspicious character and we have a shooter on the loose, she’s coming back with me to the precinct.”
The paramedic, Shore from her nametag, doesn’t back down. “She’ll still be available for questioning after we stop the bleeding and make sure she doesn’t have a concussion, or any other injuries. If she does have a concussion, any testimony she offers would prove inadmissible anyway.”
Officer Bradley grinds his teeth but acquiesces, with the warning, “I expect to have her sitting in the back of my cruiser in four minutes.”
Whitney offers a simple nod and guides Emma to sit on the back bumper of the ambulance. She quickly disinfects the cut and tapes some gauze over it, informing Emma quietly, “It won’t require stitches, thankfully. My name is Whitney Shore, if you need a witness, I’ll testify on your behalf.”
Emma smiles, “Thank you. If it comes to a trial, I’d appreciate that.”
Whitney draws her lips taught. She shines a small flashlight into Emma’s eyes, and after a few questions determines, “You’re not concussed. I’ll suggest that Officer Bradley take you in for a head scan to be safe, but I doubt he’ll agree. Sorry I can’t do more.”
Emma says, “You’ve done more than most would. Take care of Haley. This was pointless if she dies.”
Whitney nods and says, “You did a good thing here tonight-” then cocks her head in question.
“Emma Fisher,” Emma supplies, realizing an alias would bite her in the ass if she actually needs this woman to testify in court.
Whitney smiles and nods. “Emma. Not many would stick their heads out for someone on the streets.”
Emma frowns and says, “I’m an idiot, and I just threw my life away, didn’t I? That’s all people get for trying to do good in this world.”
Whitney gives Emma’s hand a last squeeze and says, “Don’t give up hope just yet. Who knows, karma might come to your rescue.”
Emma chuckles at that and says, “If I’m counting on karma, I’m definitely screwed. Thanks, Whitney. Looks like my time is up.”
Officer Therriault joins Bradley and they come to fetch Emma. Without any ceremony, Officer Bradley grabs Emma’s arm again. “Is she concussed?” he asks bluntly.
“No,” Whitney says, “but you should bring her to the hospital for a head scan to be safe. I certainly wouldn’t recommend any more blows to the head if you’re hoping to build a case against her.”
The officer pulls Emma roughly in front of himself and says, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying. If she’s not in immediate danger, she can get to the hospital on her own time. She won’t weasel out of this that easily.”
Officer Bradley supports her while the other pats her down thoroughly. Emma braces for his declaration of victory, but it never comes. To her shock, Therriault says, “She’s clean. No firearms, just a swiss army knife.” Emma barely manages to hide her relief, keeping her head pointed stoically forward.
Emma finds herself being shoved hard into the back of the cruiser. Only as they pull away does she see, in the rear-view mirror, Haley finally allowing the paramedics to move her. Emma could kiss the woman. She’s never been so glad to have been pick-pocketed.
Some of the officers try to intimidate her. One tries to act like she’s in Emma’s corner. She maintains her silence. She’s not a teenage runaway this time. She knows her rights now. Finally she gets her phonecall, a chance to arrange for a lawyer to represent her. She dials the number quickly and hopes against hope that he’s still at the office.
“Callahan speaking,” the professional sounding voice crackles through the old corded phone in the precinct. Emma could cry from relief. She’s sure he knows where she’s calling from. Cutting right to the chase, she says, “It’s Emma. I got arrested, I need representation, I’m in the precinct near Essex street.”
“How unlike you, Emma,” Jared says smoothly, though she can hear a hint of steel in it. “I’m sure this must be a terrible misunderstanding. Very well, I’ll have our attorney there in the next half hour. Don’t say anything until she’s there with you.”
Emma says, “I won’t. Thank you.”
Jared hums and says, “Don’t worry about it. This time. But don’t make a habit of this.”
He hangs up without waiting for her answer. Emma goes back to sitting, waiting for her savior to come through, all under the watchful gaze of Officer Bradley. After 25 minutes, a sharp looking black woman in a gray suit strides in, quickly finding Emma and coming to her side.
She strides over to Emma and says, “Ms. Fisher. I’ll be your representative during questioning.”
“Thank you for showing up on short notice, Leslie,” Emma smiles, shaking the woman’s hand. What she wouldn’t have given to have this kind of help back in the day. Fortunately, she’s never met Leslie in her professional capacity before, but she knows what she’s capable of.
