Chance Encounters

Originally sent to newsletter subscribers in November, 2023. Sign up for the free newsletter now to receive exclusive stories months in advance.

The body lay crumpled on the ground, a sheet shielding the worst of the carnage. Blood streaked down the concrete wall behind her before meeting the pool that had formed in the cracks of the sidewalk. Police tape sectioned off the portion of the path, much to the dismay of pedestrians hustling from office to lunch, their lunch breaks shortened even further by the slight detour.

This was not Layla’s normal death scene. She was an investigative reporter, so she had witnessed her fair share of dead bodies, but it was rare she arrived somewhere that the story seemed so unambiguous. Based on the statements she and Demychal, her best friend and fellow journalist, had taken, the woman had been walking across the street when an elderly man fell asleep at the wheel. The car veered off the road and struck her, tossing her through the air and into the concrete barrier. The first responders pronounced Evelyn Gorde dead upon impact. It would get a small post on the site—Terry would congratulate Demychal on a job well-done—but would likely garner very little public attention. In the times of physical newspapers, the story would likely be relegated to a small filler section in the innermost pages.

Still, Demychal was a detailed and diligent reporter. He had the highest output of the entire staff. His words had a way of conveying the emotion of a story while still sticking to the facts, and his initial copy was nearly always flawless. Layla was jealous of him in that, especially when reading her own comment-filled writing she received from her editor.

She had only intended to step out for a coffee before returning to the office to finish a proposal for a story about a potential underground gambling ring taking place in the local breweries. But when Demychal had run into her on his way to the scene, she couldn’t tell him no. Now here she was, looking over the accident like a detective, scanning for anything her partner may have missed.

After half an hour of pacing back and forth, lifting the sheet over and over again to examine the body, and looking through the car for any evidence of medication, she was officially bored. She glanced over to Demychal, who was still deep in conversation with one of the driver’s family members. She had to keep from rolling her eyes at his persistence as she turned away and along the wall which the body had struck.

At the force of the impact, leaves had fallen from the green lawn above and were now scattered across the sidewalk, blowing slowly in the soft wind. The wall had been totally covered in graffiti. Some of it was vulgar, of course, but some of it was truly great artwork. It would be a beautiful image if not for the dead body sitting just a few feet behind her.

She took a breath and made to turn back and hurry Demychal along, when a particular piece of art caught her eye. It was nothing particularly special or groundbreaking, just a simple looping “T” shape with an oval through the top half. She stared at it for a moment, following the curve of the lines with her eyes.

“You ready?”

Layla started in response to Demychal’s voice. She wheeled to face him and glanced to where he had been talking to the victim’s family member, but the crowd had dispersed. She looked back to the symbol on the wall before meeting his eyes. “What’s up?”

Demychal let out a deep laugh, though hushed in respect for the possible remaining loved ones of Evelyn Gorde. “You good, Samuels?”

“Fine,” she said. “You finally done?”

“Me? I’ve been waiting on you.” He looked at the wall before them. “What are you looking for over here?”

“Nothing. Just killing time while you talk to everyone who ever breathed the same air as the victim.” Layla slapped him on the arm and started back in the direction of the office. “Come on, we’ve got things to write.” She took one last glimpse over her shoulder, locking her sight on the singular symbol among a sea of other drawings.

#

Layla’s story proposal didn’t get approved. Her boss told her they “didn’t have the funds to support something like that,” and even when Layla volunteered to do it without overtime or special funding, he still wouldn’t agree. She was pissed. She had spent hours on that proposal, and he had denied it with barely a glance at the details.

“Demychal, let’s go,” she said, walking past his desk. “I need a coffee.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” came his reply, but she was already through the door and into the stairwell.

She stormed through the front doors with Demychal hot on her heels and turned squarely to the left, stomping her feet with each step. “We going somewhere else for coffee?” Demychal called after her.

“We’ll find something,” she said. “But I want to stop somewhere first.”

She marched by no less than four different coffee shops in there downtown stretch before turning onto one of the main road. Demychal had to suspect where she was taking him, but he didn’t question her. He had learned to let her walk it out when she got like this. Ten minutes after leaving, she stopped without warning and turned to face a huge building with glass windows. She didn’t speak for several seconds.

“You thinking you might want to go inside?” Demychal asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“I want to.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t know.”

“I know.” Demychal looked over to see a tear forming in the edge of her eye. “You’ve been thinking about it for a while, now. I heard they’re hiring.”

“It’s an entry-level position,” she said. “I’d be taking a huge step backward.”

“You?” He chuckled softly. “You’d move up in a week, once they saw what you can do. You’re fantastic.”

