by David Beers
“Did you drink last night?”
She didn’t look at him, nor did she answer.
“You need to slow down on that,” Brett said after a second.
Emi still said nothing.
“You hear me?”
Emi finally turned to him. “What I do at night isn’t any concern of yours.” She held his eyes, knowing that it wasn’t fair to talk to him that way. If he was saying anything about it, it was only because he cared—and Brett Lichen was the only person in the world who might actually care.
He shook his head, then changed the subject back to the investigation. “Demsworth told us that he hadn’t seen the news. Part of that man’s job is to watch the news. Politics is news, and the local news is his lifeblood. He said he has something delivered to him every morning if it pertains the governor. What did Perry say this morning?”
Emi nodded, understanding now—or at least starting to. “He knew what was happening.”
“Perry said he was scheduling a call with his staff to discuss the entire thing. Now that could have just been a lie, because that’s what politicians do, but if ritualistic killings are happening within his state, and it’s making national news, his staff is going to know about it. They’d be doing everything possible to keep the panic down. Yet that guy acted like he didn’t have a clue what was going on.”
“Maybe he didn’t,” Emi said, still looking at the table in front of her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brett asked. “You don’t want me bringing up your drinking, but you’re barely functioning right now.”
Emi shook her rapidly. “I need a minute.”
She stood up abruptly and nearly ran from the room. She fumbled with the doorknob for a second, unable to grip it due to the sweat on her palms. Finally she yanked it open and fled down the hallway. She rounded a corner and almost fell into the women’s bathroom.
She burst into the first stall she saw. She banged the door open, bending over and vomiting.
Emi fell to her knees, grabbing the white bowl and ejecting her stomach into it. Most splashed into the water, but some hit the sides.
Emi ignored it all, heaving into the toilet, even as nothing but stomach acid and phlegm dripped from her mouth. Loud, retching noises filled the bathroom.
“Is everything okay?” a woman called.
Emi said nothing. She couldn’t. She kept dry heaving into the toilet, desperately wanting to stop but unable to.
Finally, a minute or so later, her body relaxed some. Emi leaned forward, barely thinking, and placed her head on the toilet seat. She simply didn’t care, nor did she have the energy to hold her head up any longer.
What had just happened? How many murders had she seen and how many interviews had she done? She doubted she could count them without pulling up actual records, and not once had she ever reacted like this. More, she hadn’t even seen a dead body today, and the brief talk with Demsworth wasn’t an interview.
What is this? she wondered. What’s happening to me?
So lost in her thoughts, Emi didn’t hear the bathroom door open.
“Emi, you alright?” Brett called.
“Yea—,” she tried to say, but her voice caught in her throat. She paused, swallowed, and tried again. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”
She listened as the door closed, still not raising her head off the toilet.
Get a hold of yourself, she said. Get a fucking grip. Right now, before you go back out there.
She lifted her head up and looked inside the toilet.
She hadn’t eaten anything this morning, only spiked her coffee with a shot (or two) of vodka. She’d chewed gum as soon as she was finished, masking the smell, but now the pungency struck her nose. Dark liquid sat inside the toilet—the coffee, but the smell of vodka was ever prevalent.
That’s your problem, Emi. Right there in front of you. Brett is right even if you don’t want to admit it. It’s not the murder or the guy in the office. It’s the fact that you’re drinking before work. It’s the fact that you’re drinking after work. The only times you’re not drinking is when you’re at work, or when you’re sleeping—and those times are shrinking, aren’t they? At least the sleep part, because you’re doing much, much less of that.
Emi reached up and wiped her mouth.
She pushed herself to her feet, looking at the vomit that had hit the side of the toilet.
“Damn it,” she said, taking toilet paper and wiping it up the best she could. She tossed the tissue in and then flushed it.
She turned and went to the sink. The other woman that had been here must have left, because the bathroom appeared empty. Emi turned on the faucet and stuck her mouth down to it. She rinsed twice before finally taking a swallow of the water. She wet her hands, taking soap from the dispenser, and washed them—then looked at herself in the mirror for the first time.
You shouldn’t look in mirrors so much.
Why not?
Something might look back one day.
A chill ran down her back as her eyes widened. Abel had told her that years and years ago. He’d been serious when he said it, not kidding at all.
Emi scanned the bathroom through the mirror, but she saw no one else. Nothing looking back at her. She was alone.
Abel said a lot of crazy shit, she thought, but that doesn’t mean any of it was right. He went to an insane asylum, and you might end up at one too if you don’t get control of yourself.
Emi splashed cold water on her face and looked at herself once more. It wasn’t pretty, what she saw. Underneath she was pretty, but stress and fear were thrown across it like some mad painter’s creation.
Emi turned from the mirror and left the bathroom. Brett was waiting outside for her.
“You okay?”
She didn’t pause but turned and started walking back to their small war room. “I’m okay,” she said, having no idea if it was true. Her mind was clearer than it’d been minutes before, but that wasn’t saying a whole lot. It was a low bar, because minutes before she’d been resting her head on a public toilet.
