“I wrote just over 3,000 words yesterday… not the 10k that I was hoping for, but I suppose that’s why I have today to work, as well. I believe I’ve finally found a scene that works for me for the opening… and am writing actual prose now, not just information dumping back story and awkward maid and butler dialogue… though, I’m struggling with tenses some, much to my secretary’s dismay. Regardless, it’s under the cut… and I’ll continue writing, now.”

…

The opening credits come in on blueprints; grainy and overlaid, one on top of the other, and another. Buildings – corporate office buildings, museums, banks. Each one gradually shifting, moving, until the patterns form the back of a playing card – a giant spade, with the other suits, intricate pattern twisting. The card slides out, revealing a deck. From this, several cards are pulled, stacked appropriately, and then turned over. But instead of normal face cards, similar to the ones used for poker, they are tarot cards.

The reading, if done by those who know, would reveal signs for fools, hunters, a chase, the pursuit of knowledge, and ultimately, death. Death by someone close. Death of someone close. The cards shift into the image of a gruesome crime scene – flashing lights of a police car, blood on the ground, a pale white hand lying lifeless on the concrete.

 Then the title – ‘Insane Jane’ – written in striking red and white on black.

The scene then immediately transitions into a night club. Flashing lights, loud music, and a girl – blonde haired, brown eyed, black halter top against pale skin, mingling with the crowd. Despite the amount of people, she is decidedly alone.

Chapter One

I am Jane.

Nothing else seems to make sense but that simple fact. The fact that I’m here in this night club in Quincy, surrounded by people that I don’t know, is insane. What am I doing? Hoping to be picked up? Do I actually like dancing? I do, but not like this.

“What’s your name?”

The man who asks is in his mid-twenties, unshaven, and drunk enough to be hitting on seventeen year-old girl that he’s managed to work up the courage to talk to. At least, I think it’s because he’s drunk. I used a fake ID to get in here and know my way around the bar enough to be a regular, but I haven’t really put any effort into looking any older than I actually am. Now he’s showing interest and I’m offering a shy sort of smile- a tactic that always works on his type.

“Marie.” I lie, batting long lashes to disguise the fact that I want to roll my eyes so hard. The resistance doesn’t last as he gives me a stupid, slaving grin in response, and I turn away so that he won’t see.

“Marie. Beautiful name, that. Perfect for such a beautiful girl.”

I’m vaguely surprised that he can still speak with the potency of the cheap beer on his breath, but then, he may be a professional drinker. Those are the ones that are the most trouble in an establishment like this; they know how to drink and stay sober enough to function long enough for their lack of inhibitions to get them to act. It’s difficult to say whether I prefer that or not; on the one hand, they’re less likely to pass out or throw up on my dress. On the other, evenings with them are more likely to end in tears.

Despite knowing this, having experienced it far more often than I’d like to admit, I glance back over my shoulder and give him a good once-over, actions exaggerated to make it clear what I’m doing and what my intentions may be. With a twist in my stomach, it’s made clear to me just how receptive he is when his hand touches my waist and slips down to my thigh.

“You flatter me,” I finally say, pulling away with a shameless little laugh. Men like these have to be taunted a little. Teased into thinking that they have some kind of obstacle to overcome to rightfully win their prize. It’s all just a game. He doesn’t need to do anything at all to get me into his bed, not really, though it does seem to give them an aggressive edge. It gets the night over faster.

He pursues, this time catching me by the elbow with one hand, while the other reaches to sweep the hair away from my neck, where he kisses me.

That was easy. I’ve only been here for thirty seven minutes, seventeen seconds, and I’ve nabbed a target. Really, it was almost disappointing. I’d have far too much time afterward to think, and god help me if he decides that he wants to try to talk afterward. I wonder if this is really such a good idea. I know that it’s not; I hate that I do this at all, in fact, but what choice do I have now? He’s got his hand at the small of my back again, and he’s leaning in to take another taste of my neck.

My name is Jane. I tell myself again and again. I am Jane. It doesn’t matter what happens here, or in the back of this man’s car, or back at his apartment. I am still Jane. I will always be Jane. That is the one anchor that I have, and the only one that I need.

“Jane!”

I lift my head out of its tilt, which I’d done to give the man more access to my throat, and froze. The voice that had known me, the real me, belonged to Kent Hartwell, the son of Boston’s chief police commissioner. While I considered ignoring him to keep my cover, the temptation only lasted half a heartbeat before I dropped it entirely. The man that held me, wanted me, was of no consequence. Once I left the club, now without him, I would file him away under failed conquests and lock that memory away. Getting rid of Kent was not so easy.

He approached, tanned skin darker under the neon bulbs of the club, which made his eyes, widened with shock, that much more pronounced. I couldn’t help but laugh at that expression on his face, and pulled away from the man to remove the vulnerability from my posture.

