You said you wanted to know more about her? Well, fine, I’ll tell you. You’re not going to like what I have to say though, and I think we both know why. I’ve told you before I can’t help myself when it comes to my more desperate clients, especially the pretty ones, and this case was no different.
The first time I met her she’d marched into my office and demanded answers I didn’t know how to give. Questions poured out of her like the whiskey into my glass, and because she was a glass-half-full kind of gal they just kept coming. You’ve never met someone with so much determination to get her story, not like this. Not like her.
She was a leggy redhead who always had a pen on hand, between her teeth, or knotted in her hair. The constant drizzle that covered the Pacific Northwest was soaked into her soul and dampened the shoulders of her well-loved trench coat. If you passed her on the street you might not think much of her, but then again, you weren’t supposed to, were you?
She liked knowing that you weren’t paying attention, that you were giving up secrets she could sequester away in short stories and slivers of personality she could immortalize in characters someone might read about a hundred years from now. It didn’t matter who you were, she was always listening. Always remembering. Most importantly she was always asking the tough questions, the ones I didn’t want to answer. The ones you warned me not to give.
Eventually, I couldn’t take the pressure anymore and I caved to her demands, but let it be known that I put up a good struggle before she broke me. I didn’t reveal anything that first day, or in the weeks that came after. I’m good at what I do, after all. I was a sucker for those big green eyes though, and she knew it too. She came to me every day for a year, that pen in hand and a determined set to her jaw.
I might be good at what I do, but when it comes to getting the story, she was unrelenting, a real tenacious storyteller with a thirst for a tragic ending. I only gave up the first half, mind you, the bits of truth that won’t break us if it gets out.
She’ll be back for more though, soon enough. She always is.
Jessica Ann Betts is 26 years old. She spends the majority of her time working on various book projects and the remainder huddled on the couch watching netflix and scrolling tumblr.
She thrives on spite and coffee, enjoys reading fanfiction at family gatherings, and will not tell you anything about the snowcone incident.
Living in the PNW, she’s working towards building a publishing and production company that focuses on teaching indie authors how to make the most out of their freedom, and on being financially stable enough to support two dogs and a mortgage with her writing.