Brett hustled to catch up with her.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” she said as they rounded a corner. “Whatever I ate this morning didn’t agree with me. I’m good.”
Even as she told him that, Abel’s words came back to her.
Something might look back one day.
They reached their office and she went in first, Brett following. She turned around and looked at him as the door closed.
“There’s nothing else going on? Because I really don’t think you ate breakfast today, Emi.”
“Leftover burger from last night. I ate it before I picked you up. Now, can we stop talking about my dietary habits? I wasn’t feeling good in Demsworth’s office, but I wasn’t going to say anything in there. I feel better now.”
Emi was lying, completely and without hesitation. She didn’t know if she’d ever lied to Brett before, but she doubted she had. She did it now with a solemn face, looking as she always did … but Brett stared silently at her for a few seconds—perhaps not believing a word.
Emi didn’t know exactly why she was lying, only that she couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t say …
She didn’t even want to say it to herself. Something about Demsworth had affected her, and harshly. There wasn’t any reason for it, and she didn’t know why it had happened. More, this could impede their investigation, and that couldn’t be allowed.
“Okay,” Brett said. “Are you ready to start working now?”
Emi nodded. “Yeah. I’m good. Let’s go.”
“I don’t think Demsworth was telling us the truth about not knowing what was happening. It’s all over the news and has been for the past 24 hours. The governor knew, and that means his staff would know.”
Emi nodded, trying to remember exactly what Demsworth had said. “Yeah, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. What do you want to do?”
Great contribution, Emi
. Really great.
“We’ve got a lot more to deal with here than him, but it’s something we need to remember. I don’t know why he’d lie to us about knowing what was happening.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to bring it up right there in the office,” Emi said, though she didn’t buy it—and didn’t like defending him either.
Brett shrugged, walking around to the other side of the table where his laptop sat. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just think it’s something we need to keep in mind.”
Emi nodded, turning as he moved.
“Demsworth isn’t a priority, and we’re not going to get more resources unless there’s another murder. I vote we stick with our current plan and keep talking to the people closest to this newest victim.”
Something might look back one day.
Another chill ran across Emi’s body as Abel’s words whispered through her mind.
“You’re talking to a co-worker named Elizabeth Barrens. I’ve got the man’s boss,” Brett said, reading off the calendar on his computer. “The police department should be with the parents right now, so hopefully we can get something back from them by this evening.”
Focus, she thought. Focus and get all of this out of your mind. You’ve got an interview to conduct, plus endless hours of work after that. There isn’t time to deal with Abel or what you might have felt with some Chief of Staff. There’s six people dead, and maybe more coming.
Emi sat down at her computer, pulling up on her own calendar.
She wasn’t wrong. More dead were definitely coming.
The day had turned into night, and still Brett and Emi kept working. Finally, at 11:00, Brett knew he needed a few hours of sleep if he was going to be effective at all the next day. They agreed to break and start again at 4:00 in the morning.
“Hey,” Brett said as they both reached their cars. Emi turned to him. “Please don’t drink tonight. Okay? We don’t have a lot of time before we have to be at it again.”
Emi nodded. “Yeah, of course. I won’t.”
Brett let his stare linger a little longer, but found he believed her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He’d driven home, knowing that his daughter, Allie, would be asleep. The light in his bedroom was on. Jessie was up, though it was nearing midnight. He’d come in at 2:00 in the morning before to find her waiting.
Jessie always waited for him, even if she dozed off from time to time.
Brett got out of his car and went inside, placing his bags down near the door. In a few hours, this would all start over again, and Brett wasn’t happy about their progress today. They’d ended a call with the Associate Deputy Director at 9:00 that evening, and he hadn’t been too terribly happy either. Everything appeared to have been normal with this newest victim, right up until crosses were carved in his and his family’s chests. There weren’t any connections between Victim 1 and Victim 2, nothing besides them working in the same building and the brutal ways they were murdered.
No outward signs that this might happen.
No enemies.
They might be dealing with a serial killer, one who they didn’t understand in the slightest.
“We’ll find out if he’s a serial killer pretty soon,” Brett’s boss, Clyde Hartwell, had said. “Unless you two make an arrest.”
Brett had looked at Emi, but she’d been staring at the small speaker in the middle of the desk. The murder was bad enough, but something was wrong with Emi. He didn’t care what she’d told him earlier in the day. Something was wrong, and he thought it might be serious.
Brett entered his bedroom. Jessie was under the covers. She grabbed the remote and muted the television.
“How’s the baby?” he asked.
“She’s good. A little fussy when she went to sleep.”
Brett walked over and kissed Jessie, then turned to the closet. He started unbuttoning his shirt, saying nothing. A few minutes passed as he hung up his clothes. He heard nothing from behind him, so lost in his own mind.
“What’s wrong?” Jessie asked, reaching up and placing a hand on his bare back.
Brett’s breath caught in his throat, having not heard her move at all. “Goodness, Jessie. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“That’s how I know something is bothering you,” she said. “You didn’t hear me get out of bed.”
