They're Gone

by E. A. Barres

Cessy had seen dead bodies before, but it took her a few moments to understand what she was looking at.

  A group of men standing around a corpse.

  Why would Hector have a photograph of an execution?

  Cessy went through the rest of the photos.

  Make that six executions.

  “What can you tell us about Hector’s associates?” the cops had asked the night he’d been killed.

  “He hasn’t worked for a while,” Cessy had told them. “He doesn’t have associates.”

  At least, not that she knew.

  Cessy blinked, stood, held on to the sides of the desk. The world was moving too fast, like it was a story told in a language she could barely decipher.

  Now, Cessy realized, as she hurried to the bathroom, was the right time to finally throw up.

  CHAPTER

  5

  AFTER HER HUSBAND’S funeral, Deb went with Kim to a friend’s house, a colleague of Grant’s who owned a multimillion-dollar home in Ashburn, a small town on the manicured edges of Northern Virginia. Sandwiches and fruits and vegetables lined a long buffet table, and guests shuffled along, filling their plates. The guests made normal conversation now, in contrast to the service at the church, when their voices were lowered to whispers.

  At least, the conversations were normal until people saw Deb. And then their faces and voices dropped, as if ashamed that anything other than her dead husband was on their minds.

  “It’s a good thing Kim’s in college,” a man told Deb, speaking with a grimace. “It’d have been awful if this had happened when she was younger.”

  “Why?”

  “You having to raise a child after this happened. All on your own. It’d be so much harder.”

  You’re right. Why didn’t I look at the bright side? Dumb fucking me.

  But Deb didn’t say that. She couldn’t say that. She just nodded and walked away.

  “When I heard what happened with Grant,” a woman told Deb, her eyes wet, “I was so scared. I’d been in an argument with Jeff, and I called him that same day and said I was sorry. You never know what’s going to happen. Life’s too short to waste arguing.”

  I’m so glad that my husband’s murder helped your marriage.

  Again, Deb didn’t say that. She merely nodded.

  “I’m so sorry for what happened.”

  “I’m so sorry for what happened.”

  “I’m so sorry for what happened.”

  To all of them, Deb said, “Thank you.”

  She wondered how Kim was doing, saw her daughter sitting on a couch by herself in the corner, staring down at her phone. No one bothered her, and she suspected that’s why Kim was doing it.

  Smart girl. Deb envied her.

  Deb was tired of pity, tired of support. And just tired. This type of exhaustion had hit over the past couple of days, particularly as the funeral approached, like a blanket of sleep rising from her feet to her legs, to her waist, to her eyes. When Deb slept, it seemed like she could sleep endlessly.

  She didn’t want to be awake, remembering Grant was gone. In sleep, he was with her.

  “Let’s get out of here,” someone told her.

  Deb turned and saw Nicole Boxer, her best friend, holding her coat.

  “Can we?” Deb asked.

  Nicole gave her a weird look. “Of course we can. When’s the last time you ate?”

  Deb wiped her eyes. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m going to buy you some food,” Nicole decided. “Lots of food. Unhealthy shit. It’s important that you learn how to eat your feelings.”

  “Can I come with you?” Kim asked.

  Deb hadn’t realized her daughter was standing next to her. “You don’t want to go back home?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Kim replied hesitantly. “Not yet.”

  Twenty minutes later, Deb could tell that the staff at Wegmans grocery wasn’t thrilled that she and Kim and Nicole were standing at the front of the grocery store, solemnly dressed in their funeral black while a clerk filled Nicole’s order. It wasn’t the kind of thing they usually did—having a clerk fetch their food—but after barely leaving their house for a week, the bright lights and busy crowds were overwhelming.

  Still, Deb felt better being somewhere completely different. Somewhere with life, with people who had other concerns. Somewhere not filled with memories of Grant.

  Deb hadn’t realized how desperately she needed a break.

  “Have you started online dating yet?” Nicole asked.

  “I thought it might be a little soon,” Deb replied. “You know, since we just left the service.”

  “Well, obviously you should change out of the funeral outfit for your profile picture. I’ve always said you look better in light colors.”

  Deb smiled. She couldn’t help it.

  “You’re so weird,” Kim told her, but kindly. Deb saw the humor in her eyes.

  “We’d be a really good dating team,” Nicole added. “No issues here, fellows!” That last line was said loudly. Customers turned toward them.

  Nicole’s husband, Marcus, had died during his military service in Afghanistan, the victim of a helicopter crash. Deb had known Nicole since their first year in college, when they had been randomly assigned as each other’s roommate, and had known Marcus nearly as long. His death had shaken everyone, especially since it happened when they were all in their twenties, a time when death was unusual. Deb remembered how tough it had been for Nicole, remembered coming home to Grant and privately feeling grateful (and guilty because she was grateful) that she wasn’t going through that same brutal grief.

  Over the years since Marcus’s death, Nicole had developed a caustic and resilient, if not ill-timed, sense of humor. It could be jarring, even upsetting, for those who didn’t know her. But Deb loved it.

  That said, she was far from ready to make jokes about her life without Grant. After her small laugh, sadness shadowed her eyes.

