by Karr, Kim
“I didn’t kill them,” I say quietly this time.
“Well, probable cause indicates you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The list is long. There were welts on Tory Worth’s buttocks that match your belt, which was seized during the search of your apartment, and the handprints around Eve Hepburn’s neck match yours. There’s more, too. Motive—the sale of the land. An earring belonging to Eve Hepburn was found in your mother’s house. Then there are the photos on Tory Worth’s phone of you and Eve that I won’t go into detail about. Ms. Hepburn’s laptop with a draft of a very incriminating story about you. Not to mention a Matchbox car with your name on the bottom of it.”
“She must have taken that from me that night.”
He shakes his head. “The abundance of evidence paints a very compelling picture.”
Stunned, I struggle for what to say. “I already explained most of those things to you.”
“And now you’re going to have to explain everything . . . to a jury of your peers.”
I’m the scapegoat here.
I know it.
“Look,” I say, “I need to find my girlfriend. She’s going to be upset about Tory and what all of this might mean. I want to talk to her, and then I’ll come down to the station on my own.”
The laughter he expels makes chills run down my spine.
“You have to let me find her.”
“Right. So we can have another murder to solve. I don’t think so. Now turn around,” he says again, this time putting his hand on his gun.
“Please—she’s not answering her phone, and with these two murders I’m worried about her.”
“This is the last time I’m going to say this: turn around.”
And I want to say fuck this. I want to say it so bad I can taste the words on my tongue. But where will that get me? A stun gun to the ribs? Maybe a bullet in the leg if I try to run? A slew of more charges to hold me on, for sure.
I have to think of her now. Not just me. But her too.
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck!
She’s counting on me and I’m going to let her down.
Why the hell did I ever let my don’t count on me mentality slip away? I knew better and yet somehow in the whirlwind of Charlotte, I’d let it go. You’d think my father leaving me with nothing would have been the biggest lesson I needed to keep me on my destined path.
But the truth is—she was always a part of me. It started long ago. Her. And me. A boy. And a girl. And I swore to her then that I’d take care of her.
She’s on the bus before me and staring out the window.
I sit beside her. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
She says nothing.
“Charlie?”
Again she says nothing, but this time she closes her eyes tightly.
“What’s the matter?”
Slowly, she turns and I can see she’s been crying. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, you know that.”
She shakes her head.
“Why didn’t you come to the window last night?” I ask her.
“Because I couldn’t,” she says quietly.
Anger wells within me. “What did she do this time?”
Charlie shakes if off. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Tell me.”
She sighs. “It was my fault anyway.”
“What was your fault?” I’m starting to get mad.
She sighs again. “I wanted her to read me a story like I saw her doing with Tory the other night when she and Uncle Tom were over for dinner, but she was in a hurry and she told me she would tomorrow, but I wouldn’t listen to her. I got upset and just kept asking her until she’d had enough of me and told me to go to bed.”
“And?” I grit out, knowing that’s not the end of the story.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to get a drink of water and saw she was all dressed up. I knew she was leaving and going to see Tory. And I said the most horrible thing.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her she loved Tory more than me.”
It wasn’t Tory she loved more, but I couldn’t tell Charlie that.
“And when I wouldn’t stop crying she told me that was because I’m too needy. When I wouldn’t stop crying she locked me in the closet.”
My body is shaking. “For how long?”
“I don’t know. I fell asleep and woke up in my bed.”
“You have to tell your father, Charlie—you have to.”
“No,” she pleads. “No. He’ll be mad at her and then she’ll be even more mad at me.”
She has a point.
And right then and there, I vow to myself to always take care of her. To bust into her room, break down her door, do whatever I have to do so that she’s not scared.
I did a shitty job of it back then.
I was too young to understand what that meant.
But I understand what it means now.
Will she be okay?
Even if she is, she’s going to be scared when she finds out where I am. And I can’t do shit about it—again.
Jake’s breathing is growing heavier by the second.
The detective is staring at me.
I give him a nod and put my hands on my head.
But before surrendering, I twist toward Jake and plead, “Please, Jake, find her and when you do, tell her not to worry. Tell her that everything will be all right.”
Tell her she can count on me.
Quite possibly his eyes have tears in them, not unlike the night I told him to run. The night all those years ago that I told him to get the fuck out of Dodge and he couldn’t. He was frozen in place and I stayed behind with him. It took forever for him to snap out of it, and when he did and finally ran like I told him to, it was too late. The cops were there. And I stayed behind and took the fall for stealing the car.
“Jake,” I say.
Nothing.
Does he even hear me?
“Jake, promise me,” I grit out.
He blinks a few times and then says, “I promise, JJ. I promise.”
Resigned to my fate, I keep my hands on my head and give Detective Hill my back.
Pulling my arms down, he slaps the cuffs on me and two police officers start to lead me out the door.
I glance back and shout, “Don’t forget, Jake! Take care of her,” and then I close my eyes.
