Dakota watched the familiar cityscape pass her by as she frowned out of the rear window of the taxi. Rapid City was exactly how she remembered it.
Some places simply didn't change.
Or perhaps it was her perception that remained the same.
Other things, though, changed in stunning fashion.
Her father had sold his home and moved. Coach Little had warned her about this nearly a month ago. It still stung, though, when she'd found out her father had moved nearly a decade ago.
For ten years, he hadn't told his sole living child that he was in a new house.
Still, she weathered the sting of this realization, clearing her throat and murmuring, “I think it's that blue one up ahead.”
The taxi driver was struggling to spot the faded house numbers of the old, run-down portion of town. Her father had traded his old home for a much smaller condo with a worn facade and a single-car driveway he shared with his neighbor by the looks of things.
The driver also spotted the white lettering peeling on the front of the condo, and then flashed a thumbs up, pulling to the side of the road.
Dakota pushed out, slowly, feeling a strange nervousness.
She'd already prepaid the driver and didn't even notice as he pulled away, hastening off for his next fare. For her part, she hadn't brought luggage with her. Hadn't even brought a carry-on. She wasn't going to stay long.
She was here for a nod, a greeting, and a folder.
She hadn't opened the file on the cold case yet. She didn't want to open that particular wound without all the information available.
Which meant a final piece was remaining, and it resided behind that faded, blue door on the left side of the duplex.
She swallowed faintly, feeling a familiar prickle along her back that reminded her of more than one slow march up the steps into an octagon before a particularly bloody fight.
She wasn't here for a fight, though. Wasn't here to argue with her father.
She sighed slowly, massaging the bridge of her nose, and then moving slowly up the sidewalk, approaching the front door.
The porch was worn as well, the rail splintering. A newspaper lay discarded on the ground. There was no printed Welcome on the mat.
Just a blank, prickling canvas of brown.
Dakota shifted uncomfortably, the floorboards creaking beneath her.
Part of her had wanted to ask Marcus to come with. Another part of her had wanted to stop by at Coach Little's and get his backup. But she'd ended up scheduling a meal with Little at his favorite pizza joint later in the evening.
This portion of the trip... This was all up to her.
She let out a shaking breath, wincing faintly as she did. Her wounds were healing nicely, but her fingers on her right hand were still in a splint. She'd always been ambidextrous though, equally capable with either hand in fighting or shooting.
Now, though the fingers on her right hand were in a splint, the ones on her left were tapping a new tattoo against her thigh. She'd worn a shirt with a particularly tall neck and long sleeves. All of her tattoos—which her father had hated—were hidden. In fact, part of the reason she'd gotten the tattoos as a teenager was because her father hated them.
The age old question: Would you rather be feared or loved?
It didn't take into account it wasn't always the answerer's preference which mattered, but rather the availability of the two in others. And love had never been much of an option.
She reached out, slowly, adjusting her posture, and then knocked on the door in three quick reports.
She then stepped back, and stared at the faded frame, the paint peeling along splintered lines. Her father had never been a very ambitious man. Had never cared much for the appearance of his place. At least, not since Carol had vanished.
And now, Dakota frowned, feeling as solemn as ever as if preparing for an open-casket viewing.
The door didn't open.
She frowned, tried again, knocking louder this time. She pressed the bell. Stepped back again.
And once more, she lingered on the porch, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. She thought she heard voices from the duplex next door. She heard the neighbors' door open and close.
Behind her, along the sidewalk a couple of teenagers were zipping by on scooters, shooting her curious glances.
She didn't wave, didn't acknowledge them. In a place like this, a city block in her old stomping grounds, it was usually best to just keep your head down and avoid attracting attention.
She shifted again, but still heard no sound of anyone approaching. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass, trying to peer into her father's place.
She reached for her phone, pulling it out and double-checking the last text message he'd sent.
4pm. My place. Followed by the address. She checked the time on her phone, double-checked the address, then checked the peeling, white letters over the attached mailbox next to the door.
Right time, right place.
But her old man wasn't there.
