She walks past me, leaving a trail of pool water on the concrete floor. The bathroom door closes with a decisive click, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock engaging.
A moment later, the shower starts.
I strip out of my wet swim trunks, leaving them in a heap on the floor, then pull on a pair of gray sweats and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The shower continues running.
What the hell is her problem? I was reciting my grandmother’s favorite poem, not proposing marriage.
My mind circles back to her words.That’s what you would feel if you knew me. Pity.
What exactly am I missing?
I glance at the bathroom door. She’ll be in there a while.
Fuck, what do I care if she comes out and finds me checking her background? I don’t need her permission. I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pull up my background check app. The same one I use on everyone who enters my orbit. Typically before they even arrive.
One day. That’s how long she’s been in my life. One fucking day. And… I don’t know. Something is happening here and…
Never mind.
Never mind. The memory of me rewinding footage from this morning. Emmaleen trying to explain to my car that she’s… what?
Look, Car. I understand that you’re better than me and I don’t deserve to drive you, but this was an assignment. I need to succeed. So if you could just...
What was she going to say? If the car could just… help her out a little?
Why? What kind of chaos is she living through right now?
I enter what I know: Emmaleen Rourke. Not much to go on, but it should be enough. There are plenty of Rourkes in the system, but only one Emmaleen.
I enter my password and wait while the database compiles her information. The shower continues running in the background as I scroll through the results.
Born in Cleveland. Raised in a middle-class suburb. Parents were academics—father a literature professor at Case Western, mother a librarian at the university. Both deceased. Car accident when she was nineteen.
No criminal record. No outstanding warrants. No bankruptcies.
Dropped out of her English Literature program at Case Western after her parents died. The inheritance wasn’t substantial—just enough to cover funeral expenses and part of her tuition before running out.
Two semesters at a community college followed. She really did win a scholarship from a coffee house.
But no degree. What is that? Three and a half years of college. One missing semester?
Who quits college with one semester left? Especially someone as bright as Emmaleen Rourke. She went to Case Western, for fuck’s sake. Surely, there was some way to finish that final semester?
So it was achoice.
Why?
Then something unexpected catches my eye. A social media section.
@BookishEmma_leen
I raise an eyebrow. Seventy-five thousand followers? Little Miss Take was Instagram famous.
For some reason, this delights me.
I click through to the analytics. Her account specialized in literary reviews, dark romance novels, and classic literature. She had a particular talent for drawing parallels between the two, photographing books in unusual locations around Cleveland. Professional quality shots that built a dedicated following.