  Nicole noticed.

  “It’s like an avalanche inside you, right?” Nicole asked, her voice lowered. “The sadness?”

  Both Deb and Kim nodded.

  “I remember that feeling. And I remember a lot of guilt. Just a shitload of guilt. I still have it sometimes.”

  “Why?” Kim asked.

  Nicole shrugged loosely, as if guilt was bothering her even now. “Making jokes like I just did about dating. Actually dating. When I started doing anything, really, that felt like I was leaving Marcus behind, like moving to a new apartment.” Her eyes turned distant. “Watching an old movie I suddenly remembered he’d wanted to see; you know he loved those. The first year I forgot our anniversary.”

  Nicole allowed herself a faint, sad smile.

  “You’re grieving and healing,” she said quietly. “It’s like running with sore legs. You think it’ll feel better to just stop, but you have to learn how. The more you run, the less you eventually notice.”

  She paused.

  “I’m assuming here,” Nicole said, her voice back to normal. “I don’t run. Or exercise. Obviously.”

  “Stop,” Kim told her.

  “I hated every moment of the service,” Deb said. “Every moment. I feel shitty about that.”

  “Me too,” Kim agreed, surprise coloring her voice. “I thought it was just me.”

  “Everyone looks at you the same way,” Nicole put in. “Like they can only look you in the eyes for a few seconds.”

  “And you hear people having normal conversations,” Deb said. “Even laughing. Which is okay, I know. But it feels weird.”

  “Excuse me, but who died?”

  The three women had been so wrapped up in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the elderly lady standing off to their side.

  “I’m sorry?” Deb asked. The question was so direct that she was taken aback.

  “Who died?” the woman asked again. “You just came from a funeral, right?”

  “That’s really none of your—” Nicole started.<
br />
  Deb interrupted her. “My husband.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. That must be awful.”

  She wore glasses and a sweater with a Christmas tree on it. Something about her seemed familiar, but Deb couldn’t place her.

  “I’m sorry,” Deb said. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so. How was he taken?”

  Someone, maybe Kim, inhaled sharply.

  “He was shot. It was a robbery.”

  The woman frowned. “In this neighborhood? Was it in the paper?”

  “We really don’t want to talk about this,” Nicole said, assuming the role of family spokesperson.

  “It was in the news,” Deb said. The police had told Deb they had no idea who had shot Grant. There were no street monitors nearby, no visual witnesses, and the murderer had stayed beyond the reach of the ATM’s cameras. Traffic cameras in the area revealed nothing suspicious. A witness heard but didn’t see the two shots. The bullets and shells were being studied but were unlikely to reveal anything useful.

  And, as she’d told Kim, there had been a rash of similar murders recently, but no clue as to who was committing them.

  The elderly woman loudly sighed. “So awful.”

  “It was. It is.”

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  Deb nodded.

  Once the older woman left, Kim exploded. “What the hell was that?”

  “She was just curious,” Deb said.

  “She was rude. Who does that shit?”

  “Language,” Deb told her mildly.

  “Seriously, Mom. What. The. Hell.”

  “You’re a lot more patient than I am,” Nicole put in.

  “Maybe. I need to pee,” Deb announced tiredly.

  That was true, but Deb really just wanted a moment to herself. She headed to the restroom, leaving Kim and Nicole still complaining, and passed small tables near Wegmans restaurant, displays of flowers and meat and snack food. She briefly stopped to stare at some cupcakes. She wasn’t hungry, but thought they would make a nice thank you for Nicole.

  And then Deb remembered what Grant’s accountant had told her the other day, something about an issue with Grant’s finances: the payments from his life insurance were going to be delayed. Deb had been too distracted to fully comprehend anything, a distraction the accountant seemed to understand.

  “We can talk about this later,” he’d said. “For now, though, keep an eye on your spending.”

  The restroom at Wegmans was for individuals—a single toilet and sink. Deb locked the door behind her and leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Sadness had been crawling inside of her all day, hoarsening her voice, making the sun too bright. Now it broke loose.

  Deb cried helplessly into her hands.

  Jesus Christ, those tears. Like all the water in her body was being wrung out.

  But of all the tears Deb had ever wept, none felt like this.

  None left her so gutted and empty and scared.

  It took Deb a few minutes to pull herself together, check herself in the mirror, leave the bathroom. She walked through the crowded grocery store to her daughter and her best friend, and found Kim crying on Nicole’s shoulder.

  She touched Kim, pulling her close.

  “We’ll be okay,” Deb whispered to her daughter. “We’ll be okay.”

  Deb didn’t believe herself, but she was surprised at how honest the words sounded.

  CHAPTER

  6

  THE KNOCKING WOULDN’T stop.

  Annoyed, Cessy muted the television, downed the rest of her Guinness, and pulled herself off the couch. Opened her apartment door.

  A sudden hand on her chest shoved her inside.

  A man walked into her apartment, closed and locked the door behind him.

  “What …?” Cessy started, thinking about Hector’s heavy guns, wishing she hadn’t sold them to a pawn shop. “Who are you?”

