by Nolon King
“Why would I be mad at you?” Callie didn’t look up.
“I dunno, but you’ve been weird ever since lunch.”
“Weird? Oh, you mean because you stole Scott?”
“What? Stole him? Are you two going out?”
“No, but last week he told Stacy he was thinking of asking me to the dance. Then boom, he asks you today! So, what the fuck, Felicia?”
“Oh, my God. I’m soooooo sorry. I didn’t know you liked him.”
“Mm-hmm.” Still wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“I swear, I didn’t know. I’ll tell him no.”
“Um, no, you will not. He’ll know I said something to you.”
“I’ll tell him I can’t go. I’ll say I like someone else or something. Whatever you want me to say. I would never want to come between you two.”
Callie gave her a cold and vicious laugh. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t really matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not like he really likes you. He feels sorry for you. You’re not his type, honey. For one, you’re crippled. And, for two, this.” She waved her hand over her forehead.
“What?” Felicia asked, knowing exactly what she meant. It was just hard to believe that Callie would say something so mean.
She laughed again. “It’s not like anyone could ever really think you’re pretty. The kids call you Scarface behind your back.”
Felicia felt like she’d been smacked across the face. She fought the tears as they stung her eyes.
Callie finally looked at her. “What?”
Felicia had never seen someone eye her with such disdain. Fear, yes. Pity, sure. But never with this kind of contempt, like Felicia wasn’t worthy of having friends, let alone a boyfriend. That slap was more like a knife in her heart.
Then Callie drove the dagger deeper. “Oh, you didn’t know? Yeah, sorry. Nobody likes you. They feel bad for you. They’re only nice to you because I’m your foster sister.”
The dream changed locations.
Felicia was glad not to relive what happened next, her freaking out and trashing Callie’s room.
But then came another memory, talking to Mr. Smith downstairs later that night.
He was disappointed in Felicia, and that was almost as bad.
She tried to explain what had happened, but Mr. Smith wasn’t hearing her.
I’m sorry for what Callie said, but you are responsible for your reactions.
Felicia had gone from one horror show to another, and this was the first time the parents actually seemed to care about her as more than a check from the government. She couldn’t get kicked out of this foster home.
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that. We have zero tolerance for violence in this house. I’m sorry, Felicia.”
“What? You’re sending me back into the system?”
He shook his head, barely looking at her. “I’m not the one sending you back. You decided this with your behavior.”
On one hand, she felt horrible that she’d made him so disappointed. But on the other, Felicia hated that he didn’t even see her side of things. That he wasn’t giving her a second chance. That he was just going to give up on her, simple as that.
She thought he and his wife were different. Thought they cared.
Felicia cried, uncontrollably, apologizing over and over, begging for another chance. Not her proudest moment, but she loathed the thought of leaving. She even promised to find a way to make up with Callie, even though Callie had been so horrible to her.
“I want to tell you something my father told me when I was about your age. He said, ‘Son, life isn’t fair. In fact, it can be downright cruel. But no matter what life throws your way, you always have the power to choose how you respond. That is what makes the difference between winners and losers. Losers lash out and cry about the cruel injustices of the world. Winners figure out a way to roll with the punches and turn the situation in their favor.’ I hope you can carry this lesson to your next house, and maybe have a better time of it. I’m sorry, Felicia.”
He got up and left her alone in the living room, weeping and devastated. Mrs. Smith never even saw her off when the social worker came to pick her up the next day.
As Felicia got in the car, she looked up at Callie’s window. Her former friend was standing there, shades open, glaring down with a naked expression.
Her dream shifted to the next house, the place with all the terrible things. Atrocities that would alter her forever, and make Felicia surrender her birth name.
Spider woke up in her sleeping bag, staring at the bandage where the tip of her left pinky used to be. Her anger acquiesced to sadness.
She was alone in the room. Her wheelchair still at the desk.
Where’s Clark?
Spider wasn’t sure what time it was. It felt like early afternoon, and her internal clock was almost as reliant as the real thing. But right now, everything was fuzzy. She wasn’t sure if she’d been drugged, suffered from shock or blood loss, or perhaps something even worse.
Where the hell is Clark?
Did Victor tell him to leave?
Am I being watched right now?
She had been scared of Clark but knew he wouldn’t hurt her if she followed orders. But Victor was clearly a psychopath.
Spider felt sick to her stomach as she slowly sat up.
Despite common sense and a probably unrealistic belief in the Professor coming through for her, she had believed she would somehow persevere, same as she’d always done.
But it was harder to have faith with the throbbing pain of a missing finger.
She flinched as the door opened. Clark, carrying a water bottle and food. She was relieved to know he was still the one looking after her, even if he couldn’t protect her from Victor.
Assuming he won’t kill me on Victor’s orders.
She shoved the thought from her mind as he asked how she was.
“What happened … after he cut my finger?”
“I cleaned and cauterized the wound. Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” she said as he helped her into the wheelchair.
“Here.” Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out a white bottle.
