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Gemma knew the risks. Yet she could not have predicted how quickly she would have blood on her hands.
It has been almost six months since she was approached by a laconic woman, suspiciously timed after getting laid off from the Ganz Police Department. Harmony, an apparent spokesperson, relayed that they saw potential in Gemma. They knew she had the expertise to bring their team to the next level.
Gemma was flattered, intrigued by the elusive group that Harmony refused to name. Mark could not have been less thrilled, ever the protective husband. But she reassured him that she'd be safe. She had a partner for a reason.
Irving was a level-headed, experienced detective, albeit a surprising stickler for the rules—sometimes annoyingly so. Considering their line of work, adaptability has always been key. Yet Gemma could swear that Irving's favorite part of the day was coming back to the office to finish the same monotonous paperwork he's had to complete for the better part of three decades.
Gemma savored the variety of each day. New investigations. New evidence. New targets. But the latest shadow that they'd been trying to bring to light had become something of a…fixation for Gemma. The first female serial killer that she had been assigned to. She was precise, yet messy. Cunning, yet puerile. Before ever seeing her face, Gemma felt like she knew her.
Riggs—the brand name of the intricate hair pins that had become the assassin's calling card, now the assassin's moniker—had been taunting Gemma relentlessly since she realized Gemma's team was onto her. Bumping into her outside of crime scenes, leaving gifts outside of her home, writing notes on her bathroom mirror. Each encounter left a heavier pit in her stomach and a sharper itch in her fingertips.
Harmony warned her about obsession, how these types can become attached. But the idea of becoming Riggs' focal point never scared Gemma. It could only bring Gemma closer to catching her.
This proved to be her undoing when she was out investigating a new lead with Irving outside of a night club one evening. While interviewing a witness, they both caught sight of Riggs across the way. Irving took off, getting lost in a crowd, outrunning Gemma despite being over 30 years her senior. By the time Gemma caught up, she was too late. Riggs was gone, and Irving was too.
When Mark drove her to Irving's funeral, held her as she cried next to his burial site, he refrained from prodding. He dared not bring up the prospect of reconsidering her sharp career pivot. Not until a week later, when he caught her getting dressed for her first day back.
"Look at what happened to Irving!" Mark spat from the end of their entryway, exasperated and unfiltered. Regret flashed across his eyes, which was immediately replaced with defensive fury.
Gemma stood at the front door, tired and unyielding. "That's precisely why I have to keep going."
Gemma's fixation on the newly discovered assassin was a point of contention between her and Mark. Even during her mandated week off, she created her own investigation board, complete with thumbtacks and thrifted yarn. Mark humored her in the first few days, acknowledging that she needed a distraction, but his stance quickly evolved into concern. Despite the objective sensibility of Mark's feelings, it only made Gemma's resentment fester.
After spending all day mapping out possible sightings with her team members, Dylan and Natalie, Gemma wasn't keen on returning home, knowing that her argument with Mark would resume where they left off. She opted to grab a late dinner at her favorite Chinese restaurant, knowing that the underappreciated establishment would be the perfect place to ruminate in peace.
Seated in the back of the restaurant, Gemma pushes a piece of broccoli around her plate, letting it pick up stray grains of rice on its journey. She replays her last encounter with the assassin in her mind. The half-second of eye contact she made with her mere minutes before Irving's corpse was found.
Gemma wonders, despite herself, if Irving would still be here if she had found Riggs first. She already knows the answer. Riggs always catches her prey.
Gemma's thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the bell above the front door, a chill entering the air. Every hair on her body stands on its end. She almost regrets sitting with her back to the door if it weren't for her intuition whispering, prophesying the identity of the newest patron.
Gemma hears the muffled cadence of stilettos on carpet before she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder. Every ounce of air is sucked out of her lungs when she hears a low voice in her ear.
"Hello, Gemma."
A shiver runs down her spine. As the woman rounds the table, Gemma instinctively covers the knife on the table with her palm, pushing the tip of the blade with her middle finger to slip the defensive tool into her coat sleeve.
Riggs pulls out the chair directly to her left, and she sits down, slumping against the backrest. She's sporting a conniving smile, cultivating an air of victory.
