Anomaly

Caleb LaRue stood at the edge of the rooftop deck, watching the party in full swing.

He hadn’t moved for seven minutes, he knew because he had counted them. Caleb started counting when he felt the bubble of rage building inside. He spent the last twenty years learning its warnings. He struggled to maintain control, consciously forcing his hands to stay loose at his sides, uncurling his fingers as rage forced his fists to form.

Caleb moved closer to the exit as irritation became aggression. The aggression became something worse. Two bodyguards moved closer, but they weren’t there to protect Caleb. They were there to attempt to contain him, if he became aggressive or violent, which he usually did.

Caleb counted seconds, moving toward the exit in tandem with the bodyguards. He counted because the thing bubbling in his stomach counted before it fed.

He’d been counting for eight minutes when he first noticed her.

She wasn’t drifting or orbiting. She didn’t laugh and chatter while refilling her drink.

She was still, holding a glass of wine she wasn’t drinking. Something about her stillness smothered the rage building in his chest. He felt the void it had filled.

He didn’t look away from her again. Caleb stopped counting.

Minutes later, a guest, three drinks past charming, bumped into Caleb’s chest with a full glass of red wine. The man laughed, apologizing for the incident, but Caleb’s hands had already closed and his vision narrowed to a tunnel. For half a second, the gala was gone, the rooftop was empty, his control fractured and his mind calculated: distance, weight, most vulnerable place.

Before Caleb reacted, a movement from the side of his vision caught his eye. The rooftop had frozen, everyone understood something unstoppable had begun. The bodyguards were ready to intercept him and then she moved.

She looked up at Caleb and he froze mid step. Caleb had never seen her before.

Bubbles of rage inside his gut settled. The animal inside him wasn’t satisfied, but confused because the world had gone still around it. Caleb stepped toward her with control he hadn’t felt in years.

Faith Judges was looking at him instead of the flowers. She looked at him with something like relief instead of the usual horrified expressions.

“You seem to be bleeding wine,” she said, gesturing to his shirt.

Caleb looked down at the stain spreading across his shirt like it belonged to a stranger.

“Not the worst thing that’s happened to this jacket,” he said, rougher than intended.

The bodyguards exchanged confused glances because they knew exactly how close the evening had come to a very different kind of story.

Faith didn’t step back as he closed the last of the distance between them.

Caleb didn’t understand. What was this woman doing to the rage that he carried inside? How did she smother the thing carried in his bloodline?

Caleb didn’t know what was happening.

Not yet.

Soft morning sun filtered through the blinds as Faith woke with an unfamiliar ease. Confused at first, she looked around the room, recognizing it as her own. As she sat on the side of her bed, she thought about the previous evening. The rooftop, the angry man, the stillness.

Faith went to her writing desk and opened the battered journal that rested on top. She didn’t pull out the chair but picked up the pen and started writing.

Something happened, or maybe it didn’t. I don’t know.

Don’t forget the man. Not writing his name, just in case.

I heard one voice. It was still.

Faith stood and crossed her arms, staring at the page. She read the entry once and closed the journal. She took a step backward, like distance could make the words less real. Faith turned on her heel and headed to the kitchen for coffee. Her father’s office door was closed, and her mother was already gone at some charity event, as usual.

Faith could smell coffee and bacon before she entered the room.

Amy, one of the housekeepers, was leaving the kitchen with a laundry basket tucked under her arm. She smiled and nodded but did not speak. The house staff did not speak to Faith. It wasn’t because they disliked her. They just liked their jobs. Her father had made the rule years ago, and no one questioned it.

The small television on the kitchen counter was on when Faith entered the empty kitchen. Her vision began to blur.

“...markets to—” The anchor’s head blurred, her mouth split into two.

One side of the anchor’s mouth continued speaking a fraction of a second after the rest of her face stopped moving.

“...day, tragedy hi—” Another face slipped over the first.

A man’s voice replaced hers before a British accent cut across both.

“...highs continue...”

Faith lunged for the remote, pressing the power button hard. The extra faces and voices disappeared as the TV screen faded to black.

Silence.

Faith stood, clutching the remote with both hands until her breathing settled. She set the remote down with shaking hands and rested her weight against the table. Only then did she realize she hadn’t even poured her coffee.

Twenty minutes later, Faith carried her second cup of coffee upstairs to the personal office she kept tucked in her bedroom alcove. Two monitors blinked to life, overnight analytics from the previous day’s campaigns on one screen and her email on the other. She tucked one leg under herself and pulled the rolling chair closer to the desk, scanning emails.

She moved through her emails methodically, answering each one in sequence.

Amsterdam Museum Archives and Blue Haven Wildlife Trust were requesting audits. Raven & Pine Publishing was requesting scheduling changes, and the Heritage Restoration Initiative was requesting technical resources.

The email from Sutton & Ellis Law made Faith stop.

MEETING REQUEST sat in the subject line. She didn’t open it immediately. She picked up her coffee, taking a slow sip. She knew what the email would say. Meeting requests always said the same thing.

We love your work. We want to put a face with the name.

Faith didn’t allow herself to care. She opened the email and replied with her standard decline.

Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate the invitation, but I am unavailable for in-person meetings. I am happy to answer any questions through our established communication process.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Faith spent a couple of hours finalizing reports and scheduling upcoming campaigns. For the last hour, she focused on the final revisions for her clients.

Faith finished her day by two o’clock, and that was enough for her. She closed the laptop and reached for the journal on the side of her desk.

She opened to the page she had written that morning, reading her words again.

I heard one voice.

Her phone vibrated with a text.

My name is Caleb LaRue.

Sorry for reaching out this way. I hope this is the right number.

Faith stared at the phone for a solid minute. Before she could close the message, another appeared.

I believe something happened last night. I’d like to talk to you about it.

Faith held her breath.