her last act of self-respect, and recognizing how ludicrous it was, sheâd showered and put on clean underwear, before going out. The point of no return was right in front of her. She would at least cross that line smelling of soap and baby powder, though she suspected the scent of stale urine followed her everywhere now, like a vestigial tail.
She walked down the stairs sheâd only just scrubbed.
They were cleaner than theyâd been since sheâd arrived. As were the toilets and showers and carpets. The other residents began to notice and some even started cleaning themselves.
But it would always be a losing proposition. The filth of the place was not on the surface. It could never be disinfected. The rot went too deep.
âWhereâre you going?â the landlady had called through the crack in her door.
âNone of your fucking business,â said Amelia.
âDonât swallow,â said the landlady, laughing, sweaty legs spread wide on her Barcalounger. âBut you know that, little one.â
Her television was on and there was a report of a murder in a village south of Montréal. First the body of a boy had been found, thought to be an accident and now known to be murder. And then a second death.
Amelia had paused, and through the crack in the door sheâd watched. And seen a youngish woman being interviewed. They identified her as the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.
Amelia took a step closer.
The woman wore a nice suit. A skirt and light blue top and a jacket that draped. Not at all masculine. A feminine cut. Practical, yet attractive. Simple.
There was a badge on a string around her neck and a holster on her hip.
Large men in uniform stood behind her. Respectfully.
The landlady twisted in her chair, her naked legs squealing on the Naugahyde as she moved.
âWhat do you think she had to do to get that job?â
The plump lips glistened with spittle and the laugh followed Amelia down the hall and out the door.
Amelia found the answer to that question that night.
But not on rue Sainte-Catherine. She found it in the apartment of her only friend, a gay man from the same village she came from. Heâd come to Montréal a year ago and was dancing in a male strip club. It was a good job and he could afford his own small place.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â he demanded, handing her a spliff and leaning over her as she tapped on his laptop. âYouâre googling the cops?â
Amelia didnât answer.
By the time she returned to her room she had a sheaf of papers, each explaining the entrance requirements for the various police schools. The next day, as she scrubbed, she composed the letters. The résumés sheâd send off.
They were not, of course, completely accurate.
âTheyâll never take you, you know,â her friend had said. âLook at you. Youâre on the wrong side of the prison bars. Youâre the one theyâre trying to arrest.â
Theyâd both laughed at that, knowing it was true. But unlike her friend, Amelia thought maybe she could get to the other side. And be the one with the nice suit and clean hair. With large men behind her, not leering at her ass but there to follow her orders.
Maybe she could be the one with the power. And the gun.
That was before the rejections started. First the Montréal Police College rejected her. Then the Sherbrooke Police. Then the Quebec City Police. And even the tiny private college, apparently in some fellowâs barn in Rivière-du-Loup, didnât want her.
The Sûreté Academy didnât even bother to reply. Of course.
Sheâd gone back to the floors, and down the drains. And one cold night she found herself on rue Sainte-Catherine. There, behind a strip joint, sheâd done the very things sheâd sworn never to do. And worse.
And with the money sheâd bought cocaine. And then heroin.
Sheâd had two hits in
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