Desk Jockey

I leaned back, the creak of my old chair filling the silence. The wood-trimmed walls of my library were quiet, offering no advice to me this evening. 

Juliette Andrews. 

My case, the subject. 

I held the small picture of her in my hands. The photograph hadn’t done her much justice. Her eyes were sharp, alert—the only indication that she might be dangerous.

Can you really be from another planet?

I reread the papers in her file. Her birth certificate listed Salem as her birthplace. Yet on her D.M.V paperwork, she listed no other home addresses, no parents, and no emergency contacts.

Kind of odd not to even have one person to call in an emergency.  

I began pinning today’s Polaroids to my wall. The first showed her running through the neighborhood in an all-black athletic set with white stripes and matching sneakers. The other photo was of her inside Polaris. She had sat quietly in the corner. Just her and a small French vanilla. 

No friends met up with her. No casual conversation with the other people inside. Just her. In a corner. Quiet. Almost as observational as I am. 

Interesting. 

It doesn’t matter.

“Sorry to place my bets on you, Juliette, but your case is my best option right now,” I told the photos on the wall. I’ve been a stupid fucking desk jockey for the last five years; I can’t let this opportunity go.

I looked back toward the wall one last time before switching off the light.

Juliette Andrews.

Interesting.