Twenty years later.
All grown up.
And I still can’t be there to help her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
HIGH BEAMS
Charlotte
WITH MORE THAN one lurch, a few jerks, and a stall-out or two, I manage to get to my apartment in one piece in the Storm. I certainly didn’t do it in record time or drive anything like Jasper, but I did it.
The Bronx Bar is in full happy-hour swing and there’s some kind of outdoor summer fest going on. The music is much louder than normal and it’s hard to hear anything but the thumping sound of the bass.
I’m glad I won’t be home tonight. Or I assume I won’t be home. Hmmm . . . did Jasper ask me? Did I ask him? We’ve been so busy I’m not certain. This taking things slow thing is a little more difficult than I thought it would be. All I want to do is turn it up.
Certain tonight will be on as long Jasper makes it back; I take the elevator and scan the local news on my phone. Finally, the story has broken. Deep in concentration, I exit the elevator and fumble for my keys, waiting impatiently for the story to load. Reception in the hallway has never been good.
Inserting my key in the lock, it won’t go all the way in. I turn it around. Still won’t go in. It’s as if I have the wrong key. After trying one more time, I deduce that something is jammed in the keyhole. Odd. When I yank on the handle, the knob turns. I look at the lock again, wondering if in my rush this morning I somehow jammed it. The hallway is too dark to really see it, though.
Just as I open the
door, I remember to take my phone off silent and it pings with a message from Jasper. Before I hit listen, the story loads and a picture of a car takes up the screen. Below it is a headline that reads, “Dead Body Found,” and I gasp.
Oh.
My.
God.
It’s a red two-door Audi.
It’s Eve’s car.
My mouth starts to quiver.
My body quakes.
Why would Eve’s car be found in the woods near Jasper’s mother’s house? I try to read quickly through the article to see if the body found inside it has been identified, but the site hasn’t fully loaded.
Staring at my screen, I close the door behind me and as soon as I do, I feel like something is off. The living room is dark and all the blinds are drawn. Jasper must have closed them this morning. Feeling uneasy and off balance, I reach to flick the lights on but before I can, a loud thudding noise draws my attention toward my desk.
Terrified, my eyes skitter to my left. Let it be an animal, the wind, anything but—before I can finish the thought I see him.
Big.
Really big.
A massive black-clad figure, and he is rifling through my things. Tossing them. Shredding them. Pieces of paper are raining down on my hardwood floor like strips of white confetti. The clues Jasper and I had come up with but never went back to are under his feet. He’s looking for something.
I force down the scream in my throat and quietly take a small step back, another, and another, hoping to make it to the door before he sees me. Just then the website on my phone completely loads and a commercial blares through the room.
Oh, God, no.
The intruder turns.
Sees me.
Our eyes lock.
Quickly, I lunge for the door, hoping to open it and escape into the hallway. I’m moving as fast as I can.
I’m not quick enough.
In one swift movement, the faceless man grabs me by the shoulders and throws me to the ground.
My breath comes out ragged as I try to scream.
The intruder looks at me for a beat and then picks up the vase of flowers Jasper brought me exactly one week ago. With the vase in his hand he stares down at me.
Now screaming as loudly as I can, I scurry to get up and launch myself toward the door.
Before I can turn the knob, he grabs me by the shirt collar, dragging me backwards. I choke a little until my shirt buttons pop and when I can breathe, I start to kick and scream, flailing my limbs in every direction. Effortlessly, as if I’m a rag doll, he shoves me to the floor.
Through the panic and fear, all I can see is Jasper’s face.
“Jasper!” I scream, knowing he can’t hear me. Knowing he can’t help me. Knowing I’m here alone. In the dark. With a monster.
My biggest fear coming true.
The mountain of a man doesn’t look so big anymore as he stares down at me with those wide, wild eyes. A high-pitched, terrified scream rushes from my lungs. That’s when he flings himself on top of me and drops the vase in the process. My head snaps toward the noise, and I watch as the antique pewter bounces and tumbles, the flowers windmilling across the floor and the water flowing beneath me. The faceless monster above me bears his full weight painfully on my legs and my eyes dart around looking for something, anything, to hit him with.
Nothing.
There’s nothing within my reach.
I flail uselessly beneath him, screaming and crying, all the while knowing no one is going to hear me.
Everything tells me that I should not panic. That I need to be in control if I’m going to have any chance of getting out of this alive, but then I look up, and all I can see is a monster.
It’s wearing a mask.
And two eyes are peering down at me.
A monster in the dark.
It’s like when I was little and my mother would lock me in the dark closet. I was so scared. So alone. Afraid of what was in there with me. Monsters. And no one ever came.
Except Jasper.
He came.
He let me out.
Jasper.
Jasper.
Jasper.
I’m not little anymore. I’m not that small, frail girl. I can do this. I need to fight for myself and for Jasper.
