Galilee Rising(3)

I start on my flavorless chicken--diets really suck--as a CBN correspondent reports today's attack. We've made national news. Again. Dobbs comes out with his tray of French onion soup and veal parmesan. My mouth almost waters. I hate being a girl. "Another attack today," he says as he sits. "No casualties this time, thank God."

"I know. Mayor Miracle must be shitting himself. I heard tourism is down fifteen percent this summer. They just got the numbers."

"Not surprising," Dobbs says. "I've lived in this city all my life and things have never been this bad. The newspaper said we were averaging an attack a week."

I chuckle. "And two billion in property damage a month. Everyone was having shit fits at the zoo fundraiser last week about the state upping taxes to pay for it. There goes that jewel encrusted jet Bitsy had her eye on."

Justin would smile but Dobbs just spoons soup into his mouth. "I don't like what's happening to this city. Mr. J.T. must be turning over in his grave. Master Justin too."

If he had a grave. "Things will level out." Or there'll be nothing left of this city to pick at like these vultures have been doing. I swear some villain must have put out an ad in Psychopath Weekly. "Come to Galilee Falls. Dad's gone, time to party." Reaper from Darlington and Boneshaker from fucking England now permanently call Galilee home, and those are two we know of for a fact. Ache, Brujah, Boil have all put in appearances this year. And it's not just supers. Bank robberies, rapes, even murders have shot up. Superheroes like Geronimo and Olympia are doing their best, but they're no Justice. He was a symbol. Hell, some even thought he was a literal God. God's don't plummet to their death from a hospital rooftop.

"Perhaps the Royal Triumvirate will help," Dobbs says.

"They were probably just passing through," I say, stabbing my cauliflower. "You know how territorial superheroes are. Justice only left the city twice to help in others. The Royal's were probably popping back to repay the favor."

About two and a half years ago, Justice went to Independence to help banish Emperor Cain after he destroyed the President's mansion, placed bombs at every national monument, and kidnapped the First Lady. They got her back, only a museum was obliterated, and the Emperor is presumed dead. I thought Justin was in Hawaii with his latest bimbo.

"I hope not," Dobbs says. We eat in silence for a few seconds before he says, "If only Master Justin were here. He--"

"Well, he's not," I cut in, voice hard. "He's dead." And I've completely lost my appetite. I set down my fork and stand. "I'm going for my run."

"Miss Joanna, I'm sorry. I--"

"It's okay," I say, meaning it.

I squeeze his bony shoulder before rushing to the stairs. The mansion rests on a cliff overlooking the ocean about seventy-five feet up. Just walking up and down the steps is a work-out. When I reach the sand, I perform quick stretches before taking off in a trot to the left. The sun has already set so only a little orange shades the dark blue and stars twinkling over the sea. The only way I can stand running is if I have something pretty to look at. The sand adds extra resistance, so I get more bang for my buck than the treadmill at work. I used to be able to do a mile and a half before stopping, but I'm out of practice. Didn't see much point after I left the force. The only times I need to run now are from the limo to the venue when the paparazzi go nuts. Even though it's been a long-ass day, when I pass the house next door I hit my stride. My maudlin thoughts always spur me on, and tonight is no different. Misery has always driven me.

I didn't mean to snap at Dobbs, but he keeps doing that. At least once a week it's, "If only Master Justin was here" or "Master Justin would know what to say or who to call" as if he's gone on vacation and forgot his cell. It'll be a year next month, way too long to be in denial. I lasted a month and a half. I was even convinced I saw him in the park smiling proudly at me once. So I waited for his call. And waited. Waited some more for a sign. A letter. A phone call explaining the whole thing. Never came. I grew angrier and angrier as the days of waiting began to hammer cracks into my wall of denial. Then one day, I lost it. Put a child pornographer in the hospital after pistol-whipping him repeatedly. Broke his jaw in three places, his nose, even his ocular bone. I turned in my badge that day. Justin still didn't come. That's when I finally lost hope. And my mind went tumbling after.

Anger became depression. I couldn't get out of bed, couldn't even sleep without having horrific nightmares, hell even when I was awake. The booze helped a little and a lot of booze helped even more. My boyfriend at the time, Harry, begged me to get help. I refused, he gave me an ultimatum: get help or we were through. I proceeded to go bar hopping for two days then ended up in a hotel with another man. Not my finest hour. Thus ended the close to love story of Harry O'Hara and Joanna Fallon.