“I want to apply, I really do.” She turned to face him. “Do it with me.”

“I can’t,” he said. “You know I can’t. I owe Anders too much to leave him.”

“You’ve paid your dues.” Layla threw her arms in the air. “For God’s sake, Demychal, you’ve been on grunt duty for six years. You could be doing huge stories, winning awards, and you’re stuck covering the local bakery’s giveaway contest. Anders is holding you back at this point.”

“You’re probably right.” He shook his head. “No, you’re absolutely right. But still, I can’t leave.”

“I know,” she said. “And I can’t leave you.” She shoved him in the arm. “You’d go crazy without me.”

They didn’t say it, but they both knew that the opposite was true; Layla was the one who needed him. He was her rock, her sounding board when she was stuck or frustrated, and her only real friend. She wouldn’t leave him, and he wouldn’t leave Anders.

With a sigh, she grabbed a free, day-old paper from the stack and flipped through it as she turned to walk back to their own office. She thumbed through the pages, savoring the feel of the paper in her hand. She always found it amazing that this was the only outlet in the city that still produced an actual, physical newspaper every single day.

“Where do you want to get coffee?” Demychal asked.

“I don’t know,” she said absent-mindedly. “That new blue place looked pretty—” Her words trailed off and she stopped in her tracks, staring at the paper in her hands.

Demychal had to do a double take before he realized that she wasn’t beside him anymore. “You good?”

She had the paper directly before her eyes. “Come look at this.” She held it out to him.

He took the paper from her and stared at it. “What am I looking at, exactly?”

“Bottom right corner, page eleven.”

“Okay.” He took a moment to scan the story. “It’s a story about a man getting trampled by horses at a parade. It’s awful. I could’ve written it better, is that what you’re going to say?”

“No. Well, yes, you could have. But no.” She pointed at the image accompanying to the story. “Recognize anything?”

“Honestly, no.”

“Look at that symbol?”

Demychal held the paper closer to get a better look. “That twisty, pretzel-looking thing? What about it? It looks like graffiti. Sure, it’s on a government building. A minor one, but still. The kids are getting bolder.”

“That same symbol was on the wall behind the woman who got hit by the car last week,” Layla said. “Gorde. Something Gorde.”

“Evelyn Gorde? So? That wall was covered in graffiti. It’s probably some new gang that just popped up.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you recognize it? Does it mean something?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t think so. It’s just strange, that’s all.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty weird-looking.”

“I mean it’s strange that it was right there, at the scene of two gruesome freak accidents.”

“Layla.” Demychal put his hands on her shoulders. “I think you might be digging a little deep on this one. It’s just some kids drawing on a wall. I know you’re upset about your gambling story getting shot down, but don’t go reaching for something else that is even less likely to get the green light.”

“You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “I know you’re right. I think I’m just tired.”

“Maybe you should take a day off. You have plenty.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea. It would be nice to have a three-day weekend.” Layla winked. “Maybe I’ll wake up with a fever tomorrow.”

“You do look a little peckish.” He returned her wink. “I think you’re coming down with something.”

With a laugh, they stepped into a coffee shop. Layla tossed the newspaper in the recycling bin, relieved to have the temptation of the rival paper out of her hand and the lure of the symbol out of her mind.

#

Except the symbol didn’t leave her mind. She sent her boss at the paper an e-mail just before bed saying that she was starting to feel sick, just to cover for her plan to call in sick the next morning. She flicked off the lamp beside her bed. A sharp squeal escaped her as a vision of the symbol danced in front of her eyes in the darkness.

She blinked rapidly and rubbed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw only darkness. Her heart rate slowly returned to normal, but she could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins. It took her hours to fall asleep. Every time she closed her eyes and settled into a comfortable position, thoughts of that damned symbol crept back up. What could it mean? Who had drawn it? Was it a gang sign, or a clue as to some bigger story?

When her alarm woke her at five o’clock, after only a couple of hours of sleep, she didn’t have to try very hard to sound sick as she dialed the office number. She sent a follow-up e-mail just to be safe and pulled the blankets over her head. Still, despite her exhaustion, sleep evaded her. She could not stop the onslaught of thoughts racing through her mind.

Frustrated, she climbed out of bed and went to the kitchen for her morning coffee. She went about her usual morning routine. She may have been officially off work, but she knew herself well enough to realize that working through this lead was the only way she was going to be able to clear her head and actually relax for the next three days.

The police department offices opened at nine sharp, but she was waiting outside fifteen minutes early. As soon as the front door unlocked, she hustled up the stairs and strode inside. Familiar with the routine, she had her pockets emptied before the officer even opened his mouth to ask. She proceeded through the metal detector with confidence and continued upstairs to the clerk’s office.

