Page 21 of Nyx

Juliet

I glance down at my phone, the email from the shelter open.

I know staffing has always been an issue with places like these, but the blanket, impersonal email with an address, date, and appointment time seems a little off-putting.

I don't know that I've ever gotten an email for an interview before. It usually comes with a phone call, but I guess as the world becomes more digital, so does every other process.

I verify the address by pulling up the house on a map app on my phone, but the house the interview is at looks like any other house. It's very possible, I realize as I wash my cereal bowl, that the interview could be held at a different location, but then the house doesn't make much sense.

I guess I won't know until I arrive, I think to myself as I dry my hands, giving the black bag at my back door a glance before heading back into the living room to get my purse and keys.

I wipe my hands down the front of my shirt, making sure I didn't spill anything on me. My clothes aren't designer. I'm wearing practical flats because running in heels, if required, isn't ideal.

I look semi-professional. I'd call it business casual, which I know from working in other women's shelters is a little more dressed up than most of the staff and all the residents, unless their jobs require a different style of clothing. I don't want to look out of place, but I also don't want to present myself as if I don't care about this job either.

It's very important to me to get hired at a women's shelter. It's one of the very few places that make me feel somewhat safe.

I take one more deep breath before stepping outside into the heat, grateful that the air conditioning works really well in the apartment. I've found, after moving so many times over the last twelve years, that it can be hit-or-miss.

I make my way to my car, body on full alert. My eyes scan everywhere around me, noting any changes from the last time I left my apartment. I check under and inside, making sure the backseat is empty, then unlock the car and climb inside, opting to take the straight path to the women's shelter for my interview.

The house is in a nice residential neighborhood, and I imagine the women who actually reside at this address feel incredibly safe. It's one of the nicest neighborhoods and houses I've seen in my experience working in women's shelters.

I park on the curb and immediately notice the man standing out front. It makes me pause, my eyes taking in everything about him. His muscular build and no-nonsense glare in my direction tell his story and purpose without him having to say a word.

He isn't holding a gun, but I have enough history with armed security to know he's ready for anything.

I hesitate to get out of the car, keeping my eyes on him, but maybe things are done differently in New Mexico. I can't miss out on this opportunity because I'm a little uneasy.

I open the driver's side door and step out of my vehicle, locking it before moving away. The simple honk of the security system does nothing to ease the anxiety growing inside of me.

The man's eyes follow me toward the front door, but before I can place a foot on the front step of the porch, his hand moves out, stopping me in my tracks.

"Name?" he grunts.

"Sa--" I say, nearly telling him the last name I used before catching myself. "Juliet Mercer."

His eyes narrow, as if he caught the slip. My hands tremble as I wait for him to reply.

"Your name isn't on the visitor's list," he says, his voice calm and even but full of authority.

"You didn't even check a list," I argue.

He lifts his hand, using his index finger to tap his forehead. "I have it memorized."

"I have an interview with Victoria Erwin," I explain as I reach into my purse to get my phone.

I notice the subtle shift in his body as if he thinks I'm going to pull out a weapon.

"I'm just getting my phone to show you the email," I say, my hand paused a few inches in my purse.

"Victoria, you have someone here for an interview," he says, and I know he has to have an earpiece or something to communicate with others.

As annoyed as I am, I'm doubly impressed by their security. It makes me want this job even more. Being able to take a breath at work, unworried that my safety is at risk, would be a dramatic change from places I've worked in the past.

"Do you want to see the email?" I ask.

When he shakes his head, I pull my empty hand from my purse.