Professor Eze. Graduation day. Everyone still sweating in those polyester gowns because it was June and the auditorium had no AC and her mom was trying to take photos with a phone she barely knew how to operate.
"Hold still, Rosaline, the picture is blurry again."
And Professor Eze found her in the hallway after. Pressed this case into her hands. His palms were dry and warm and she remembered that, isn't that weird? Remembering someone's hands from eight years ago?
He looked at her and said "You're going to build something extraordinary one day. Keep these close."
She kept them on every desk. Every job. Every city. Before big presentations, she'd open the case and touch the compass and take a breath and tell herself OK. You belong here. You know what you're talking about. Even if every man in this room thinks you got here by accident, you didn't. You earned this. Now go.
Like a ritual. Like armor she could hold.
The cops took them when they raided her office. Tagged them with those little yellow evidence stickers. Bagged them up with her laptop and her files and walked out carrying her whole professional life in cardboard boxes.
She tried to get them back after the case closed. Called the precinct. Got transferred. Called again. Got a voicemail. Left a message. Nobody called back. Filed a form. Nothing happened. Filed another form. Got a letter saying they'd "look into it" which is what people say when they have no intention of doing anything but want you to stop calling.
Eventually she stopped. Because there's a limit to how many times you can beg someone to return your own things before you start feeling like the crazy one. And she had hit that limit about fourteen months ago.
And now here they were. On her desk. In a brown box. In a building owned by a man she met eight days ago.
She picked up the box and walked to his office. Door open. Of course it was open. He was at the window. Again. Just standing there looking out at whatever he looked at. The skyline. The empty lot. Whatever private wound he kept picking at when he thought no one was watching.
She put the box on his desk. Loud. The thud was intentional.
"Where did you get these."
He turned. Eyes went to the box, then to her face. And nothing moved. Not his mouth. Not his eyebrows. Nothing. His face was a wall, and she wanted to throw something at it.
"Police evidence warehouse in Cicero." He said it like he was reading off a grocery list. "Case closed two years ago. Materials were flagged for disposal. I had them pulled."
"You had them pulled."
"Yes."
"You went to a police warehouse and took my things."
"They were going to be thrown out."
"I don't..." She made a noise. Not a word. Just air leaving her body in the shape of frustration. "That is not. The point."
"What's the point then?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Standing there doing a goldfish impression in front of a billionaire. Great. Fantastic. Love this for me.
The point. OK. Where to start. The contract was too much. The salary was too much. David's medical coverage which she still couldn't think about without her eyes getting hot was too much. And now this. The one thing she actually mourned. The one personal loss that kept her up at night sometimes, stupid as it was, because it wasn't about the tools it was about what they meant. Who gave them to her. What she felt when she held them.
And he just. Got them. Like it was nothing. Like he could reach into any locked room in her life and pull out whatever he wanted and lay it on her desk with no note and no explanation and expect her to just be grateful.
It was too much access. Too much knowledge. Too much of him inside spaces she thought she'd sealed off.
But the case was right there. Open. Green velvet. And her fingers were twitching. Three years without them and her hands still remembered the weight of the pencils. Still remembered the exact resistance of the compass hinge. Her pride was saying give them back. Her hands were saying you will have to pry these from my cold dead fingers.
"Thank you." She said it like she was passing a kidney stone.
And something happened to his face. Not a smile. She was starting to think Christopher Thorne's face might not actually be capable of that particular expression. But the area around his eyes did something. Loosened. Like a knot coming undone just slightly.
"You don't have to thank me."
"Well, I did."
"I noticed. You looked like it physically hurt you."
She stared at him. Was that. Did he just. Make a joke? This man? This window staring, empty lot gazing, sleepless eyed man just cracked a joke?
Something happened in her chest. Warm. Unwelcome. The feeling equivalent of a warning light coming on in a car you can't afford to fix. Check engine. Check heart. Check whatever this is and make it stop.
She grabbed the box and left. Walked fast. Did not look back.