Every time Danny glanced at his new fake ID, he was reminded that his life was a lie.
Dylan St. Lawrence stared back at him, face unblinking. No matter what Danny might have said, the fact remained that Dylan would not respond. And then Danny would chide himself for having been silly enough to talk to a card.
Of course, nobody was watching. Nobody, of course, except for the handful of birds and black flies that flew past his new house by the lake.
Two months had passed since he'd said goodbye to Amber. For the first week or two, it had felt like just yesterday; he'd wake in the morning and wonder why he felt like he'd missed an opportunity. And then the truth would hit him like a locomotive.
At some point, however, missing Amber became the new normal, not that there was anything "normal" about being in witness protection. But little by little, Danny got used to it. He got used to the idea that the rest of his life, at least for the time being, would be a lonely one. He would have to keep a low profile, or else people were bound to ask questions.
On that fateful day when he'd accepted witness protection, he'd woken to the news that he would now be living in a small town in rural Maine. It was the sort of town where half the population flew the flag, where everyone knew everyone else. Danny would have a hard time fitting in, especially when he had to call himself Dylan. That name was hard to remember, even if the surname it came with was far more elegant than Sham.
Once a week, Danny was required to talk on the phone with Officer Glorious. This was ostensibly to ensure he was adjusting to his new life and following the rules of witness protection. Apparently, if he broke the rules too many times, the government reserved the right to kick him out of the program, thereby throwing him to the Lycanroc. (Or, more accurately, the Crawdaunt gang that were the Lobster Mobsters.)
The conversations went okay for the most part, even if they were somewhat painful. Officer Glorious gave him updates on Clint's case; the indictment had come forth, and he was placed in custody to be held without bail. Soon, a trial date was set - it would open on July 4. (Danny held out hope that July 4 would be his own "independence day" from these restrictions, but Officer Glorious kept telling him not to hold his breath on that.)
The officer set Danny up with driving lessons as well, explaining that in a rural area like this, he would absolutely need a car to get around if he wanted to stay in the long term. The stipend he received was woefully insufficient to delegate someone else to purchase groceries for him - a safety net, not a hammock.
Despite being nearly 22 years old, Danny had never sat behind the wheel before, and his heart skipped a beat every time he needed to get in the driver's seat. The instructor, specifically chosen from an adaptive program that knew how to help autistic people learn to drive, assured him that this was normal, that people like Danny were often terrified of the car's power. That being said, being called Dylan wasn't exactly reassuring; rather, it was yet another reminder that his guard could never come down.
Other than the driving lessons and weekly talks with Officer Glorious, Danny had very few obligations. Many people fantasized about having unlimited free time, but Danny was now convinced that having so many hours with no commitments was actually a curse in disguise. And the disguise faded, at least in his case, by the end of his first week.
Using his stipend, Danny was unable to afford Internet access, meaning that he had to connect his laptop to the hotspot on the burner phone. Officer Glorious told him that was okay as long as he didn't run up roaming charges too much (though he neglected to define what constituted "too much.") In any case, mobile coverage anywhere in rural America was spotty at best, so Danny took to reading books to pass the time.
It's a strange thing, but whenever there's nothing you need to do, there's very often nothing you want to do. You just sit around in abundant boredom, and it saps your energy to do anything else. Danny was neck-deep in this boredom-induced lassitude, and there were days when he didn't do much besides stare at the ceiling and remember the night he'd left Amber's apartment.
Officer Glorious had advised him to sever emotional ties with her. After all, it was not a divorce, nor was it even a breakup. They'd never dated, and they'd only known each other for less than a day. The more attached he became to Amber emotionally, the harder it would be to let go, and the harder it would be to follow the rules and remain hidden.
Danny knew this. And yet, he couldn't practice what the officer preached.
Oh sure, he followed the letter of the law well enough. He did not call Amber on his burner phone, nor did he search her name online to see what showed up on social media. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't think about it every single day. If "thoughtcrime" were a thing, there would have been a double-occupancy cell with Clint Cargile that had Danny's name on it.