"Are you here to kill me?" Gemma asks impatiently, attempting to keep her voice level.
Riggs chuckles. "What, no 'hello'?"
Gemma carefully brings her hands into her lap, attempting to transfer the knife to her hand closest to Riggs under the obscurity of the tablecloth. She tries on her most convincing smile, praying that her pounding heartbeat isn't visible under her skin-tight sweater.
"Hello, Riggs."
Riggs raises her hands in satisfaction, looking around at the empty restaurant. "Finally, some manners!" Her hands drop to her armrests as her gaze returns to Gemma's face. Gemma's eyebrows furrow, and Helena rolls her eyes, disappointed by Gemma's lack of amusement. "Oh, lighten up. I'm not here to hurt you."
Gemma watches, frozen, as Riggs reaches over and grabs a piece of broccoli from Gemma's plate. She tosses it into her mouth, chewing through the grin that has yet to leave her lips. Gemma's eyes are trained on Riggs as she sucks the sauce off of each of her fingers, releasing them with a pop.
"I just want to have dinner with you," Riggs explains.
Gemma tilts her head. She's starting to get lightheaded from her rising high blood pressure. There is nothing that sounds less appealing to her than finishing her meal.
Riggs' eyes wander from Gemma's face to something above her head. A waitress appears to the right of Gemma, notepad in hand.
"Thank you for dining at Zufu. What can we get started for you?" the tired teenager inquires flatly.
"I would love an order of braised tofu and sauteed a choy," Riggs orders without a single glance at the menu.
"Got it. Anything else?"
Riggs looks back at Gemma, raising her eyebrows questioningly. Gemma swallows and turns to the waitress, replying for both of them, "That'll be all. Thank you."
The waitress nods her head and wanders back to the kitchen. Gemma's gaze returns from the blank space where the waitress once stood to Riggs' eyes, which are fixed on Gemma.
"Why are you really here?" Gemma presses.
Riggs' smile drops for the first time since she arrived. She sits up, resting her forearms on the table, leaning closer to Gemma.
"I need your help," Riggs confides quietly, eyes trained on her own fidgeting hands. "I want out. I've been in this life for so long, I don't know anything else." Riggs' voice breaks, tears threatening to fall from her waterlines. When her eyes meet Gemma's, she looks small and vulnerable. "I don't want to kill anymore."
Gemma's eyes flit back and forth between Riggs'. She leans closer, allowing her face to betray her sympathy. She matches Riggs' quiet, sincere tone, "You're so full of shit."
Riggs looks at her questioningly for a split second before bursting into laughter, much to Gemma's horror. "God, you really are good."
Gemma leans back into her chair, trying not to let Riggs' instability shake her confidence. "I know you, Riggs. Or should I call you Helena?"
Riggs' face drops. A fire lights behind her eyes, making Gemma's stomach flip. She holds on tighter to the knife in her hand.
"I know you went to the Myrtle Eagan School for Girls until you were 15. You racked up misdemeanors until you vanished. Not legally dead, but not technically alive by any real definition either. A ghost."
Riggs leans back in her chair, crossing her arms defiantly. She pulls her lips to the side in contemplation, sizing up Gemma. "You know your shit."
"Yeah, that's kind of my job," Gemma snarls. Riggs smiles, incensing Gemma further. Gemma takes a shallow breath before continuing, "There's something that I still don't know though."
"And what's that?"
"Why Irving?"
Riggs sighs. She inspects her nails. "He was getting too close."
"Too close? To what?" Riggs looks up, offering a blank stare in response. Gemma huffs impatiently. "He was my partner. He knew everything I knew, and I'm still here."
Riggs blows air out of her nose, amused. She sits up, leaning forward, reaching one hand toward Gemma's face. Gemma flinches, which brings an infuriating smirk to Riggs' lips. Riggs softly caresses Gemma's cheek.
"Yes, but he wasn't nearly as pretty as you."
Gemma's rage boils over, and she swiftly draws her knife, aiming to slash Riggs' outstretched arm. Instead, Riggs catches Gemma's wrist with ease, pinning it to the table. She worms the knife out of Gemma's hand and calmly raises it to Gemma's throat, the tip of the blade stinging Gemma's skin. Gemma's body temperature rises as she stares into Riggs' cold, unfeeling eyes.