“Layla,” Officer Nazir Pascal called. “It’s been a while. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“You look serious, so I’m assuming this isn’t a friendly visit?”

“That’s right,” she said. “I need a favor. I need to see some files, photos specifically.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “Photos of what?”

“Nothing big,” she said. “Just every accidental death case in the past year or so?”

“Layla,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Nazir, you owe me.”

“Damn it, Layla,” he said. “You are messing with my job right now.” He rubbed his hands through his hair and looked around. “Shit. Fine. I’ll get you what you need. Give me until lunch. Meet me out back at noon. I’ll bring them to you.”

“Thank you, Officer P.” She wanted to jump across the desk and hug him. “Seriously, thank you.”

#

Layla didn’t spend the weekend relaxing, she spent it working. The photos had hit her hard, and the implications could be huge. Every single case file Officer Pascal had given her had at least one image that contained the same symbol. It was a massive thing to have missed, though she understood why the officers wouldn’t take note of a seemingly innocuous symbol at the scene of open-and-closed cases like these.

She spent every free moment of the weekend compiling evidence and developing a plan of attack for this story. Two cases could have been a coincidence. Over a hundred could not. There was something bigger going on here, and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

She awoke on Monday morning full of energy. Her proposal was solid. She had planned it meticulously. She was sure it would work.

This was going to be the biggest story of her career.

#

“You know what, fuck this. I quit.”

Layla stormed from the office of Anders Thompson, slamming the door behind her. All eyes turned to her as she strode through the office and started ripping things from her desk.

“You quit?” Anders yelled, throwing open his office door. “You can’t quit. Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know, but somewhere better than here,” she said. Everyone was staring at her, but she didn’t care. Demychal had followed her lead and taken a long weekend of his own, so at least she was spared from his shocked stare. “I am sick and fucking tired of you holding me, and everyone else, back. You don’t even look at my proposals. You keep Demychal pinned down. Baelie can’t even get sideline access because you won’t shell out the fifty bucks. You’re don’t even recognize all of the talent that you’re squandering. I’ll go somewhere where they recognize everything I have to offer. Bye, Anders. Good luck pulling your giant head out of your ass.”

Layla held her head high as she walked out of the silent office. She turned away from the office with a weight lifted from her shoulders. She almost walked over to immediately submit an application to the other newspaper outlets, but decided on a coffee first. She spun on her heel and walked in the opposite direction.

At the third intersection, a woman stepped in front of her. Their shoulders collided, and the woman dropped her baggie from a local deli.

“I’m so sorry,” Layla said as she knelt to retrieve the food. “I was just so happy, I didn’t even see you there.”

“It’s no problem,” the woman said. “Thank you for your help. Most people would have kept walking.”

“Oh, of course.” Layla handed the woman the bag.

“So, what’s got your spirits so high?”

“I just quit my job.”

The woman shook her head in surprise, then nodded in understanding. “I’ve been there.” She glanced over Layla’s shoulder and started walking away slowly. “Well, I hope it all works out for you.”

“Oh, it will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Have a nice day.”

Layla looked over her shoulder as she turned to continue walking. “You as well.”

She was still looking back at the woman. She didn’t see the bus rushing to beat the yellow light. She stepped off of the curb and into the street. The horn was loud in her ear, but it was too late. She never even saw the bus. The impact was more dull than she would have thought. One moment she was walking upright, the next she was hurtling through the air. She landed in a heap on the edge of the street, her head resting on the warm asphalt. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe.

Her eyes fluttered. As she took her final breath, she noticed a strange symbol, like a looping “T” with an oval through the top half, drawn on the curb beside her head. She closed her eyes for the last time.

#

“Why did she have to die? We almost had her.”

“She’s smart, you were right about that,” the woman with the deli bag said. “But she was too smart for her own good. She would have exposed us before she joined us.”

“But Trina, you saw the way she stared at the symbol. She was obsessed with it. It would have drawn her in just as it did us.”

“You can’t know for sure,” Trina said. “We couldn’t risk being exposed.”

“I know. You’re right.”

“You coming?”

“You go on. I just need a moment.”

Demychal stared down at the body of his dead friend lying on the ground three stories below. He pressed his head against the glass window and said a silent apology for ever exposing her to the symbol. He had felt certain she would be enamored by it, but he thought he could use that to bring her into their order. Instead, he had gotten his closest friend killed.

He wiped a single tear from his eye, pulled his hood over his head, and rejoined his brethren. Together, they recited the sacred prayer.

“Okay,” Trina said. “Our Master requires another sacrifice and at least one more follower. Who’s our next target?”