The Journalist

It was a long day of meetings. Buildings towered over the City, blocking any last bit of sun that fought sleep like a stubborn child. The glow of streetlights cast sidewalks as spotlights and the marquees winked, flirting with passersby as they lured people in to do businesses up and down the Avenue. Moon stepped off the curb, right hand in the air as she hailed her taxi home. The ride home seemed longer than usual as eyes spied on her through the rear-view mirror. The taxi stopped in front of Moon’s brownstone. She stepped out of the cab and just before shutting the door, she noticed the envelope that Mr. Barclay gave her was still on the back seat. Moon leaned back in, retrieving the envelope as the driver gave her one last look through his mirror. At her doorstep, a red box sat with a silky bow. Moon knelt, picked it up, opened her door and sat the box down on the credenza while she shrugged her peacoat from her shoulders. Curious to see who the box was from and what its contents were, Moon paid no attention to her coat as it slipped to the floor around her shoes. A little note card tucked securely under the bow and as she removed it, the only words “For you.”

Moon walked over to her favorite chair, catching her reflection with side-eye as she passed the mirror, noticing her exhaustion. It showed in her body language. It had been a long week. The chair was her favorite, an over-stuffed down feathered cushion that pillowed around her thighs. It was her favorite chair for a reason. Moon placed the box on her lap, tugged at the ribbon and watched as it slipped from a bow into a thin red line tracing her thigh as it cascaded down from her lap. Lifting the lid and removing a delicate layer of tissue perfumed with the scent of Hermes, notes of orange blossom and vanilla delighted her senses. She peeled away the tissue and held up a little bit of lacy lingerie. As she held the panties in front of her, another note dropped to her lap. This one read “For your debut performance.”

Moon set the box of lingerie aside and unclasped the envelope Mr. Barclay passed to her during the meeting. She pulled out a small stack of papers and paged through them. Photos of girls, presumably missing, notes of their last whereabouts, possible contacts and persons who may have last seen them. At the bottom of the pile, the third note. It was a stationary Moon recognized from Mr. Barclay’s desk. She unfolded the page and began reading “Your assignment will be The Red Club, Manhattan’s premier Gentleman’s Club. Every Friday night is Open Stage Night. You will assimilate yourself into the culture. Get to know staff and guests. Find out what you can about the missing girls from the Upper East Side.” And as she continued to read, she could feel Mr. Barclay’s eyes slowly trace her body from head to toe and heard his voice in the back of her head as if he were reading the note. Moon finished. “My ambitious investigative journalist. I know you will not let me down.” Her eyes paused on the note. “PS…I’ve provided your uniform for the job. You are going to fit right in.” Mr. Barclay was right. Moon had ambition. But this assignment caused her to doubt herself.