by Melissa Yi
I loved the way he said my name. Simple, but with a long O that conveyed tenderness.
I told him the truth. "I don't know."
"You never drink."
"I do, a little. Less than you, though." Ryan likes the occasional beer. I'm not against alcohol, but I do more dancing than drinking to celebrate the end of midterms. I smiled. "I made sure to drink a lot of water so I don't get too dehydrated while I'm at it."
He shook his head and kissed me, pressing my hands together while he did it. I could feel his breath on my face, warmer than the wind. And I thought I heard a bark.
I pulled back, laughing. "You really brought Roxy?"
He nodded. "Rachel said she was in a bind, so I stopped on the way. I thought she might cheer you up."
"You always make me feel better," I said into his neck. Our hands were getting squashed between our bodies, but I didn't care.
Ryan started pulling his shirt out of his jeans.
"What are you doing?" I knew already, but any minute, someone could come in or out of Petra's and knock us down the stairs. I could still hear people talking inside the building, and the faint strains of Lenny Kravitz's take on "American Woman." If the Scoobies cared, they had a good view of our play-by-play.
Ryan took my wrists in his hands and lay them on his bare stomach, not flinching at the temperature of my fingers or the wind that must be drifting up under his shirt. He was wearing a long, black wool coat, so he swept the edges around both of us.
Tears pricked my eyes. He always used to do this, let me warm up my hands and feet on him. I'd kick off my boots; he'd grab my ankles and place my bare soles on his abdomen, slowly warming them up, as we wedged ourselves between the front hall closet doors and the wall at 288 Silver Lane.
He didn't have to lecture me about the dangers of alcohol. We could recite them and the Serenity Prayer for good measure. But it felt so darn good. I'd been happy, even joyful, for the first time in recent memory. So what did that make me? And what would I become?
For the first time, I understood how tough marriage could be. If I wasn't the same person as I was when we broke up two years ago, then how could a marriage last forty years? Both of you would change until you were almost unrecognizable. It was almost like that fairy tale, Tam Lin, where you have to hold on to someone fiercely, even if he becomes a lion who bites you, or a burning bar of iron that sears your skin. How do you keep holding on?
Ryan would hold on. He would be there for me.
It didn't matter if I solved this case. It didn't matter if I got thrown out of residency. It didn't matter that I was a godless heathen who was always trying to get her hands on his body.
Ryan loved me.
The whole thing with Tucker pushed him to his limit, but Ryan was gritting his teeth and doing his best to drag me out of the darkness.
Ryan was saving my life right now, one day at a time, as surely as Tucker had saved mine last month.
If you think of life like a Dungeons and Dragons game, where we have certain talents that are more apparent than others, one of Ryan's strengths is loyalty. It's not flashy, but it's strong and deep. And that was what I needed. If you asked me to answer most objectively, Hope, do you need a guy who tosses you off balance and keeps you entertained, or do you need someone who holds you down? Someone who can anchor you when the rest of your life whips around faster than the girl's head in Poltergeist?, I would have to answer, I need Ryan.
I looked into his eyes, and neither of us had to say a word. We made our way to his car, me shuffling behind him, my arms still looped around his waist, my bare hands on his skin.
Chapter 16
TUESDAY
I had a bit of a headache, but nothing I couldn't handle when I woke up. I drank two gigantic glasses of water, then texted Ryan from the warm duvet and snowman sheet cocoon of my bed. Two evenings in a row with Ryan's mind, heart, and body. #livingthedream
I felt newly grounded. The fact that Tucker still hadn't answered didn't shake me. He knew where to find me. And if he didn't, I'd head back to Montreal Friday night, or Saturday at the latest, to chase him down.
In the meantime, I had Ryan.
I'd also extracted the Scoobies' Sunday whereabouts while I was drinking at Petra's.
Summer had the weakest alibi. She'd met her sister for lunch downtown, and then she'd gone for a run around 2 p.m., made a kale salad and some noodles for supper, and watched Big Little Lies. In other words, she was unaccounted for after about 3 p.m. Although I didn't consider her the killer type, she did have the opportunity.
