Page 27 of Mr. Wilde

Then my thoughts turn more tangible. Considering what she might look like when she is relaxed. When her laugh is genuine and carefree. Not forced as if she’s paid to perform for the high-priced membership of this club.

My mind harkens back to seeing her once through the back window of Gianni’s office, weeks ago. I’d been working on sensitive intel for his cousin, Matteo. I should’ve been focused on dark web chatter, credible threats from a mafioso family that doesn’t forgive or forget. I’m committed to doing whatever I can to protect Matteo, his brother, Luca, and Gianni from their estranged crime family. It’s another reason why I spend so much time here. But I couldn’t concentrate. It’s as if I was pulled to the window by an invisible, magnetic force.

Cassidy was outside, in workout clothes, walking the private grounds like she was trying to convince herself she belonged there. I continued to stand there, hands in my pockets, taking her in as she made several laps around the fenced area, constantly looking around as if she was on guard, ready to flee.

Then she got into a beat-up car, drove it around the parking lot a few times, parked again, and came back inside. Why was she here so early before her assigned shift? Does she do odd jobs here in addition to working as a server? And what’s with that odd little walk around the grounds. I could see it if she had to take a pet out to do his business. But there are much nicer places, even nearby, to walk or run than this gated area behind the club. Then there was the weird business with her car. I couldn’t help scratching my head after taking in that scene.

At the time, I’d thought it was strange. Now I just think it’s her. Nothing about this woman feels normal. And that’s exactly the problem.

Because she is the very last person I need to be thinking about.

9

CASSIDY

I hit submit and stare at the cursor blinking on my screen for a moment before I let myself exhale. Another assignment turned in. Another small victory. What had my therapist and Holt reminded me over the last two years? Focus on the wins. All of them.

It still surprises me how giddy I’ve become over these courses. For years, I thought I knew exactly what my future looked like. A dark blue uniform, a badge, and long shifts delivering the unexpected. It’s the kind of career that came with a pension and a permanent knot in your neck and shoulders.

Following in my father’s footsteps had felt less like a choice and more like the road mapped out for me. It was part of my DNA. While my brother leaned more toward my uncles’ careers in the fire service, my choice had always been to work in law enforcement. I loved the idea of righting wrongs and fighting for justice. Yet something always felt off. I chalked it up to nerves. This profession isn’t for the faint of heart.

Boy, did I learn that the hard way.

But after all I’ve been through, this feeling is one I never anticipated. One where I wake excited to tackle another assignment, because it’s bringing me closer to the possibility of making a future I’ve only imagined happened on television.

That I could be Penelope Garcia.

This unexpected career change has made something inside me come alive again. A spark that always eluded me when I was in the academy. It would eventually come, I rationalized. I mean, it had been my dream for as long as I could remember. I’m certain I couldn’t feel it because it was buried beneath the nervousness of my new and dangerous profession. Yet from day one of these online classes, there has been adrenaline coursing through my limbs I haven’t felt before.

Digital Forensics and Incident Response Training. It sounds so dry and monotonous on paper. Like something designed to drain the soul out of you, one spreadsheet at a time. I’d expected endless numbers, logs, hours upon hours of staring at data until my eyes crossed. Instead, it feels like solving a puzzle. Phone forensics, especially.

There’s something intoxicating about it. Digging through call logs, timestamps, and metadata. Looking for similarities, like when Holt and I would play a spirited round of Hüsker Dü when we were kids. We’d try to remember the location of the pictures and match the pairs to win the game. Phone forensics works similarly, allowing me to reconstruct a story from fragments on a page. Piecing together movements and motives from nothing but digital footprints.

Sometimes, when I’m deep into an assignment, it feels like I’m not even reading anymore. It’s as if certain patterns light up. Not literally, but close to it. As if an invisible highlighter is sweeping across the screen, drawing my attention toward what matters. A repeated number. A timestamp that doesn’t belong there. It’s like I don’t even have to search. My eyes are drawn straight to it.

I just know.

It defies reason, really. I’ve tried to explain it away. Maybe it’s neurological. Some leftover rewiring from my head injury. A synapse misfiring in just the right way. But nothing about the unusual ability to connect the dots feels broken.

It feels real. As if something is quietly nudging me toward the truth. And for the first time in a long time, I catch myself considering something I never thought I’d say again. I might actually be good at this. Really good.

A small ounce of pride dares to warm my chest. I cling to it as a rare smile invades my face. Because this excites me in a way that’s different than the life I thought I was supposed to want.

Bzzz. Bzzz.

I reach for my phone, hoping it really is Holt calling this time. “Hello.”

Silence.

“Hello.” There’s that familiar odd clicking sound on the line again. My anxiety over these calls is starting to do a real number on me. I hang up and check the call log. The same unknown number from before.

Breathe. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

By the time I make it back to the dressing room, the girls are already lined up in front of the mirrors wearing the new DPG server outfits, looking like a dysfunctional girl band. Matching pewter dresses hang from each of their bodies, barely covering their asses. And the neckline has their breasts on full display. The material is nothing short of mesmerizing, particularly in the way the slinky fabric clings to each body type in uniquely flattering ways.

Ways that should probably be illegal before sunset.

I glance down at mine hanging on the rack and have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. So this is what we’re doing now. Why not just ask us to parade around in a G-string and pasties?