“Ah, Jane, I’m surprised to see you here.” Kent attempted to maintain a professional attitude in all of our interactions, and this was no exception. Between the all-too-serious tone of voice and the flustered fumbling, the effect was completely ruined.  “Who’s your friend?”

I could tell by the way that his smile gradually dampened as he spoke that the man behind me had begun to posture. It was time to cut ties to my evening’s entertainment, even if I didn’t want to admit the relief that I felt. That was Kent, though; a regular knight in shining armor, whether I wanted him to be or not.

“Oh,” I blink and look back over my shoulder at the man, who’s put on a pre-emptive smug smirk, moving up behind me to curl his fingers around my hip. So arrogant, this one. He might have been a good time, really. Kent would owe me more bruises later. I keep my eyes on the man’s face a few moments longer than necessary to answer, just so that I can watch the pride fracture on his face. “I don’t actually know. Just what is your name, anyway?”

The man blanches at that. “Steve,” he stammers, and tightens his hold on my body while struggling to maintain his illusions of control. “Come on, Marie, it’s time to go.”

“Marie. That’s a new one.”

Kent is unamused, as usual, which only increases my amusement.

“It is. A new name, anyway.”  I pull out of Steve’s grip again and am met with little resistance. Although I honestly would have been much happier never knowing Steve’s name, I reluctantly make a note that he’s not drunk enough to not know what he’s doing. His movements have been deliberate. He’s still got enough of his higher functions to know that when a girl pulls away like that, they mean no.  So either Steve’s not such a bad guy after all, or he doesn’t want to risk having any witnesses – like Kent – to discount his stories of ignorance and accidents.

Part of me wants to know how it would have played out, but like this Steve that I’ve built up in my head, I don’t want Kent to think that I’m a vapid idiot, either. He knows too much.

Kent folds his arms across his chest and I do the same, mirroring his now incredulous expression with a brow raise of my own.

“Jane, really…”

I laugh. “Did you forget that I’m a detective? I’m undercover, and you are blowing it.”

Suddenly, the warmth of that body behind me disappears. I don’t turn to watch him; I only need to track Kent’s eyes to know that he’s already sliding back into the crowd to look for a new target. Or, if he’s actually a letch, he’s attempting to leave the club without any further investigation.

I relax when Kent does, but it’s only temporary as my temper flares right after.  “What are you doing, anyway? This isn’t Boston. Isn’t this out of your jurisdiction?”

“I’m helping to track someone down.”  Kent frowns at me, holding onto his arms where they hold his disapproving pose with just a little too much fervor. I wonder if he’s resisting the urge to take me into his arms, or perhaps to take my hand and drag me from the club. “That’s not important. What are you doing here?”

“I told you; I’m a detective.”

“You’re seventeen!”

“I’m a young detective, but that doesn’t change how good I am.”

He finally can’t stand it, and reaches for my wrist. I let him take it, but only long enough to gauge the strength of his grip before slipping out of it. He’s slipped into big brother mode, which means that my time here at the club is nearly over. I came to Quincy instead of Boston in hopes that I would avoid Kent, but he always seems to catch me at my worst.

“You need to go home. It’s late. Please tell me that you haven’t been drinking.”

I take the body of my hair and twist it between my fingers, rolling it over my shoulder to bury the low cut of my dress in curls. He really doesn’t need to see me like this.  “I haven’t.” Another lie, but an easy one. I’ve only had a little; only enough to take the edge off. Kent didn’t carry a breathalyzer or anything on him, last I checked, and I wasn’t about to let him kiss me, so I was reasonably safe in this sea of alcohol fumes and sweat.  “Not that it’d be any of your business, anyway.”

He reaches for my wrist again and I avoid being caught by turning and walking back through, toward the DJ. It will be more difficult to listen to Kent’s protests when drowned out by the throbbing bass and screaming synth. Still, he pursues, and I wonder what it must look like to the other dancers. What it might look like to Steve, who could still be watching. Perhaps waiting. Would he linger in the parking lot and exact his revenge when one or both of us. An interesting thought, that.

When he does catch me, it’s concern and not anger that permeates his presence. His eyes search mine and then my face when I avert my gaze. The way that he tears right through those walls and masks is too intimate for me, and the need for a decision takes priority over all else. I fold and let him take over, baby me, send me home, or I fight. Though, with Kent, it usually ends up being a combination of both, because I can’t fight him for long. It’s not his fault that I am the way that I am, or that I read him like an open book.

I twist into his arms, letting him keep his hold on my arm, and laugh. “You need to lighten up, officer.”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Come on, Jane, let’s get you home.”

With a simple half step, I get out of his grasp. “No. I’ve still got work here to do.”

“What, you mean being picked up by some guy like… like Steve?”

I shrug. “I’m doing an investigation in this area; I need people to talk to me, to willingly volunteer information.” When he rolls his eyes, I feign an innocent smile. “No, not like that. God, Kent, I’m not a slut.”