She got me away from Clint. For that, I'll always owe her, even if I never see her again. And if Officer Glorious is right, I will never see her again.
New clothes were bought for Danny's wooden dresser, and these clothes came in styles that he wouldn't have been caught dead wearing in his previous life. Danny had never been one to care about fashion, but it served as a reminder that he'd sacrificed his autonomy on the altar of safety. He'd done so willingly, and he was convinced that if given the difficult choice again, he would do it all over in a heartbeat.
Spring turned into summer, the pollen allergies were replaced by dust allergies, and the small town in which Danny now lived prepared for its Fourth of July parade. Despite being such a rural locale (or perhaps because of its rural nature), the town went all out to celebrate the birthday of the country.
Although Danny did not leave his home to watch the parade, he could hear it from within his poorly insulated walls. He envisioned the cymbals and horns, the clapping and cheering, the water guns being squirted at the parade floats and the people on said floats tossing out candy to the audience. Quite frankly, that didn't sound like his sort of scene, but in the past he would have chosen not to attend the parade. Now, he had no choice. It just wasn't right.
Judging by the way the sound was tapering off, the parade seemed to be over quickly. That was the thing about small-town patriotism; its endurance was like that of a cheetah in that they could celebrate hard, but not for very long.
Just as the parade had ended, the phone rang. Danny did not need to think too hard about who was calling him right now, for in the last two months, only two people had bothered to call him. Those people were Officer Glorious and Eric, his driving instructor.
For the sake of safety, that's for the best. But I'm not going to pretend that it doesn't get lonely sometimes. Because it does.
"Hello, Officer Glorious?" Danny asked.
"Good afternoon, Dylan," Officer Glorious replied. After the first two weeks, he'd stopped calling Danny by his "real" name, saying that he had to get used to his new identity. In a way, Dylan was his real name now, for nobody but Danny himself used his birth name anymore. Sooner or later, he'd leave his old life firmly in the past, to be reclaimed by the rising tide.
"This is our weekly check-in, right?" Danny replied. He was fairly certain that was the case, but it was always best to confirm the truth.
"Yes, it is," the officer told him. "And I know it's been less than a week since our last talk, Dylan, but I'm deviating from our regular schedule to give you some news that you should probably hear."
That was another thing Danny had to get used to. In the past, he'd scrolled the Internet to find out what was happening in the world, to be greeted by headlines containing Congressional gridlock on issues like health care and gun control, geopolitical conflict, and any number of other depressing topics. He'd been able to search for these things on demand, no matter their impact on his mental health.
Due to the lackluster cell reception in Maine, however, Danny needed new ways to stay informed. This small town had no newspaper, and local journalism was all but dead anyway. But Officer Glorious would periodically give Danny updates during their weekly calls; apparently, this was how news used to be before the 24-hour channels had taken their place at the apex of the media landscape. And that was the staple food of Danny's news diet now.
"What's the news?" Danny asked breathlessly, figuring that if Officer Glorious were abandoning the usual weekly time to deliver the briefing, it was probably something big.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"Well," Officer Glorious replied, "the trial of Clint Cargile began this morning."
Of course. July 4 was supposed to be the end of my ordeal. Or at least, the beginning of the end. But I could never be so fortunate, could I?
"How did the opening arguments go?" Danny panted. "Please tell me they went well for the prosecution!"
On the other end, Danny could hear the officer sighing, and the young man braced himself for bad news. Imagine his surprise when Officer Glorious responded with news unbefitting of such a sigh.
"The trial is over already, before it could even begin. Clint Cargile took the stand as soon as he could and pleaded guilty to his crimes. He's going back to prison, from which he'll never be able to escape."
Danny snorted humorlessly. "That sounds too good to be true."
"What about it is too good to be true, Dylan?"
"I mean, it's not like he hasn't escaped prison before. As far as I'm concerned, there's no reason he can't pull another Buneary out of his hat and do it again."
"Well, he can try," Officer Glorious responded, "but that doesn't mean he'll succeed, Dylan. There are many measures in place that weren't there the last few times. Just because he escaped before doesn't mean he can escape again."