Mitch and Chris had both been at the lab during the day. Then Mitch had gone to Petra's until 10 p.m., which put him out of the running if the bar staff could vouch for him.
Chris had driven back to his apartment and fallen asleep after leaving the lab around suppertime. "I was tired," he said, shrugging. The other two Scoobies had nodded like this made perfect sense, instead of the next-worst alibi.
I rolled out of bed and shook out a pair of jeans. It was almost 7 a.m. I'd have to boot it if I wanted to get in two hours of the lab safety course before we met the security guard at ten.
I managed to finish three short modules on an office computer before all three of the Scoobies had trickled into the lab. Everyone was muted after a night of drinking. They clinked glass and scrolled through stuff on their computers or tablets. Tom popped in and out a few times and asked me how it was going.
I gave him the thumbs up.
He disappeared into his office, but the door had barely closed behind him before I heard the guys' raised voices coming from Chris's corner. I wandered from the office to the lab.
"You should know. You're a winner," said Mitch, from the back of the lab. He was at Chris's bench instead of his own, two rows away. The way that he spoke, there was a shadow behind his words. A probing.
Chris shook his head and refused to answer.
After a long moment, Summer called to Mitch from the front of the lab, "You need to let that go."
Was it some sort of relationship thing? Like, maybe Summer had gone out with Chris instead of Mitch? Although she seemed closer to Mitch.
Maybe it was a research thing, like the guys had been going for the same grant.
Summer waved her hand at me. "Hope doesn't want to hear about that stupid e-mail."
That only made me want to know more. "What e-mail?"
"It was spam." It was the first time that Chris had spoken. His stool scraped on the linoleum floor, and he stood up and shoved it back under the bench instead of looking at any of us.
"Eighty-eight spam," said Mitch, jingling the change in his pockets.
"What are you talking about?" I asked. Gotta admit, this was more interesting than filling out quizzes about how I wasn't allowed to wear contact lenses in the lab.
Mitch started chanting, "I got ninety-nine problems, but the blut ain't one."
"Shut up," said Chris.
"What's a bloot?" I asked, making Summer laugh, but Chris swung out of the lab and would've slammed the hall door if it didn't have some sort of hydraulic hinge.
Mitch stopped singing and shook his head. "Damn."
"What happened there?"
Summer bit her lip.
Mitch said, "I better go," and hustled after Chris, although he gave us a peace sign before the door closed behind him.
I looked at Summer, who shook her head and said, "Do you want to get one more safety module done before we go meet the security guy?"
"No. I want to know what that was all about."
"That was Mitch being an idiot, as usual." She shook her hair out. She was wearing it loose today. It fell to below her shoulder blades, shiny and soft, but I was not about to get distracted.
"And an e-mail," I said.
"Yeah. Chris should never have showed it to Mitch. He should've deleted it. That's what I would've done."
No one could answer a straight question around here. But I couldn't yell at them. I needed them. I breath
ed in and out before asking, as nicely as possible, "Can you show me?"
Summer shook her head. "I never got a copy. I might be able to find the website, though. I mean, I don't think it means anything, but if you really want … "
"I really want."
She sighed and glanced at the door, but the guys weren't coming back in anytime soon, so she walked over to my computer in the office, in the corner furthest from Tom, and started poking around half-heartedly before she showed me a website for The White First Movement.
It opened with a picture of a stereotypically cute white baby. Crudely lettered above it was the slogan, Endangered Species. Save Our Nation.
Dear White Brothers and Sisters,
Its time for us to Act. Pure White people make up only 8% of the world population.
Join The White First Movement, a non-violent, progressive religion that preserves the White race.
Contact us now before it's too late.
They even had a logo, a fancy "WFM" topped by a cross and a crown.
I felt the hairs raise on my body. Not only on the back of my neck, but on my arms and forearms.