  The man walked past her, calmly sat on her couch. He was medium height, with short, thin blond hair. Muscles pushed through his long-sleeved shirt, as if his shirt was too tight, as if any shirt would be too tight. Tight line of a mouth, squinted blue eyes.

  “Cessy Castillo?”

  “Yeah?”

  Cessy was trying to appear less worried than she was, but her mind raced. She had no idea who this man was, what he wanted, why he was here. She stood uncertainly, legs tensed, ready to dart to the door.

  “Don’t run,” he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  The sentence hung in the air.

  “Who are you?” Cessy asked.

  “I worked with Hector.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. Tried to put some strength in her voice. “Hector didn’t work.”

  “Oh, he worked. You just don’t know about it.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, but had an idea.

  Cessy thought about the pictures she’d found the day before, the photos of the executions.

  “But he also borrowed,” the man continued. “Especially from the people he worked for.”

  Cessy felt cold inside.

  “What was he doing?”

  The man just regarded her. Didn’t respond.

  She tried again. “How much was he in for?”

  “Fifteen grand.”

  Dammit, Hector.

  The man glanced around her small apartment. “Doesn’t seem like he shared the money with you, so you probably didn’t know about it. But he owed it. Still does.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. Hector’s dead.”

  “You’re not.”

  Cessy kept acting like she didn’t know better. As if there was a chance this man had only come into her home to tell her about, and then excuse, Hector’s debt. “I’m just a bartender. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  He draped his left arm out over the couch, as if over an invisible girlfriend sitting next to him.

  “I have an idea on how you can pay it back,” he said.

  Cessy looked warily at him.

  “You could do what your mom did,” he went on.

  Cessy’s left hand tightened into a fist.

  The two of them stared at each other.

  “I know all about you, Cessy Castillo,” he said. “Hector told me everything. I even know why you’re here, what brought you to Baltimore. What you’re running from. What’s in your blood to do.”

  Her eyes burned. “Fuck you.”

  “Exactly.” He stood up from the couch, walked over to her. “Come up with the money soon, or you’d better take that idea seriously. And don’t try the cops. We have the cops. Hector’s not the only one who kept a foot in each lane.”

  “I can’t pay you.”

  He looked her up and down, the gaze as violent as hands clawing her.

  “You can.”

  Cessy locked the door after he left.

  Her phone was in her hand before she realized it. She glanced down at her brother’s number, thought about calling.

  This was the first time Cessy had felt afraid since Hector’s death.

  But she wasn’t ready to run.

  Especially not to her brother.

  Moments of sadness had hit her, occasionally stopped her cold, motionless, lost in some conflict of memories of when Hector had been loving … and then his face contorted in rage, his fists fast and everywhere. Cessy would be lost in those thoughts until a stranger’s concerned voice woke her, in a store, on the street, at the bar, and she’d come back to the realization that Hector was gone, that those parts of her life were over.

  That she was safe.

  She’d escaped, freed herself from his violence and unpredictable anger. Walked away from his corpse without looking back.

  But it turned out Hector could still hurt her. The visit from that blond man was like Hector’s cold hand breaking through the earth, grabbing her wrist, forcing her to stay with him. Hector still making sure Cessy stayed in the shadows, keeping the
ir darkness stretched over her.

  * * *

  Cessy spent the next few days looking over her shoulder, dreading a knock on the door, wondering how she could possibly pay the debt Hector had left. She took inventory of everything she owned, found it hard to see how anything in her apartment would come to more than a few hundred dollars.

  She went back to work, still worried, hoping the bar was a good place to distract herself from these concerns. And, fortunately, regulars at the Fells Gate Tavern had realized they didn’t need to tiptoe around Cessy about Hector’s death. She was grateful for that. She’d hated the pitying looks that first week, the way voices softened when they talked to her.

  Especially because no one had been nearly that concerned when Hector was alive and bruising her.

  Not that they knew, Cessy reminded herself as she strained a whiskey sour, set it down next to a seven and seven. She picked up a twenty.

  At least, probably not.

  “Keep it,” a regular named Michael Thompson, a former St. Francis high school football star, said.

  Cessy looked at the twenty, surprised. “You sure?”

  “All you,” he said, and turned toward his girlfriend, Stacy Griffith, a cute short blonde. “Watch my drinks.”

  He headed to the restroom.

  “I need to get him to be that generous with me,” Stacy said.

  Cessy could tell Michael felt sorry for her, which explained the large tip. It lingered in men, that sadness. The women felt it too, but they paid attention to Cessy, could tell she didn’t want condolences.

  “Is that new?” Stacy asked, and pointed at Cessy’s shoulder.

  It was a Japanese-style tattoo, showed an old man staring at a lake and a small rowboat docked on the shore.

  “Couple of months? I might have been wearing something that covered it when you were in here.”

  Stacy leaned over the bar to get a closer look. “I like it,” she announced. “Lot of nice detail for a small space.”

  “What about you?” Cessy asked. “Any new ones?”

  Stacy didn’t have any visible tattoos, but Cessy knew her back was inked. “Another dragon on my right leg. The tail curves around my thigh.”

  “Sexy lady.”