They’re allowed to consult privately, and Emma quickly runs Leslie down the order of events. “They didn’t find my gun,” Emma says, “and they didn’t read me my Miranda rights. They roughed me up before placing me under arrest, and a paramedic by the name of Whitney Shore treated my injuries on scene.”
Leslie nods. “Good. That’s good, we can use that. We might be able to get you out tonight. I’ll ask Judge Crane to request Officer Bradley’s body camera, along with all the footage of any other officers on the scene tonight. Seeing the request approved immediately will intimidate them and we’ll have evidence of an unlawful arrest. With any luck, they’ll back off. From the sounds of it, the footage will be enough to get two officers fired at least. Do you want me to push for that?”
Emma asks seriously, “Will that make our lives harder or easier?”
Leslie puts her hand on Emma’s and says seriously, “I am your representative right now, and I am acting in your interests. But Mr. Callahan isn’t happy, and he’ll only be more displeased when he finds out this was all to save some vagrant you recognized from the good old days. It will shake his confidence in you and your professionalism. If you’re hoping to maintain a working relationship with him, I would recommend holding onto the footage and giving it to him. If you can spin this as a successful bid to get leverage over the local cops, I’m sure you’ll slip back into his good graces.”
Emma frowns, “I - I don’t know why I was so weak tonight. I swore to myself I would never risk getting myself thrown in prison again. I can’t lose this gig, Leslie.”
Leslie gives her an understanding smile. “This work can wear on a person. Let’s get you out of the frying pan, appease Mr. Callahan, and then I strongly recommend you take some time for yourself. Clear your head. You won’t be doing yourself or anyone else any favors from behind bars, believe me.”
Emma says, “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks Leslie. Let’s get this over with, then?”
The officers walk in to begin questioning, but if they’re like foxes staring down a rabbit, Leslie’s a hyena circling them. The nervousness drains out of Emma as Leslie picks apart every question they’re asking, and fires back with her own. Not ten minutes into the interview, Leslie pulls up a freshly minted court order from Judge Crane requesting their body cam footage and states that she needs the proof that Emma was read her rights during the arrest. Officer Bradley blanches and retreats, looking distinctly like someone who knows they’re about to be chewed out. By the end of the hour, they’re walking out with a thumbdrive containing a copy of all the requested footage and no charges pressed.
Before parting ways with Leslie, Emma pulls out her phone and faces the music. Jared’s exasperated voice answers, “You got yourself arrested over a couple of bullies in a uniform, Emma? Seriously? Like you don't run into a couple of those every three blocks?”
Emma grimaces and says, “I know, I know, my head wasn't on straight. It's just - I knew her.”
With a click of his tongue, Jared admonishes, “We don't get to have a past in this line of work, Emma. You have real potential, you’re one of my go-to people. Don't let sentiment trip you up. You're not a hero, you're not going to end police corruption in Boston, but you can carve out a nice cushy life for yourself. You’ve been through enough shit, Emma. Let me help you.”
Emma grips the phone tighter. Ten years. It had taken her ten years to get this kind of stability, and she’d almost blown her life up. “I’m grateful for the opportunities you’ve provided me with, Jared. I just - you got me out, sometimes I want to pay it forward, you know?”
“Then find a way to do it without landing your ass in prison. Join a protest, volunteer at a soup kitchen, but don’t take fucking pot shots at the police. You realize I now have to send one of my people to track down that gun? I can’t have it landing in the cops’ hands,” Jared rants.
Emma leans against a small tree planted along the sidewalk. Between the street lights, she finds some solace in the dark. Leslie sits on the bench not far away, waiting for the conversation to end. Emma takes a deep breath and says, “You’re right, I know. I’m not going to fuck up like this again.”
She can practically hear Jared twirling his pen around behind his desk. He seems to weigh Emma’s vow and finally says, “Good. I believe you. Have Leslie bring me that footage, having leverage over a couple of cops is no small consolation prize. But you and I both know that you didn’t plan this out. You were lucky that this Officer Bradley got sloppy, don’t count on that happening again. Now I know Leslie recommended you take a couple weeks off, and I agree. You can worry about soup kitchens and your next mark after a sorely-needed vacation.”