She sighed in frustration, turning to glance back down the steps towards the street. Then, with a shrug, she reached out and tried the door handle.
Locked.
She rang the bell again and the soft sound of chimes echoed just on the other side of the door. Then, her phone buzzed.
She frowned, glancing down again.
Couldn't make it. Folder under the mat. Good luck.
She stared at the message, feeling a knot form in her stomach.
Couldn't make it.
She re-read that line again, feeling a slow, rising sense of absolute rage. Couldn't make it? Her old man wasn't here?
She texted back, her fingers flying furiously. Where are you?
She didn't even try to soften the demand.
A long gap between her text and his reply, but then, a single word. Busy.
She stared at the message, swallowing now. For a moment, she felt a sudden surge of emotion, starting in her stomach and spreading like fire through her chest. She wanted to cry and scream and pound the door all at once. Part of her wanted to kick the window in.
Busy.
Couldn't make it.
After ten years...
“Shit,” she murmured beneath her breath. She wanted to scream.
But when had that ever helped with her father? Screaming, begging, bribing, bragging, pleading, achieving. None of it made a difference. Threats, pain, tears... Nothing. She'd tried everything.
Her old man was as emotionally unavailable as if this had been open-casket.
Sometimes... sometimes she just wished he'd up and die so she could grieve him properly instead of being forced to hang onto hope that someday, maybe the two of them could...
She trailed off at this train of thought, feeling a sudden surge of guilt. She winced at the way her mind had been directing itself, and shook her head in frustration.
She re-read the message again. No further clarification. No apology. Just, busy.
She could feel the prickle of pain beneath her bandages under her sleeves. Could feel the aching in her ribs. The pain in her stomach, spreading now, also brought with it a strange sense of... longing? An urge?
In that moment, she felt a spike of desire like she hadn't in weeks.
For a moment, her mind cycled through all of her favorite watering holes. The cheap liquor stores, the easy store-owners, the ones who didn't make a fuss or give a second glance.
She missed it.
Missed it all.
An angry sob threatened her throat. But again, like always, Dakota inhaled shakily, forcing the emotion back. Appearances mattered.
Emotions didn't help.
She sighed shakily, letting out a long, gusting breath of air.
The urge to drink wasn't gone, though. She knew she needed to talk to someone. To figure this shit out. Coach Little was going to get food with her later tonight... But that might be too late.
She glanced at her phone. Speed dial.
The same number she'd called the last time she'd been in trouble. A voice on the other end. A voice that actually seemed to care about her.
The same person who'd sat in her hospital room for three days, despite the doctors and even security asking him if he was family.
Marcus was her best friend, but also a confidant.
Talking to him didn't feel like talking to other people nearly so much.
She let out a whooshing breath, determining now that she needed to call someone. She refused to give in. Not today. Maybe tonight... maybe tomorrow.
Not today.
Her father could vanish off the face of the Earth for all she cared.
But even as this raging thought flashed through her mind, she knew it wasn't fully true.
Feared or loved.
It wasn't her damn choice, was it?
Her father made the choice for her. She'd gone into fighting for similar reasons.
She shook her head, her lips sealed tight now, warring against the attempt of the rising emotions to control her. She bent over, kicking the doormat to the side and spotting a single, thick red folder beneath it.
She bent over, slowly, and picked the thing up.
The binding of the red folder was worn and scarred. Stained with ink and what looked like dried glue in certain places. It was also very thick. Nearly twice the width of most books. She hefted the thing, glancing at the two strands of elastic rope securing the corners.
She didn't open it, though.
Not yet.
No... She jammed the folder beneath her arm and turned on her heel, her back to that stupid, blue door.
Busy.
Fine then. Good riddance.
And again, the vengeful, bitter thoughts felt hollow. If she had her way...
But she didn't, did she?
She hadn't had her way in twenty years.
Her father still blamed her for Carol's disappearance. That was probably the reason. He couldn't bear to even look at her.