Danny knew that was a nicer way to say: We'll do what we can, but there are no guarantees. Cooping you up in rural Maine for two months may end up being all for naught.
"Fair enough," Danny mumbled. "If it started to look like he was about to escape, or if he actually did escape, you'd tell me, right?" He probably sounded like a child afraid of the dark, but he couldn't bring himself to preserve his pride at that cost.
"Yes," Officer Glorious replied. "Of course I would."
"And what would you do, then? I probably wouldn't be safe here anymore."
"We'd arrange a new identity and hide you again if need be. But that's only if they're actually able to find your location. Which, as long as you're on the burner phone and don't use any accounts from our previous life, shouldn't happen. You could live the rest of your life in this small town, hiding in plain sight, and nobody would ever know that you were the infamous Danny Sham."
The rest of your life. Thanks for the reminder.
"Of course, you would have to get used to your next identity, Dylan. Now I have to ask the critical questions."
"Fire away."
"Have you spoken to anyone from your previous life, either in person or on the phone?"
"No."
"Have you used a social media account from your previous life?"
"No."
"Have you searched for the contact information of anyone you knew in your previous life?"
"No."
"Very well," Officer Glorious responded curtly. "You have remained in compliance with all the rules of witness protection. But never forget - we've given you the protection to put you where you are now, and we can take it away too if you break the rules."
"Right."
"There's something else I wanted to emphasize, Dylan," the officer continued. "You might think that the danger has diminished now that Clint Cargile has been locked away for life."
"I don't" Danny clarified instantly.
"Good, because it hasn't. Indeed, it has only been amplified by the fact that Clint's followers will be looking for revenge. It seems some of them already blame you for his guilty plea, as baseless as such an accusation is."
"How the hell can they believe that shit?" Danny growled.
"Dylan, we live in a country where much of the population believes that the Democrats are running a ring of heinous activities through a pizza parlor. If so many people will believe that, it's not too far-fetched to think one of Clint's targets was involved in putting him behind bars."
"True" Danny mumbled morosely. "I guess that makes sense."
"You don't have to agree with these people to see where they're coming from, Dylan. Their minds are a dark, dark place, and it'll take some time for this country to crawl out of that darkness. Until that happens, you have to stay safe. Follow all the rules I've set out, and you should not be found."
Those were the key words. Danny should not be found, as opposed to will not be found. That word choice seemed to suggest that Officer Glorious wasn't as confident in the witness protection program as he was letting on.
"Well, thank you" Danny said, trying to mask how he really felt. "That's…reassuring."
"No problem," Officer Glorious told him. "If anything, I would like to thank you for being so responsible as to observe the guidelines in the first place. After all, some participants in the witness protection program have not been so compliant…".
Given the way the officer trailed off, Danny figured there was likely a story behind that comment. But if the Sacred Heart Institute had taught him anything at all, he knew that he shouldn't pry any further than Officer Glorious was willing to go. And he wouldn't tempt him to spill the beans either, not if he could help it.
"In any case, Dylan," the officer continued, "that is all I wished to discuss today. Would you like to return to our regular schedule after this?"
"Yes," Danny confirmed. If there was one thing he liked in life, it was routine. Adhering to a routine kept Danny anchored, knowing that there would still be some predictability in life amidst all the chaos (not that the last two months had been very chaotic.)
"Very well," Officer Glorious responded. "In that case, Dylan, you are free to go."
After hanging up with the officer's permission, Danny sat back down on the couch and stared at the musty ceiling of the living room. Really, the living room was the main room of this house's ground floor, as the dwelling hadn't been built for anyone with lots of money to spare. After all, despite its scenic location, the home was poorly maintained; the floorboards creaked under his feet with each step, and a fine layer of dust covered everything.
Danny resisted the urge to sneeze, but nonetheless rubbed his eyes furiously in an effort to make the itch go away. It wouldn't help, of course - it never did. But that didn't stop him from doing it.
Another itch came along, one he just couldn't scratch.
I really need to contact Amber, Danny thought to himself.
Right away, the young man grimaced. He felt attacked, violated even, for that thought seemed to have entered his mind with absolutely no regard for whether or not he wanted it there.
