The Little Black Book

She was looking for something sharp. The room was dark, with a sliver of sunshine creeping in through the boarded window. Specks of dust clouded the air with every movement Dylan made, making it difficult to breathe. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady her breath as the claustrophobia began to creep in. But now was not the time to allow her panic to consume her. She knew she only had five minutes, maybe ten, at most, before her boss returned home. She began to push through the clutter in the attic. Tattered books with broken spines, worn black cushions, boxes of musty smelling clothing and antique furniture pressed up against the walls where the once-white paint cracked and peeled. Moving as swiftly as she could toward the window, she opened one drawer after another, stumbling over the objects as she went. Cursing as her toe caught on a floorboard, she spotted it. In a long-forgotten corner of the room, a lone screwdriver peeking out at her. Snatching it up, she turned her focus to the rusty steel panel almost perfectly concealed behind the burgundy dresser behind her.

At twenty-five years old, Dylan would be the first to admit she had always lived her life within the confines of the boundaries set for her. First by her parents, then by her teachers and now by her employer. It's not that adventure never called for her; it's just that the little nagging voice she carried with her everywhere would always intervene. But this time was different. This time there was a man's life on the line. A man that she had known since she was nine.

Dylan first met Matthew Decker at an after-school program for kids with parents that could not arrange for pick up at the bell. Matthew was timid and was seated by himself playing on a Gameboy. Dylan slid onto the bench beside him. "Hi, I'm Dylan. I haven't seen you here before, are you new?" she extended her freckled hand. The corners of Matthews' deep hazel eyes crinkled as he gazed up at her. He took her hand briefly, "Hey, I'm Matthew. My family just moved to Arlington from Dallas last week," he replied shortly before placing his gaze back on his Gameboy. Not one to ever shy away from a conversation, Dylan persisted, and after some weeks, the two struck up a friendship. A friendship that lasted until the tenth grade when Matthew moved away again, and their attempts to stay in touch soon diminished. She often thought about him but eventually resolved that he was a fond memory of her past.

That is until a week ago when a soft knock on her door Monday evening interrupted the law books she was pouring over. Dylan peered through the peephole but saw no one standing on the other side. She opened her door a crack, noticing a black duffle bag on her porch. Instinct told her to call the police, but curiosity got the best of her. She carried the bag inside and set it on her wooden dining table. Cautiously unzipping it, her breath caught in her throat as she realized the bag was filled with hundred dollar bills and a slip of stained paper folded in two.

The note read, "I need your help. There is a black notebook hidden somewhere within the home of Charles Watts. I need you to retrieve it and deliver it to 2507 Crescent Drive at noon on May 8th. M. D." There were four things that struck her. 1. March 8th was in two days. 2. Charles Watts happened to be her boss at the law firm she was articling at. 3. M. D. could only stand for one person that she knows. 4. There was $20,000 in the bag and for what? Tucking her heavy long red hair behind her ears she grabbed her laptop off the kitchen counter, carrying it over to the couch.

She sunk into the depth of the grey plushness clutching the note in one hand and the laptop in the other. Her mind was racing with possibilities. How did Matthew know so much about her current life? What sort of trouble was he in that he needed her help? How was her boss connected to all of this? Was this money a form of payment to entice her into helping?

She began to type Matthew's name into a search engine. The last time she tried to look him up was four years ago, but there was no trace of any of his social media accounts. Nor any mention of a Matthew Decker that was linked to him online, for that matter. But she had to start somewhere. It wasn't until the bottom of the sixth page that a link caught her eye.

"Joe Whittaker vs. Matthew Decker"

"Conspiracy to Murder-for-Hire"

The link opened up to a court document outlining a lawsuit between Joe Whittaker and Matthew. As her eyes swept the page, things started to slowly unravel. Charles Watts was representing Joe Whittaker, the CEO of a private security firm. Matthew was a former employee who was caught conspiring to take Whittaker's life while on the job. Last September, the lawsuit was filed and alleged that Matthew was hired by an unnamed man to murder his boss. The document mentioned payment and a tapped call between the client and Matthew that proved he was hired to murder. But as she tried to view more of the record, the file was redacted, preventing her from learning more. As someone who was on the brink of becoming a lawyer, Dylan found it strange that there was no more information pertaining to the case or its outcome anywhere online. What she did manage to learn was that Whittaker's company was frequently used by politicians in Washington, D.C., and that was the extent of it.