Giving it all I have, I reach for this monster in the dark and try to claw those beady eyes out. The howl of pain tells me I accomplished something, but then his hand draws back and makes contact with my face. The punch is hard. Painful. There’s more pounding, and I cry out over and over as the sting of his hand slaps the skin of my face.
Warm trickles of blood ooze down my chin, and I find myself going in and out of consciousness. Focus. I have to focus. My legs won’t move. He’s still pinning me down. Terror and adrenaline shoot through me. I’m not a fighter. I’ve never hurt a single person in my life. But right now, I summon all I have and with my right arm, I throw the hardest punch I can right into his groin.
A deep hissing noise escapes his mouth. Everything moves in slow motion. He picks up the vase. I hold my hands out to defend myself. He grabs both of my wrists with one hand and twists one of them so hard I hear it snap.
Deep, burning pain like I’ve never felt surges through me.
All thoughts of overpowering him vanish from my mind. Survival is all I can hope for. I lie here beneath this monster, the warm air blanketing me as cold terror sluices through my veins, and find myself praying for mercy. Praying for a miracle. Praying that I make it out of this alive.
The man, the monster, my assailant, maybe my killer, stares down at me for a long moment as if trying to figure out what to do with me.
“Please don’t kill me,” I beg through desperate sobs.
Those eyes, shrouded by his mask, blink.
It’s too dark and I can’t see their color, or maybe it’s the overabundance of tears in my own eyes that is causing my vision to go blurry. “Please,” I repeat, violently shaking from head to toe.
“Where’s the key?”
This monster wants my father’s papers. He must not know where the storage unit is or I’m sure he would have broken into it.
Screw him.
I blink and blink and blink until his face comes into clear vision. One blue and one green eye stare down at me. I was wrong—it wasn’t Hank behind it all. “Uncle Tom?”
He turns his head. Says nothing more.
Tears once again fill my eyes, but even through my hazy vision I somehow manage to see his arm lift in the air. The vase is held tightly in it. I know what’s coming, and I have nothing left to do but close my eyes tightly and try to force away the fear. I can’t block him, I can’t stop him, and it seems to take forever before he smashes it against my head.
My eyes fly open on impact. My body is drenched in a cold sweat and my brain is swimming. Suddenly, there are two of him—no three, maybe four. Too many monsters to count. I flail and try to escape, but then his hands are around my neck.
My lungs start screaming for air.
That’s not all.
The room is shaking.
The earth is tilting.
The walls are closing in on me.
I’m scared.
I’m alone.
But I’m not eight and this isn’t a dark closet.
Nor is it my dark room.
No one will be coming to let me out.
“Where is the key?” he yells.
He’ll kill me once I give it to him.
Instead of answering him, I turn my head to the side and bright blue flowers fade in and out of my vision. I try to hold on to the memory of them. To Jasper. But I can’t seem to hold on any longer.
His grip is tighter.
Stronger.
There is no air left for me take in.
There’s a knocking in the distance. I think I hear my name. “Charlotte!”
Hope blossoms somewhere deep within.
“Charlotte!” It’s Jake voice.
That hope quickly
diminishes when I realize the lack of air is quickly draining the life from me.
I try to scream but I can’t.
“Charlotte, open the door. Tory Worth’s body was found and Jasper’s been arrested.”
I try to process what he’s saying but his words don’t make sense. It’s as if he’s speaking in a different language.
All I know is his voice sounds frantic. Desperate. Then it’s gone.
Don’t leave me alone.
From one heartbeat to the next, everything seems blacker. Darker. I never knew that was possible.
The grip around my neck loosens, but it’s too late.
All I can do is close my eyes and accept the darkness.
Forget me not.
The End
AUTHOR NOTE
ALTHOUGH I TRIED to stay true to Detroit’s financial and socioeconomic situation, I did take some liberties with facts, locations, dates, and timing.
In December of 2013, the city of Detroit officially became the largest municipality in U.S. history to enter into Chapter 9 bankruptcy. They filed for bankruptcy because they were flat broke. The city was in duress.
Before filing:
The city of Detroit owed money to more than 100,000 creditors and was facing $20 billion in debt and unfunded liabilities.
Between December 2000 and December 2013, 48 percent of the manufacturing jobs in the state of Michigan were lost.
There were approximately 78,000 abandoned homes in the city.
About one-third of Detroit’s 140 square miles was either vacant or derelict.
Sixty percent of all children in the city of Detroit were living in poverty.
Forty percent of the streetlights did not work.
Only about one-third of the ambulances were running.
The size of the police force in Detroit had been cut by about 40 percent over the past decade.
When you called the police in Detroit, it took them an average of 58 minutes to respond.
Due to budget cutbacks, most police stations in Detroit were closed to the public for sixteen hours a day.
The violent crime rate in Detroit was five times higher than the national average.
The murder rate in Detroit was eleven times higher than it was in New York City.
