More Than Perfect

“Excuse me,” the man was wearing a brown tweed jacket with blue jeans and a pair of tennis shoes - the kind no active person would ever wear. A notepad was open in his hand and a spare pen was tucked behind his ear. He held the other one out like a microphone and said again, “Excuse me,” as he tapped her on the shoulder.

Kensi Austen-Callaweigh was just trying to get in her morning run before she had to be at Zeke’s Equipment Store. But for the fourth morning in a row, someone was keeping her from it.

The man was beginning to sweat from chasing her around the path that outlined the lake at the park. He was not dressed for the late July Georgia heat. He had to have been uncomfortable.

He grabbed her arm and finally stopped her while saying, “Pardon me, but are you Kensi Austen?”

She pulled her earbuds out and paused the music on her iPod. “I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?”

As he caught his breath, he asked one final time, “Are you Kensi Austen?”

She took a moment to think of a way to answer him. Then, like the other times, she simply answered, “No,” and started to turn away.

“Austen-Callaweigh then,” the man called after her.

With her back to him, just a step or two away, she dropped her head and let out a deep sigh. The other ones must have spread the word.

A few times, she was able to fib well enough that the people left her alone. They wanted to talk to Kensi Austen, but it was obvious that none of them knew who it was they were looking for. Her glorious days from being the basketball superstar were well behind her. When they asked if she was Kensi Austen, she told them no. Because she was not anymore. She was Kensi Callaweigh. That trick worked until last week when someone finally figured out her game.

She brushed a bead of sweat from her face as she turned back to the man. This heat was tolerable when she was being productive. Moving and being active. Not when reporters were hounding her about her former fiancé. “Who do you write for?”

A triumphant grin spread across his face, as if he had just won a battle of wits. He extended his hand to her and answered, “The Fruitland Daily Gazette, in Maryland. I'm Tucker Caden. I cover some of the major national headlines, and I wanted to talk to you about your involvement with, uh,” he double checked his notes, “Jase Parsons and Ace Ryker.”

“Well, I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing. I wasn't involved in anything with those two.” Again, she started to turn away from Tucker, but before she could, he was speaking again.

“That's not what Jase told me,” she could hear the smugness in his voice after that last comment. He had to have noticed the way she reacted to that. “He said you should be in the cell next to him.”

“Really? What else did he say?” She should not have been interested in anything this man had to say, but especially this.

“He said you were engaged to him one day and then married to a total stranger,” he checked his notepad one more time, “someone named Myles Callaweigh, the next.”

At least he does not know who Myles is, she thought to herself. “Anything else?”

Tucker Caden shook his head. “Your turn, miss.”

Kensi was quiet for a few seconds. Then, she gave Mr. Caden the same, now-rehearsed, answer she gave the others from Texas, Tennessee, Alabama, South Carolina, and of course the other ones from Georgia. “My grandfather started the illegal business before I was born. He made it a rule to never let me know anything about it. Jase took over when his brother and mine were killed in a car accident. Since then, he kept me farther away from it than my brother or grandfather ever did.”

“So how did Jase get arrested? And why were his other two crew members, Ross Davison and Matt stone, not arrested?”

The questions never changed. They never got any easier or more comfortable to answer. “Matt and Ross were the two who came up with the plan in Nashville. They made the arrangements with the local police there, so I guess they made a deal.”

Tucker made a face as if he did not completely buy her version of the story, but he made the notes and asked, “What about your husband? What role did he play in all of this?”

“I'm sorry, but I have to go now.” She turned away from him and heard his shoes on the gravel behind her, following her.

“How long did you know him? Did you have an affair? How long were you together?”

His voice was falling behind her as she kicked her feet harder. Run faster.

“Did he know Jase?” He asked more questions, but she could not hear him anymore.

Run faster.