Summer glanced at me and said, "It's not so bad."
"How is this not bad?" I flipped through the website. "They're saying white people are better than everyone else, and that dating other people is 'miscegenation' and 'genocide.'" That's you, in case you hadn't noticed.
She sighed and clicked another tab. "Well, this is about how they don't condone violence and won't accept anyone with a criminal record. They say they're peaceful."
"And that makes them okay? I thought Canada had a law against hate speech. We should report this."
Summer didn't say anything.
"You reported it, right? I mean, this is a white supremacist site. And they're sending out spam to people like Chris. They're recruiting." I spat the word out. I don't like people coming to my doorstep and trying to convert me to their religion. But it had never occurred to me that a racist would try and brainwash me through my e-mail. That seemed insidious and wrong. Meanwhile, people like Summer would say, Oh, it's okay. It's only wimpy white supremacists.
Not okay. Not fucking okay.
I suddenly remembered finding Lawrence's body. Roxy had gone ballistic, running away from us and barking.
Lawrence's body had been faintly warm.
What if the killer had still been in the area? What if he'd been watching us?
Now I was glad the police had taken us into custody after the code. My God. What if I'd been busy resuscitating Lawrence and someone had come up behind us and attacked us, too?
Chapter 17
I struggled to breeeeeathe instead of shooting fire out of my pupils.
Don't jump to conclusions, Hope, Denis had told me. Stay here. Stay in the now. You're safe.
Safe is a relative term.
If you're not white, no matter where you go, even "nice" Canadians are constantly barraging you with questions. Oh, you speak such good English! Where are you from?
Canada.
No, really, where are you from?
Or some guys think you're an easy lay.
Some guys (and girls) think you're a vomitous, loathsome sub-species not fit to lick their plantar warts.
And some of them want to kill you.
Doctors joke about how every shooting/stabbing/crime victim says, "I was just standing on a street corner, minding my own business, when this guy … "
But what if Lawrence really had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, like me on 14/11?
Was that better or worse than a targeted killing, where someone attacked the immigrant, or the black man?
My panic wasn't infectious because Summer, the only other person in the room, shook her head and tsk-ed at the website. "How come no one knows the difference between it's and its anymore?"
I covered my eyes, thinking of Lawrence's body, lying on his side, crumpled and vulnerable.
After a second, Summer said, "Sorry. I guess it's not really funny."
"No. But more funny if you're white."
She looked wounded. "I'm only half white. Lots of guys scream 'Ni hao!' when I walk down the street."
I ignored that. "Or if a black man hadn't died."
"Wait." Summer held up her hand. "You think maybe this is linked to Lawrence? You think—"
"I think you should find that e-mail, forward it to the police and let them decide."
She shook her head. "But I don't even have that e-mail. It was something that Chris got because some random sent it to him."
Mitch spoke, startling me. "What's this?"
He must've come through the lab door to the office. While I tried to control my heart rate, he gazed at the computer screen and snorted. "The detective doctor thinks that racist spam caused Lawrence's death? Seems a little far-fetched, doesn't it?"
"We're looking for reasons someone might have killed him. That's a reason, isn't it?" I stood up and rounded on him, my fists balled at my sides.
Summer broke in. "You'll have to talk to Chris about it. He's the only one who got the spam, so far as I know."
Mitch snorted. "Look. No offence. Lawrence seemed like an okay guy and all, but I don't want to get caught up in this stuff. I've got work to do." Mitch pushed open the door to the lab.
I followed him back to his lab bench, where he picked up a round-bottomed flask, ignoring both of us.
I said, "You've got work to do. How about he had living to do?"
Mitch sighed and put a pipette back in his drawer. "I know I said we'd help you. I'm bringing you to the security guard in fifteen minutes. But I'm not going to chase down every crackpot theory."
"Right. A man died, so we should chill out and smoke some weed."
"I'm not saying that, although it's always a good idea." Summer laughed.