“What’s this?”
“They’ll help the pain.” He unscrewed the cap, dropped a pair of pills into his palm. “It’s five hundred milligram Percocets. All I have on me at the moment.”
She’d avoided pain meds all through rehab following the accident. She’d been on morphine at the hospital and briefly took some medication upon her initial release, but she had pride in not needing them as her pain faded away. The pills helped, but they also made it easier to succumb. And the last thing Spider ever wanted to do was give up on herself.
“I don’t want ’em,” she said.
“They’re safe.”
Then a thought occurred to her. A way out of this mess if she wasn’t going to get out alive. She held out her palm. “Okay.”
He handed her the water and the pills.
Spider pretended to pop them in her mouth but slipped them into her pocket instead. She wasn’t sure how many she’d need to overdose and die, but she might as well start saving up.
She wanted to cry, but then Bill Smith’s lecture echoed in her mind.
Losers lash out and cry about the cruel injustices of the world, winners figure out a way to roll with the punches, to turn the situation in their favor.
She’d taken his advice to her next home. Hardened her soft parts and found a way to survive.
And she’d do the same here.
Just had to bide her time and figure a way out.
“Are you hungry?” Clark asked, his voice softer than before. “I brought you some muffins.”
He feels bad. Find a way and use that against him.
“Yes.” She met his gaze. “Thank you.”
Chapter 28 - Victor Forbes
Victor was eating lunch in the dining
room, happy his meal was better than the slop he was served for breakfast and glad to see the kitchen was finally taking him seriously.
He thumbed through the news on his phone as he ate, praying there were no breaking headlines featuring the organization.
Nothing so far.
Franz made his way to the table then sat across from Victor.
There was the slightest shift in his demeanor. He no longer eyed Victor with the same smug expression. “So, you really did it, eh? You cut off that bitch’s finger?”
The man’s joy over such violence only proved him a cretin. But Victor had earned his respect, for whatever that was worth, so instead of dressing the man down like he might’ve otherwise done, Victor only nodded. “Let’s just say she’s been convinced of the job’s importance.”
“I’ll bet she falls in line now. Your man, Clark, on the other hand …”
“What?” Victor asked as Chef Jan brought Franz steak frites and a glass of ale.
“Oh, nothing.”
Franz was obviously trying to get under his skin, but he was an idiot, and Victor played a better game of ball. “What is it?”
“Just whispers. You know, little birdies, I believe your saying is.” Franz made a whistling sound and pantomimed flitting wings as he continued to whistle.
“What are the birdies saying?” Victor asked, hating himself for playing along. Even if he knew Franz was trying to outmaneuver him, he needed to know what the man was trying to do if he hoped to figure out the best way to handle him.
“He is telling some of the men how, um … unstable I think was the word he used. Yes, how unstable you are.”
Victor took a bite of his roasted lamb without responding.
“I believe he thinks he’d be a better boss than you. But I disagree. It takes a certain kind of man to do the hard things, am I right? He could never hurt that girl. But you proved leadership. I can see why Mr. Molchalin appointed you as the head of this branch. Clark isn’t half the man you are.” Franz shook his head. “No way he could be boss.”
Victor nodded.
Franz was trying to create tension between the two men, but why? Was he, or one of the other men, whispering bullshit into Clark’s ears as well? Was this at the direction of Molchalin to ensure that Victor had no one on his side in the event that he needed to be eliminated? And if BlackBriar did kill him, would Franz be the one to do it? Or would they make Clark pull the trigger, as some sort of loyalty test?
His appetite gone, Victor took a swallow of his wine then pushed the plate away from him.
Franz looked at the mostly-full plate. “Are you finished?”
“Yeah. I try not to get too heavy a stomach when I’m working.”
“Ah,” Franz said, stabbing a fork into Victor’s lamb. “Do you mind?”
“No.”
Franz transferred the meat to his plate, next to the steak. “This lamb?”
Victor nodded.
So did Franz. “Not as good as the steak, but good.”
Victor’s phone buzzed.
It was the call he’d been waiting for — a deputy at the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office.
“Excuse me.” Victor stood, taking his phone and the glass of wine.
He answered the call as he turned down the hall then ducked into the library for privacy. “Yes?”
“Hey, Mr. Forbes, it’s Roy. I got that info you wanted. But one question … ”
“Yes?” Victor said.
“When was that photo taken?”
“The other day. Why?”
“According to my source at Creek County Sheriff’s Office, the man in that photo is dead.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Name was Jasper Parish. Former cop from South Florida. His house burned down shortly after his daughter’s suicide. Interesting thing is what he tried to do after she died.”
“What’s that?”
“He tried to get the sheriff’s department to arrest Calum Kozack, saying the guy raped his daughter and caused her to kill herself. But the DA, being a friend of Calum’s daddy, didn’t do dick.”
Victor’s wheels were furiously turning.
“Hey, Roy, did your source wanna know why you’re asking?”
“I made up some shit, said it was an old case, didn’t let on that the guy was still alive.”