Dakota felt these small accusations whispering in her mind, nipping at her like paper cuts. She winced with each one, and moved away from the house, down the gray sidewalks, head down, breathing in, out, slowly.
And then, folder tucked under one arm, heart and chest full of painful emotions, she placed her call.
She swallowed as the phone attempted to connect.
She almost didn't let the call complete. Part of her felt an irrational jolt of terror.
What if he didn't answer either?
Then she'd be the single loneliest person in the world, wouldn't she?
Walking away from that door, she wasn't sure she could take it if she was sent to voicemail. Wasn't sure if—
“Dakota?” on the second ring.
“H-hi,” she said, slowly, her voice hoarse.
“Hey,” Marcus said, cheerful as ever. “How's it going in Rapid City?”
She swallowed, still moving slowly along the gray pavement, doing her best to avoid cracks in the ground. “I...” she trailed off, biting her lip. “I just...”
She could practically feel Marcus frown. She knew him well enough to picture his expression even over an audio call. “Is everything alright?”
The question alone felt like a giant finger jabbing a painful sore. She wasn't sure why, but her voice cracked, shaking with emotion. She tried to swallow, to pass it off as a cough. “I... I got the file I came for,” she said, swallowing.
Marcus, though, often was the one who could tell what someone was feeling even if they tried to hide it. There was a temporary pause, but then, in as gentle a voice as he'd ever used, the giant of a man said, “Want to talk about it?”
“No,” she said. She hadn't meant to sob, but her voice shook regardless.
“Oh, Dakota,” Marcus said, in that same gentle voice. “I'm... I'm sorry.”
Now came the anger. As predictable as ever. A moment of vulnerability, pity, then a furious reaction against the response. But she wasn't angry at Marcus. Wasn't angry at anyone but... herself? Her father. The last twenty years?
She didn't know where it came from, but one second she'd been biting her tongue, and the next she cursed at the top of her breath, screaming directly into the phone, face down, eyes on the ground. She screamed again, again. Shouting expletives followed by incoherent yells, like a wounded animal struggling to escape a trap.
Once she was done, she found tears in her eyes. She reached up, frowning, wiping at them. Her hand was shaking where it pulled a single tear drop away.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered slowly beneath her breath. “I'm so sorry. I—I don't know what...”
“It's fine,” Marcus said. His tone didn't change at all. “Do you... wanna come over, watch something? I'm going through a re-run of one of those funny fauxumentaries.”
“I... Come over?”
“Yeah. Tonight. I'm up late anyway. We can watch the show or whatever. I'm kinda bored, if I'm honest. I mean,” he added quickly, “you can bring Mark, if you want. Agent Bonet is welcome!”
“Oh... oh, yeah,” Dakota said quickly. “Umm, of course.” She swallowed. Her voice felt hoarse from the screaming. She felt stupid now, embarrassed.
She tucked the red folder beneath her arm. Then said, “I... I get back in at eight. Is that too late?”
“No, that's perfect.” He sounded excited now. “I'll pick you up. I'll order Chinese for three. That work? You can let Mark know, alright?”
Dakota swallowed, exhaling shakily. She wasn't sure why, but that strange emptiness in her chest didn't feel so strong now. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Yeah, that's great. Thanks Marcus. Hey... I—I gotta go.”
“No prob, see you then!”
Dakota lowered her phone, wiping angrily at her face. She shot a look back towards the small, blue duplex, frowning.
And then, ahead, on the side of the road, she spotted the taxi that had dropped her off. In the front seat, it looked as if the driver was munching on a sandwich.
“Hey!” she called, waving her red folder. “Hey—sir! You still on the clock?”
She broke into a brisk walk, picking up her pace and hastening towards the idling vehicle. Dinner with Little, then a movie night with Marcus.
And Bonet, she reminded herself.
Agent Bonet would want to come too, wouldn't he?
She frowned, shaking her head, and refocusing on the taxi, shifting the folder beneath her arm. On her phone now, and in her hand, she had all the information in the world pertaining to her little sister's disappearance.
But... it could wait.
Yes, she decided.
It could wait until tomorrow.