I didn't. "The police are supposed to investigate every angle. This is an angle. If you don't cooperate, you're impeding the investigation." Mitch closed his drawer. "Look. I know Chris pretty well. I'm betting he doesn't have anything against Lawrence, or against black people—or any other colour, for that matter. He doesn't want to get sucked into this, and who can blame him? We work up to 70 hours a week here, and if someone publishes before us, bam. We're doomed."
I knew the whole publish or perish thing. I knew grants were going the way of the dodo bird. I knew that tenured professorship was now more of a mirage than reality, with course work off-loaded on to underpaid and overworked teaching assistants. I took a deep breath, a real one, and felt my heart rate de-escalate for a second.
Mitch said, "All Chris did was get spam, something everyone does. Let the first person among us who is spam-free cast the first spam." I felt the corner of my mouth tugging upward.
The lab's hallway door yawned open. Chris slouched back toward into his corner without acknowledging any of us.
"But you can tell people about this." I faced the first two Scoobies, ignoring Chris for the moment. "Ottawa University must have some sort of diversity group, and the police might want to know."
Summer's eyes widened. "I think you're taking this a little too seriously, Hope. They haven't bombed anyone. It's a blog. Mitch said they were more pathetic than anything else."
"Hate is hate is hate." Summer looked puzzled, and I explained, "The campaign slogan for gay marriage in the U.S. was 'love is love is love.' They didn't see a connection between two people loving each other and having to prove what kind of genitals those people had. They said love is love is love. Well, hate is hate is hate. You can bet that these guys have ties to more radical white supremacists."
She muttered something.
"What?" I said, sharp. I was not in a good mood. I would not have chosen to come to this lab if I'd known they were being targeted like this.
"White nationalists. That's what they call themselves now. WN."
"And you know this how?"
She glanced at her phone. "It doesn't matter. Listen. It's almost time to meet the guard. We've got
to head over to security, if we're going to do it."
"We'll meet you there," said Mitch. "I've got to finish up."
"You're useless," she said, and while they argued, I walked back to the office and sent the website address to myself so that I could access it later. Then I shut that mess down. No reason for Tom to stumble upon it and think I was in love with Hitler.
"This way," Summer said, opening the door to the hallway and pointing at the elevator. We rode it down to the basement with her on the phone, studiously ignoring me. So it was a perfect time to send the website address to Ryan and Tucker and see what they made of it.
What? Ryan texted back.
One of my colleagues got spam from this site. Can you check it out?
No problem.
My kind of guy.
Tucker didn't answer. But he would eventually, if he was conscious. Tucker's brain is insatiable. He's almost attention-deficit, the way he bounces from thing to thing, saying, Ooh! Shiny! Wait! Did you know Spiderman is el hombre araña in Spanish, but they call Batman Batman? My new wallpaper is the surface of Pluto. Did you see this paper on Ect2 lung adenocarcinoma?
While I was on my phone, I started paging through my apps. Finding Friends popped up.
Ah. Dr. Tucker's favourite weapon.
If he could use it to spy on me, wasn't the reverse true?
I loaded up the app. Sure enough, John Tucker was listed as my only friend. I clicked on it. It started loading. It took forever. Wi-fi wasn't the greatest in an elevator.
The door pinged.
"We're here," said Summer, stepping through the opening, but I was still staring at my phone.
If Finding Friends had it right, Dr. John Tucker was no longer ensconced in Montreal.
He was in Los Angeles.
Chapter 18
There is no stealth way to enter a security booth, so it was good that Mitch had decided to turn it into a party. It was a room not much bigger than a generous walk-in closet, surrounded by Plexiglas, with a bank of black and white TV's built into the desk.
Harold was less grotesque than I'd imagined. Old, glasses, bald, but he fit into a uniform okay, and he seemed to memorize our faces, so he wasn't some wizened remnant putting in his hours until retirement. He did seem to linger when he held Summer's hand, but she withdrew it and took a step back, and he seemed to handle that all right, turning to Mitch and saying, "What can I do you for?"