Emma sucks a breath between her teeth before admitting, “I, uh, I can’t. I need another job as soon as possible. I need to replace my piece now, and I, uh, gave all the earnings from tonight's job to Haley. To pay for her medical costs.”
The line goes quiet for long enough that Emma actually checks if she’s been disconnected. Her little flip screen display shows an active call at 13:31 minutes… 13:32, 13:33, until finally Jared groans, “You’re killing me here, Emma. Killing me.”
“Sorry,” Emma says, “there wasn’t a point if she couldn’t get treated.”
Jared heaves a sigh and says, “You’re lucky we’re friends. Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to replace the money you lost and your piece and you are going to take two weeks off because otherwise you’re useless to me.”
Emma stutters, “No, I- that’s too much, I can’t-”
“It’s an investment, Emma. I’m not putting this on your tab, there’s no interest, the only thing I expect from you for this is your loyalty. I have plenty of street rats working for me. Street rats can’t work your kind of magic. Go home, take a load off, and then come back and prove to me that I’m making the right call.”
Emma’s mouth works like a fish out of water and she finally gets out, “Jared, seriously, thank you. I’ve never had someone in my corner like this.”
“Well, that’s one of the advantages of being highly competent: I want you in my corner. Good night, Emma,” Jared says, hanging up.
Emma takes a moment to just breathe. Things were finally coming together for her. She offers a hand to help Leslie up from the bench. “You too, thank you. The last time I got in a pinch like that - god, I’d never felt so alone in my entire life.”
Leslie smiles and accepts the help up, saying, “It was my pleasure, Emma. You would have been missed. I must say, I’m surprised you address Jared by his first name. He doesn’t let many do that.”
Emma cocks her head. “But he lets you?”
“He does.”
They cross the street, Emma flipping off a honking cabbie driver who seems to think the pedestrian walk light was put there to personally inconvenience him. Emma says, “So I can trust you to bring Jared the footage?”
Leslie raises her brows, and laughs. “You trusted me with everything else tonight, didn’t you? I’ll get it to him, he’ll get one of his techs to pull the relevant clips, and sometime around the crack of dawn those officers will find themselves dancing at the end of Jared’s strings - or quitting the force. I think we both know which they’ll choose.”
“I don’t envy your hours,” Emma remarks.
Leslie shoots her an incredulous look. “As if yours are any better. I don’t have to hide in my car on stakeouts in the dead of winter.”
It’s Emma’s turn to laugh now and she says, “Well at least I get paid for it, now.”
They stop in front of Emma’s apartment complex. Leslie gives her a squeeze on the shoulder and says, “That, and you have a warm place to come home to after the job. Happy Birthday, Emma. Maybe take some time to actually celebrate, tomorrow? Or would that technically be tonight, now?”
Checking her watch, Emma grimaces. “Yeah, it’s definitely ‘tonight.’ Thanks for walking me, and for pulling my ass out of the fire. Next time, let’s meet up at a bar or somewhere fun instead.”
Leslie says, “I’d like that,” while waving Emma goodbye and pulling out her phone to call a cab.
Fatigue inundated her very bones as soon as she steps onto the stairs. It’s all Emma can do not to lie down and pass out right there in the way. All she wants is to collapse into her bed, which only frays her nerves further when she exits onto her landing and finds a ten-ish year old child passed out in front of her apartment.
She’s still in her now badly mussed-up date outfit. Her heels never made it out of the alleyway and her feet are covered in blisters. Her hair’s a mess and she has no doubt that the night she’s had is sketched all over her face. She can’t deal with this right now.
Neither can she ignore it. There’s a child no older than ten passed out on her doorstep. How did he even get into the building? The doors lock. Not that a barred entrance had stopped her a few hours earlier.
She studies the boy’s face and her stomach flips. He reminds her so much of Neal. He’s just like she thought their son would look. She wonders if he’s lost and alone in the world like this boy appears to be. Like she had been at that age.
The stairwell door clicks shut and the boy stirs. Before Emma can think of what to do, the boy rubs the sleep from his eyes and positively beams up at her. She freezes like a deer in headlights. “Are you Emma Fisher?” the boy asks brightly.
Emma’s heart shoots into her throat. He’s here looking for her. At two in the goddamn morning. Alone and without notice. Feeling fifteen alarm bells go off in the back of her head, Emma does what she does best: “No, sorry kid, my name’s Odette,” Emma lies smoothly.