"Oh, Gemma. I thought this dull safety blanket would make you feel better, but it looks like you've lost your manners again." Riggs tuts disappointingly, then lowers the knife, placing it out of reach.
Gemma yanks her wrist out of Riggs' grasp. "I don't understand how you could do what you do. You seem a little too smart to be carrying out these 'jobs' blindly."
"Are you not doing the same thing?" Riggs cocks her head to the side.
Before Gemma is able to respond, the waitress brings out Riggs' dishes. Riggs thanks her, then starts devouring her steaming hot dishes. Gemma watches, intrigued by her ravenous appetite.
After realizing that Gemma hasn't touched her food since she sat down, Riggs speaks through her full mouth, gesturing at Gemma's plate. "Please. Don't make me eat alone."
Gemma hesitantly picks up her chopsticks, shuffling the chunks of beef across her plate, hypnotized by Riggs shoveling the food down her throat. She raises one piece of gravy-soaked meat into her mouth, chewing pensively as she observes.
"We are not the same," Gemma defends.
Riggs guffaws, a few small pieces of tofu unceremoniously flying out of her mouth. She raises her napkin to her lips, gesturing apologetically. "Sorry, very unladylike. I just didn't know you had such a sense of humor."
Gemma's eyebrows furrow. "I'm working for the good guys. We're trying to expose people like you."
Riggs places her napkin on the table, leaning back into her chair. She looks at Gemma, smug and satisfied. "I'll bet that if you dig deep enough—look high enough—you'll find that we're probably working for the same people."
Gemma's mind spins, unable to process how that could be possible. She tries to think up a response but comes up short, her lack of eloquence worsened by the knowing grin plastered on Riggs' face.
Before Gemma can properly gather her thoughts, Riggs is standing up from the table. Gemma rises to meet her.
"Well, this has been the best date I've been on in ages. Maybe I could pick the place next time. Deal?"
Riggs offers a hand to shake on it. Gemma is too dumbfounded to justify the statement with a confirmation. Riggs seems to expect this, so instead, she pulls Gemma into a hug.
Gemma's entire body freezes under her warm embrace, her arms pinned to her sides. Riggs brings her body even closer, her legs staggered between Gemma's. Gemma can feel the hard, distinct sensation of a handgun against her thigh. Her body heats with fear and anticipation.
Riggs takes a long, unabashed whiff of Gemma's hair, then whispers in her ear, "You know where to find me."
Riggs retracts ever so slightly to place a soft kiss on Gemma's cheek. She lingers, her lips close enough that Gemma can still feel Riggs' warm breath on her skin. Gemma swallows the lump in her throat.
When Riggs pulls back completely, she tips her head in Gemma's direction, then walks toward the front of the restaurant. Gemma turns to watch through the windows as Riggs exits the building and crouches into the backseat of black car with tinted windows. Gemma is still frozen in place as the car drives away.
She's not sure how long she's been standing there when the waitress approaches her table, interrupting the static in her mind. "Do you need any boxes?"
Gemma blinks, trying to bring herself back to the present. "Yes, please. Can you bring the bill?"
"The other woman took care of it," the waitress confirms. She leans in, confiding excitedly, "And she left a really generous tip."
Gemma nods her head absentmindedly. As the waitress walks away to fetch some to-go containers, Gemma sits back down in her chair. She looks at the half-full plates of tofu, a choy, and beef with broccoli laid out in front of her, her eyes ultimately fixating on the fork left on Riggs' plate.
Gemma looks around to check that the waitress is still in the back. She reaches for the flatware, bringing it to her lips. She lets it enter her mouth, her tongue dancing around the tines. She hadn't realized that she had closed her eyes until she's opening them as she pulls the fork out of her mouth, sliding it across her lips on its way out.
Something dark and shameful settles deep within her—a longing for more, satiated only by the irrefutable knowledge that this will not be the last time she'll see Riggs.
She packs up the takeout boxes and brings them out to her car, finally releasing the breath she had been holding since she felt Riggs' hand on her shoulder. She drives home, shaking off the electricity pulsing through her veins, already practicing the lie that she'll tell Mark when she gets home.