No. If I'm being honest with myself, I've wanted to contact Amber ever since I ended up here in Maine. And I'm tempted to. Yes, very tempted indeed.
Danny curled up on the couch, practically convulsing in an effort to find a comfortable position. It didn't help that the couch's length was woefully insufficient to accommodate his 6'2" frame, but the main problem was the internal turmoil he found himself facing.
What's the worst thing that could happen if I contacted her?
Danny realized that he did not know her phone number. It was just as well, because he wasn't supposed to call her, and violating that order would present a security risk. But there were other portals to Amber Hawkeye that Officer Glorious could not exactly police like a hawk.
And if even the police couldn't catch him surfing the web, Danny very much doubted that the Lobster Mobsters could, given the latter group presumably having far fewer resources with which to do so.
Against his own better judgment, Danny turned on data roaming so that he wouldn't be stuck "surfing" the Internet in a zone with no "waves." Yes, it would cost money, but people did expensive things for short bursts of fun all the time. Was this any different from one of those helicopter tours people did while vacationing in Hawaii?
Once he'd confirmed that his personal hotspot was working correctly, Danny used his laptop to navigate to LinkedIn. That was a professional networking site, and it seemed like the most likely site where Amber would have a profile. It was insane how much information could be gleaned from a simple search.
Welcome to the Internet, buddy. Someone had told him that before, several years before, and it took Danny some time to remember whom it was: Mr. Lewis, the customer service representative for the Jeanies. Because he'd given Danny his first fake identity, the man was probably in the slammer right now.
Think about that for a moment. The person who gave me my first fake ID is a criminal, the second is a cop. How ironic.
Anyway, there was only one LinkedIn profile for Amber Hawkeye that fit the description Danny knew. They might only have lived with each other for one night, but Danny would have still recognized that face from a hundred yards away. The profile picture probably hadn't changed in a while, and neither had the other information she'd posted.
She volunteered at a food pantry…that's nice. She told me her parents were poor, so maybe she wanted to give back to the community. That's the Amber Hawkeye I know.
Danny gulped as he scrolled down the page. With every word he read, he felt as though he were taking a top-secret document off a shelf, or plucking a golden apple from a sacred tree. He had a vague sense that he should not be doing this, but he was doing it anyway.
What is WRONG with me?
Amber had completed three years at Harvard as a Chemistry major. Her GPA was 3.93 after the most recent semester, and judging by how prominently it was displayed on her profile, she seemed proud of this. (Not that Danny blamed her, of course.) There was no mention of the role she'd played in bringing Clint Cargile to justice, though again, it made sense that she wouldn't want to flaunt it.
After reading most of Amber's profile page, Danny remembered why he'd visited the site to begin with: The envelope icon in the top right corner of the screen.
His heart threatening to burst right out of his ribcage, Danny clicked the message button and found himself staring at a blank white on-screen box.
This was it. If he was going to send a message to Amber, this was the place, and now was the time. If Officer Glorious found out, there would be hell to pay. But he probably wouldn't find out, and given the reward Danny perceived from contacting Amber, it was worth the risk. So Danny composed the following message:
Hello, Amber. I know it's been two months, so reaching out now is probably random and weird. And I'm sorry about that. I just wanted to let you know that I learned Clint Cargile pleaded guilty today and that I'm safe up here. I can't tell you where I am, but I look forward to the day when I don't have to hide anymore. I just don't know when that'll be. Sincerely, Danny.
Danny looked over his shoulder. He half-expected that giant Crawdaunt Patrick Lawrence to sneak up behind him and perform an ambush. Alternatively, he pictured Officer Glorious reading over his shoulder and barking at Danny to put the damn computer down!
But in his perfect solitude, here in this beautiful small Maine town, Danny faced no obstacles to hitting the send button. It was right there, and nobody was here to stop him from doing it.
Sometimes in life, you had to take a leap of faith. Even if you couldn't be certain that you'd end up fine, you had to take a chance and hope it all worked out. And, in order to take said leap of faith, you couldn't think too long.
Danny hammered that send button home.