Owen Betrays My Trust on Opening Night novel · Chapter 3 of 3
Chapter 3: The Counselor
Romy goes to the firehouse and confronts the counselor; Owen's captain tells her Owen signed the disclosure form himself, in writing, back in August.
I didn't sleep.
I sat at my kitchen table with the second box of programs open and read the strip on the back of every one.
Same line. Same font.
She has thirty days.
Thirty days from what.
I know what thirty days means.
I woke up at nineteen with a System in my head and four chances to be loved.
The fourth one ran out two years ago, and I walked out of Desmond Holcombe's house and told it I'd take the death.
I'm still here, so somebody's reading off a different clock.
At seven I put on the black coat and drove to the firehouse.
The bay doors were up. Two trucks in, one out.
A man in a captain's shirt stood at the coffee pot with his back to me.
"Help you?"
"I'm here for the counselor."
"Group's not till Thursday."
"I'm not here for the group."
He turned around. Fifty, thick through the chest, gray at the temples.
He had a phone in his hand with a band app open on it.
Same color as Owen's.
"I'm Romy Tilney."
His thumb moved and the screen went dark.
"I know who you are."
"Then you know why I'm here."
He poured coffee and didn't drink it.
"Counselor's through the bay. Back office."
The trucks smelled like diesel and soap.
The office had a desk, two chairs, and a poster about sleep.
The counselor was heavyset, in his forties, turning a wedding ring.
He stood up when I came in.
"Miss Tilney."
"You've got my readings."
"I've got a shared feed from a member of this house."
"Show me."
He looked at the door, then unlocked the phone and turned it around.
It was all there. Resting rate. Spikes. Dates and times.
The tech rehearsal flagged red at 151.
The night in August I sat on my kitchen floor it flagged that too.
"This is a medical record," I said.
"It's a wellness feed."
"It's my heart."
"It's a number a device put out." He said it gently, which was worse. "It's a signal so people who care about you know when to check in."
"Did you check in?"
"I called Owen four times."
"Did you call me?"
He turned the ring again.
"That's not how the arrangement works."
"There's an arrangement."
"There's a form."
I sat down because my legs had gone light.
"Say that again."
"The department has a disclosure form for paired devices. You sign it, you name who can see the feed, it's filed."
"Who signs it?"
"The one wearing the band."
"Which is Owen."
"Which is Owen."
I looked at the poster about sleep.
"Get the captain."
The captain came in and stood by the door with his coffee.
"You've got the form," I said.
"I've got the form."
"I want to see it."
"It's a personnel record."
"It's a record about my body."
He looked at the counselor. The counselor shrugged.
He went out and came back with a folder and opened it on the desk.
Two sheets.
The first was a department header and a paragraph about paired device disclosure.
The second was a signature page.
Four names typed on four lines.
A captain. A counselor. An understudy. Hollis Vane.
At the bottom, in the box marked WEARER, was a signature.
Owen's. I've seen it on birthday cards and the bottom of a grocery list.
Dated August 14.
"Read the top," the captain said.
I read the top.
I, the undersigned, wear the paired band on behalf of the named wearer and accept responsibility for the feed generated by said band. I understand that by naming a recipient below I am granting that recipient continuous access to the wearer's heart rate and related readings.
"I'm the named wearer," I said.
"You're the named wearer."
"I never signed this."
"You didn't have to. He wore the band." The captain drank his coffee. "That was your deal. He wears it, he signs for it."
"He signed for my heart."
"He signed for the band."
"Same thing."
The captain set the cup down.
"Owen Garrity came to me in August with his hands shaking. He said a man on the board was going to pull you off that stage and a woman was getting out of custody who'd already burned you once." He tapped the page. "He asked what he was allowed to do. I told him there was a form. He filled it out that night."
"At my kitchen table."
"At his."
"While I was asleep upstairs."
"I wouldn't know."
I looked at the signature. It ran. He'd signed it the way you sign a credit slip.
"Where's his copy?"
"What copy?"
"There's always a copy. File one, hand one back."
The captain looked at the counselor. The counselor looked at the desk.
"We keep the original in personnel."
"Did he get a copy?"
The captain flipped to the back of the folder.
A third sheet, a carbon, same four names, same signature, date-stamped at the front desk.
"Sign here," he said, and pushed a pen across.
"What am I signing?"
"A request for a copy of a record that names you."
I signed it. He made the copy at the machine by the door and put it in my hand.
Owen's name at the bottom in his fast running hand.
I folded it into my coat.
"One more thing," I said.
"What."
"Who did you tell?"
The captain's cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
"About what?"
"The feed. Who did you show it to?"
"That's not your business."
"It's my heart rate."
"It's a record in this house."
"Who did you show it to?"
He set the cup down and looked at me a long second.
Then he took a corkboard off the wall behind the desk and turned it around.
Tacked to the back, under the shift schedule, was a page of my readings with my name at the top.
A printout of the feed. August through October, a hundred lines, the highest one circled in red.
"Who did you show it to?"
The captain reached into the folder and pulled out the carbon with Owen's signature on it.
He held it out across the desk.
"I showed it to the house," he said. "Every man on every shift. And I've got the form right here that says I was allowed to."
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