More lies. Kent hesitates, but relents. He knows my history better than anyone else, but he’s too polite to point that out. Instead he turns to the regulations that he’s so fond of. “How did you even get in to this club?”

“Fake ID.”

“For Marie, right?”

“Yeah.  They’re so easy to fabricate, and no one bothers to check. It makes it very easy to waltz in and out of these kind of places, which is where all of the sleazy people with the dish on what I need survive and thrive.” Although he believes the details of my story, I can tell that he’s unconvinced of the thesis. I sigh. Time to put on the charm. “I can make one for you, if you’d like. Private photography session at my place?”

God. He hesitates a moment and I wonder if he’s really going to accept, which nearly sends me into a panic. But, tried and true Kent comes through for me yet again with a firm shake of his head.

“I’ve got a badge that gets me in to where I need to be, Jane. I don’t have to lie.”

“That’s because you’re on an internship, Mr. Hartwell, and not a private investigator.”

He sighs. The logical fallacies at work are eating at him and I can see that it bothers him.  Still, I’m flirting with him, and I know that he likes that. Watching the mental gears shift in his head is far more interesting than it ought to be, than it’s safe to be. I know that I won’t ever be in love with him, and it’s not fair to treat him like this.

“You could be,” he eventually says with a sigh. “Did you turn it down again?”

I shrug. I haven’t turned them down. I’m in the station several times a week back in the town of Lyndoch where I live, working with the people under my father – Police Chief Tom Wickham. But even involvement with the hard working men and women of the force (which was miniscule compared to what Kent dealt with), my need for freedom to do as I pleased had not stopped my work as a private investigator. A detective.

“Come on, Jane. Did you drive?”

“No, I took the train.” I wasn’t about to drive my cherry red BMW to a night club. That was just asking for drama. Besides, before Kent showed up, I had intended to get more drinking in. It would have helped to dull the pain from the headache that always came on with my so-called unsavory activities.  “Come on, Kent… you know that things are dull at home. I’ve got to get out to get any interesting news. And that guy’s still out there, you know.”

“Steve?” His brow lifts again, this time in skepticism.

“No.  Not Steve. I’m talking about the serial killer that-“

“You know we’re not supposed to be talking about that.”  Kent shakes his head, slipping his arm around my back so that he can guide me toward the stairs. “It’s still not entirely public knowledge.”

“Oh, please, everyone knows about it.”

He doesn’t listen, making a bee-line for his goal. It should be quieter up there, which means that he’s at least not willing to patronize me quite so much as to force me to leave, but he’s not going to let me out of his sight. It’s equally as annoying, but I guess he’s earned a little bit of a break from me and my attitude. Honestly, I don’t see how he can stand to put up with me the way that he does. The flirting that I do to keep him at bay must be exuberating the problem, but I’m not about to stop.

“Just because the news has reported some unrelated killing doesn’t mean that the general public is aware of the situation as a whole.” He shifts positions to take my arm, leading me up the stairs, and I let him.  

He loves me. He knows it. I know it. He knows that I know it. But I’m never going to love him back. This isn’t his fault, either; he’s a great guy. Handsome, sweet, valiant. Everything that a girl could want as a counterpart to her damsel in distress. But I’m not in distress, not anymore, and he’s already done his saving. The first time I met him… and I mean really met him as opposed to seeing him around at district summer parties with the force, was the night that my mother died. When they pulled me out of that dirty basement at nine years old, I was thrust in to Kent’s arms, who was then ordered to hold me until my father arrived and could take over.

Kent was barely ten years old then, and already so obedient to every order that Commissioner Hartwell barked. He held me tight in his arms and I wondered, staring at the ground past his shoulder, if that was what it was like to have nothing left. I had my life, my father, my home left. My future. And in Kent’s arms, I might have had the beginnings of young love budding, especially when he blushed when I looked at him. But I couldn’t feel anything other than agony.  It didn’t bring my mom back. Her blood, then dried, caked my face and hair. No amount of holding would fix that, even though it was easily better than the horrors that I’d just been rescued from.

That was the problem. Kent had saved me that night, and in the process marked himself. I can’t see him without remembering that night, and reliving a part of that agony over again. That’s the problem with deictic memory; it’s half as useful as photographic and so much more painful.  But that’s all difficult to explain to someone who has always tried so hard to be there for you, always with that careful smile, respectful gestures, and vulnerable heart.

Not that it kept those in charge from trying to set us up. A marriage, they said, between the two of us would help the RP of our district. Strengthen the ties over the boundary. Secure more funding for Lyndoch, which it sorely needed. But that was insane. We’d never even been on a real date. And I wasn’t about to let him start. Every time he tried to ask, I’d pushed him away. Showed him a little more of myself- the parties, the bad habits, but he still persisted that it didn’t matter, even though it really, really did. It hurts to see him disappointed. But I just can’t let him in like that. He deserves better. And I have things to do.