“Good. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay?”
“No problem, man. Mum’s the word.”
Victor hung up with a plan.
Chapter 29 - Mallory Black
Mal sat in her rental at the red light, watching Tommy’s Camaro idle two cars ahead of her.
Tonight, she would put her plan into action. Plant drugs in his car then leave an anonymous tip. Officers finding that quantity of pharmaceuticals in his vehicle would arrest him for violating of parole.
With her bastard of a husband back behind bars, Maggie might finally find the will to do what she should have done a long time ago — leave his ass and start over somewhere else.
The light turned green, and Mal followed him as he made his way to a pub in a strip mall. It shared a parking lot with an ancient Winn-Dixie, a thrift shop, a bail bondsman, a Subway, a payday lender, and a few other smaller shops. She parked in front of the Winn-Dixie but stayed in her car and watched as Tommy walked to toward the pub with a pool cue case slung over his shoulder.
Her plan had a problem. The entire length of the pub’s front was windowed, giving her a clear view of the crowd and pool tables, but also giving anyone inside a clear view of the parking lot.
Worse, the lot was well-lit in front of the pub, basically putting a spotlight right over Tommy’s car.
Mal mulled her options.
She could wait until he drove home then plant the drugs there, but the odds of being seen by a neighbor were probably even greater.
Why does this dive have so many damned windows?
Mal watched as a car pulled up next to her and a young black woman got out with her little girl. She was coughing, a horrible croupy rasp, reminding Mal of several late-night hospital trips when Ashley was little and had the croup.
The woman glanced over at her. Too late, Mal realized she’d been staring. The woman hurried her kid away, as if the watching stranger might jump out and accost them.
She decided to leave for a bit, think about what she should do next somewhere else.
Mal pulled into a Burger King drive-thru. She ordered a Whopper, fries, and a Coke, then sat in the parking lot eating the greasy, lukewarm food, immediately regretting her decision. It reminded of her of many such shitty meals with Mike as they sat in a car on a stake out, or while waiting for the techs to arrive at a crime scene. She missed her partner a lot.
She ate about a quarter of her food before wrapping it all up in the bag, getting out of the car, then tossing it into an overflowing garbage can outside.
Mal she got back in and drove around, sipping her soda until she finally called Mike, hoping a conversation might get her to stop lamenting their last conversation.
He answered after four rings.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Mal asked.
“Okay. It’s a bit early for a booty call, ain’t it?”
“Fuck you,” she joked. “I was just thinking of you.”
“Missing me?”
“No, I was eating Burger King and regretting all the many life choices that led me to it, and thought of all the shitty meals we’ve scarfed down together.”
“So, basically, you got indigestion and thought of me?”
“Basically.”
“Awesome. So, you coming back?”
“Not yet.”
“Call to give me some info on our mysterious friend?”
“Nothing new there, either.”
“Um, okay. Well, thanks for calling.”
“Don’t be like that. Can’t a friend just call to say hi?”
“A friend wouldn’t choose to make another friend’s investigation more difficult by withholding evide
nce.”
A long sigh, then, “Can’t we just talk without you giving me a guilt trip?”
“Okay, Mal, let’s talk. How’s it going, old pal? Awesome! Glad to hear. What’s that? You’re thinking of getting a dog? Well, I never pictured you as much of a dog person, but that really sounds excellent. How am I? Well, me and the wife are fine, except I’m working all damned day and night on a case no one but me and the parents of these missing kids seems to want solved. Yeah, that does suck, doesn’t it?”
“You’re such a drama queen,” she teased, hoping to lighten the mood, if not the conversation.
“Okay, Mal, how are you?” Mike asked after a slight pause.
“Well, let’s see, the man who raped and murdered my daughter had me kidnapped and pumped with heroin after I’d finally kicked my addiction, so now I spend my nights in NA meetings wishing like hell that I wasn’t craving pills every second of every long ass day and wondering if I wouldn’t have been better off if Paul Dodd had just killed me. And the only reason I can be glad I’m not dead is it also means Jessi Price is still alive.”
Long silence on the other end.
Mal held back her tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
She wanted to say yes, to come and sit with her, tell her everything would be fine, just like a friend was supposed to do. But she couldn’t, not now when she had Tommy to deal with.
“Mal?”
“Sorry, just thinking. I’ll be okay. Listen, I’ve gotta go. Thanks.”
“Wait—”
Mal hung up. Not to be dramatic, she’d held in her tears as long as possible and didn’t want her partner hearing her cry. So, she wept in the quiet of her car as rain plopped on the windshield, letting his next call tickle her voicemail.
She couldn’t help but wonder how she’d fallen so far so quickly. Mal was well beyond ‘going a bit outside the law.’ And while she’d gone even further outside it when attacking Eddie the Rapist, this felt different, somehow more illicit.
Yes, Tommy was a piece of shit who hit his wife, but she refused to leave or turn him in. Who was Mal to make that decision for her, and by way of framing a man?
