Jimmy slowly climbed the barn stairs, carrying a couple of mugs of steaming hot chocolate. It had been a few hours since the whole ordeal with Bruce and Oliver, and the photographer had to admit he was still reeling from the thought of Linda working for the two businessmen—and suddenly being ten million dollars richer was nothing to sneeze at either.
The photographer wasn't worried Linda would turn into a snob or anything like that—he knew the money was more about maintaining appearances than anything—but he was concerned that her newfound employment (and all the different responsibilities she was about to have) might be a little overwhelming. He reached the top and stopped, staring.
Linda sat on the loft couch, with her legs curled under her, her glasses resting on top of her head. She held a pencil securely in her hand as she stared down intently at a large sketch page in her lap; she moved the pencil slowly and methodically across the page as several colored pencils floated lazily around her head. Jimmy shook his head slightly, smiling.
"So, how's it coming?" he asked as he walked over. Linda looked over, startled, and the floating pencils suddenly dropped, landing on the floor and couch; Jimmy stopped, wincing. "Sorry."
"It's okay," Linda said quickly, trying not to look upset as she put her sketchpad and pencil down on the trunk, then waved her hand in a fluid motion; the pencils floated over to the desk and rested neatly on top. She sat up straighter and smiled as Jimmy came over and sat down. "So, what are you up to?"
"Just bringing you some hot chocolate," Jimmy replied, handing her one of the mugs. "Your mom even put in extra marshmallows."
Linda smiled as she took the offered mug and breathed in the wonderful aroma before casually drinking the hot liquid. She smacked her lips, smiling in satisfaction, before putting the mug on the trunk next to her sketchpad. "That was good," she said as she grabbed the sketchpad and pencil; as she leaned back against the couch, she realized that Jimmy was sitting rather close, but she didn't say anything as she went back to sketching.
After a few moments, Linda felt something brush slowly and repeatedly against her hair; it didn't take long to realize that Jimmy was gently stroking her hair with his fingers. She turned to look at him, confused. "What are you doing?" she asked slowly.
"Just thinking that we could probably finish what we started in my room," Jimmy said softly, "before Clark interrupted." He leaned toward her, and Linda's eyes widened slightly as she comprehended what Jimmy was talking about; she quickly scrambled to her feet and backed away, clutching her sketchpad to her chest. Jimmy stared at her, confused, then he realized why she looked panicked; he sighed. "And I'm guessing you don't."
"It's not that," Linda said, trying to sound calm as her heart pounded.
"Then what is it?" Jimmy asked as he got to his feet and he took a step toward her, but she backed up a couple of steps. The photographer furrowed his eyebrows, confused. "I don't get it. You had a slightly different reaction back in my room."
"I know," Linda replied, her voice slightly higher-pitched.
"So, what happened?" Jimmy asked, getting defensive. "What, I'm not good enough for you now because you suddenly got a bigger bank account?" He knew it wasn't the slightest bit true, even before he said it, but it had just slipped out—and he knew as soon as he'd said it that he'd made a huge mistake.
Linda's features hardened, except for her eyes; they were bright with tears and radiated a deep hurt that Jimmy hadn't never seen. "I was going to say," she replied before she paused and chuckled mirthlessly, "you know, it doesn't matter."
"Linda, I'm really sorry," Jimmy said sincerely. "I didn't mean—"
"Just go," Linda interrupted before she turned around. "Please."
Jimmy opened his mouth, but he stopped himself. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he wordlessly headed for stairs. As he reached the top, he glance back at Linda; she remained unmoving, her back to him; resigned, the photographer hung his head as he made his way down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom as he heard the muffled sound of Linda sobbing; his stomach clenched as he closed his eyes, but he simply made his way out of the barn.
Several hours later, Linda slowly walked down the loft stairs, looking hurt and withdrawn, but a lot more composed. The uninterrupted solitude, aside from a brief visit by Martha (who hadn't pushed her daughter into talking), allowed Linda the opportunity to try and figure out what had happened. She had never considered the notion that Jimmy thought that way about her (and part of her still wondered if he really meant what he'd said), but she wasn't in the mood to dwell on it—and she definitely didn't want to talk or even see Jimmy at the moment. Her day had been eventful enough, and there was plenty on her plate at the moment that Jimmy was going to have to wait on the backburner.
Linda made it to the ground level and slowly headed toward the entrance when she spotted an object on top of her father's workbench. It wasn't very large or conspicuous in appearance—about the size of a small teddy bear, wrapped in plain brown paper with a plain gift tag taped to it—but the young girl knew it didn't belong there; curious, she walked over and saw her name on the gift tag in unfamiliar handwriting.
Linda's guard immediately went up as she glanced around, using her x-ray vision to sweep the area; satisfied that she was alone, she focused her vision on the package. The paper dissolved until the young girl could see inside, and she furrowed her eyebrows before switching quickly back to normal vision; she easily tore through the paper, revealing the contents of the package: the shredded remains of her jacket folded neatly, with a small notecard resting on top. Linda saw some more writing on it and picked it up, reading it:
Strength means nothing if you lack common sense. Be more careful next time.
Linda's pulse quickened as she stared at the notecard in disbelief. Her first reaction was to take everything to her family, but something in the back of her mind told her to stop and consider other options. The young girl mulled through the details: her sweater had been returned to her (and hadn't been found at the warehouse—Clark would have mentioned if it'd been discovered), the S.C.U. had said someone posing as a cop had questioned Schott, and the note seemed more cautionary than threatening; using that logic, Linda came to the conclusion that this mysterious figure—whoever he was—was most likely not a threat.
"Which means no one has to know about this," she said as she picked everything up, "not even Jimmy." She was curious about the person's identity and and vowed one day she'd find out who he was—but not at the moment. She simply blurred upstairs and stuffed everything into the back of one of her desk drawers before speeding downstairs and out of the barn.
THE END