Brett looked down and leaned into her, allowing her arms to wrap around his stomach. He felt her face against his back.
He smiled.
“Well, it’s another woman, Jessie.”
He felt a grin crawl across her face and loved it. Her smiling was the best thing that had happened to him all day.
“I’m serious,” Brett said, “and I’m not talking about our daughter.”
“Emi likes me better than you anyway, so shut it,” Jessie answered. “What’s going on with her?”
Brett’s smile faded.
“Partly the same as always,” he said. “Her drinking. That might be all of it, but I can’t tell.”
“Is it worse?”
He nodded. “I think so. She hides it well, but she puked this afternoon.”
“Puked?” Jessie asked.
“Yeah. That hasn’t happened before.”
Jessie was quiet.
Brett sighed. “I don’t know. It seems like there might be more to it, too, but I can’t say that for sure if she’s drinking, because you don’t know what’s the drinking and what’s something else.”
“Come to bed,” Jessie said, letting go of him.
He nodded and finished undressing, quicker this time. He changed into clean boxers, not bothering with a shower, then got under the covers.
He needed to sleep, but Brett wanted to keep talking with Jessie for a minute, too—and she knew it. They were rarely not on the same communication wavelength. They had problems from time to time, but trust and talking were never the causes.
“Have you said anything to her?” Jessie asked, turning over and draping her arm across his chest.
“A little today, but it didn’t do any good.”
“What did she say?”
“She got defensive the first time. The second, she told me she wouldn’t drink tonight.”
“You believe her?” Jessie asked.
Another sigh. “I guess I have to, but only because we don’t have a lot of time before we have to start working again. I should believe her because I trust her.”
“You don’t?”
Brett closed his eyes. Not trusting Emi would be akin to not trusting his wife. It was unthinkable, yet that was the question now posed, and because he’d led the conversation to it.
“I do,” he said. “I have to, I guess. It’s just, I shouldn’t be worrying about her right now, not with all that’s happening. We’ve got three more agents joining us tomorrow. The media isn’t relenting, and Hartwell doesn’t want to give them any additional ammunition. We’ve got no leads on the murderer, and we’re going on three days now. Over a week on the first. There’s just all this happening, and I’m lying here worrying about Emi.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” Jessie said. She kissed his chest. Brett leaned down and kissed her forehead.
He felt sleep weighing on him. “Thanks for waiting up,” he said and rolled over, wrapping his arm around his wife.
“Of course.”
The two fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Brett lay holding someone he loved while Emi stared at a bottle.
It was half full, yet she hadn’t touched it since this morning. It sat across from her on the kitchen table, the light shining down overhead. The rest of her apartment was dark. Emi hadn’t undressed or even gone to her bedroom. She’d simply opened the door, put her stuff down, and went to the vodka bottle.
An empty glass sat in front of her.
Brett had asked her not to drink tonight, and she’d told him she wouldn’t—yet, looking at the bottle now, she thought that might be impossible.
Emi had managed to hold it toget
her today, at least enough to keep from vomiting again. She’d finished three interviews, looked over the entirety of the police’s notes on their interviews, and then updated Hartwell. She’d done it all without an ounce of alcohol in her, without crying or hearing Abel.
She performed her job as anyone else would, her exterior not cracking at all.
Internally, though?
Emi thought something was cracking. She didn’t know what, nor how, and she’d never felt anything like it before. Not back with Abel. Not with her parents. Not with the one time her heart had been broken by a boy in her mid-twenties. There had been dark times in her life, frightening times, but she’d never felt something breaking inside her.
Emi grabbed the bottle greedily, pouring the glass full with the clear liquid.
She told Brett she wouldn’t do it, but that was only because she couldn’t tell him the truth: Emi had to drink. She didn’t have a choice now, and she’d never really felt that way before. Did she drink heavily? Yes. More than she should? Okay. Was she an alcoholic? That was debatable. Even so, she’d never felt she had to drink.
And now, she did.
Simple as that.
Because if not, she knew where her mind would go—right back to that office with Vince Demsworth. Something had happened there and her certainty of it only grew as the day progressed.
No, she thought. No, I’m not going to think about it. Not anymore.
She took the glass and put it to her lips. She drank slowly, but deeply. Emi wasn’t new to this, and the disgusting, burning liquid actually made her feel more at home. It brought comfort, because it was something she understood … and she knew what it would do for her.
Emi drank half the glass before her body forced her to set it back down.
She took a large breath, staring at the glass. She glanced at her watch. She had to be at work in four hours. Was she going to sit here and get shit-faced for the next two, and then try to sleep? She’d had her half glass—maybe three shots—would that be enough to keep the thoughts at bay?
Tears filled Emi’s eyes.
What the hell was she doing right now?
What had happened today; why was she sitting here considering downing six shots before trudging back into work? Was it the alcohol? Or was it that office building? Was she an alcoholic, or had something actually gone down—something that affected her in ways she didn’t understand?