Dylan sat with the revelation for a moment. Her gut told her that the soft-spoken Matthew she knew for all those years could never be capable of something like this. She also knew the only way to learn more was to directly get the information from Watts's office.

The next morning, Dylan woke before her alarm at 6:00am. After a night of tossing and turning, a dream of flooding, mimicking her rising panic, woke her in a cold sweat and with her heart thumping. She slipped out of bed, pulling her messy, knotted hair into a tight bun. Throwing on a dress shirt, a pair of black pants and a camel knee-length coat to guard against the biting winter chill, she headed out. It was still dark outside, but she needed to get to the office before any suspicious eyes arrived. In the seven months that Dylan worked with Watts, he had taken a liking to her, frequently sharing some of the cases he was working on. She could use this to her advantage.

When the eyes of one of the security guards landed on her, she nodded hello and headed for the kitchen. Making a black Americano, she slipped into Watts's office under the guise of dropping it off on his desk. Watts typically arrived at 7:00am, so there wasn't much time. But enough for her to rifle through the cabinet's containing some of his case files. It didn't take long for her eyes to catch the label, "Whittaker." As suspected, the file was empty, but Dylan knew she could use her boss's misplaced trust in her to get what she needed. She had once seen the pin he used to access the small cabinet beneath his desk. She swiftly keyed in "97895." It unlocked, and it was here that she saw "Matthew Decker." She pulled the files and hastily took photos of each page on her phone.

Once in the safe confines of a washroom stall, her stomach twisted as the truth revealed itself with every word. Matthew Decker was sentenced to ten years in prison for a crime that there was seemingly no solid evidence that he had committed. None of it added up. Matthew had come from old family money that made their fortune in oil, so the defences alleged motivation of "money" didn't make sense. Instinct told her that the answers must be in the little black book Matthew had pointed her to.

With beads of sweat starting to surface on her skin, Dylan pushed her glasses up slightly as she looked contemplatively at the dresser in Watts's attic. She began to shimmy it off the wall creating enough room to squeeze behind it. Jamming the screwdriver between the wall and the steel panel at the top and then the bottom, it loosened off the wall. After combing through the obvious places in the house, she knew her boss was smart enough to get creative with his hiding spots. This had to be it. Creating enough room to slip her hand behind the panel, she felt around until her heart leapt as she felt a smooth surface beneath her fingertips.

She gently lifted the object, squeezing it through the gap. She turned the black Moleskine notebook in her hand when the creaking sound of a door opening below made her jump. Wiping her forehead, she needed to find a way out of the house upstairs. Tucking the notebook into her jacket, she grabbed her brown boots, which she had carried with her through the house. She crept down the attic stairs and could hear Watts's agitated voice on the phone travelling through the house. Tiptoeing down the hall, she found herself in what looked like the master bedroom. A stone grey coloured King Size bed sat in the middle of the room. The bed looked out to a curtained sliding door concealing a balcony.

A pipe attached to the house beside the balcony would have to be her escape. She cautiously slid down it, landing in the backyard. With only twenty minutes remaining until noon, Dylan made a run for it. Once safely up the street, she called a taxi to take her to 2507 Crescent Drive. Flipping through the notebook, Dylan saw one name after another of politicians and CEOs of pharmaceutical and energy companies with monetary values beside them. The book was a ledger chronicling donations made by corporations to politicians. She still didn't know Matthew's involvement, but that nagging voice told her that it was much bigger than him.

After ten minutes of tense breathing and her brain running through the options, she pulled up to an old red-bricked building. A tall man with an FBI badge greeted her. He explained that this notebook was the key to earning back Matthew's freedom and uncovering a massive corruption plot in Washington. It turned out Matthew was framed because he was privy to this information. With the notebook in hand as he turned to leave, she couldn't help but ask, "what was that twenty thousand for?" He cocked his head, contemplating before responding, "I imagine it was Matthew's way of showing his gratitude."

"When will I see Matthew?" The man offered a small smile. "I don't know." He turned away with a thank you before taking off. It was out of her hands now.

Two months later, the news surfaced. One by one, the names in the little black book made headlines. The politicians and corporations on the list were caught up in a scandal influencing the election and public policy. Donations that were made were revealed. Arrests were made, and Charles Watts was on trial for corruption. Yet, there was no word of what happened to Matthew.

A year later, Dylan sat at her kitchen counter, going over a case she had just been assigned. After Watts stepped down from the firm, a managing partner took over, offering her a job. The sun had just set when a soft knock on her door alerted her. Before even opening the door, she knew what or rather who to expect on the other side of it.