by J. Conrad
“Just a few minutes,” I say. “Why?”
“We just closed on the property today, and now it’s on fire!” he says. Now I see it’s a water bottle he clutches in his left hand. Shouting more profanity, with a lot of force for someone so tightly wound, Epstein throws his Ozarka at the black asphalt. The cap pops off, and water splatters out in an angry ribbon.
I’m not going to get into some heated discussion over whether I “knew about this.” But then the fervent moths in my belly start clambering up to my esophagus. I can’t help thinking about Nick Pearlman. What if Rance is in danger? If he is, he has a right to know. Will telling him make it worse? Or will not telling him be the greater evil?
I can hear myself now. Yeah, so Mr. Epstein, this creep named Nick Pearlman has been threatening me, and he was saying you’re some kind of baddy we weren’t supposed to sell to. But Nick hates me too, you see, because he knows I killed a guy. As for why he’s out for you, Mr. Epstein, I have no idea—I just know he is. But I withheld all of this from you, thinking it wasn’t all that important, and we sold the property to you anyway. Tough break that your buildings are burning down as we speak.
I wish there’s a hole I could disappear into. Maybe Nick and Rance are long-feuding rivals, and if only Rance is made aware that Nick’s out to get him, he could take measures to end it. But this train of thought seems fruitless. I know almost nothing, least of all how Nick’s vendetta somehow ties back to Ayden. And if Nick already wants revenge for that, what will he do if I tip off Epstein? None of this makes enough sense to act upon.
“I just can’t believe this,” Epstein says to my silence. “Someone did this. Someone must have.” Noticing one of the Austin policemen near us, he turns. “Officer! Officer. Hey, that’s my property. Do you have any idea how the fire started?”
The police officer is walking toward the building, and as Epstein jogs after him, I hear the cop say something about “we haven’t determined the cause.” The fire department is still working to put it out, after all.
Well, considering the buildings have been unused for decades, and there’s no electrical service, what cause could there possibly be besides arson? Lightning? There isn’t a cloud in the sky. A neighboring building may have caught fire, and then this one ignited. I doubt it, but I can’t rule it out. I wish I could get a better view. I sigh. My arms shake as I grip the handlebars with palms too sweaty to hold them. It’s time to go home.
A final, fleeting desire to chase after Epstein and tell him about Nick tugs at me in agitating desperation. Then my heart starts pounding. The lightheadedness takes hold of me and threatens to knock me out while I straddle my bike.
Think. Survive. That’s what I know, and that’s what I’ll do. I’m going to keep my mouth shut. This is for the authorities, not for me. I’ll email Detective Spade, and he can warn Rance officially. And properly.
I arrive home after dark. Margarita sits in the living room, sipping a glass of wine and watching a sitcom. She and I have day jobs, while Rebecca and Ann mostly work nights. Though I can’t see the TV, I can tell what’s playing because of the laugh track.
“Hey, Aria. Did you just get back from Trent’s?” Really, she’s asking if I’m seeing him again.
“No, I haven’t seen him in weeks now, except for running into him at a restaurant. I was riding my bike downtown after work.” I make for the stairs to go up to my room.
Margarita straightens on the couch and takes her feet off the coffee table. “Oh.” She raises her eyebrows hopefully, then sniffs, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like smoke.”
“Yeah, there was a fire on Lamar.” I don’t offer that it was the property we just closed on this morning.
“Oh, wow. I hope no one was hurt. Was it a bad one?” She sets her glass down.
“It seemed pretty bad, but the fire department was getting it under control. I don’t think anyone was hurt. The buildings were empty.” My pulse quickens. Even saying that makes me feel like I’ve said too much or that I’m lying. But I’d rather keep it to myself.
She nods absentmindedly as the show vies for her attention. “Well, I’m glad no one was hurt. That’s the main thing. Oh, I almost forgot—it’s trash night. This is your week.” Margarita leans back, putting her bare feet up again.
“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll take it out as soon as I put my stuff upstairs,” I say.
Having four people in the house, we rotate taking the trash to the curb each week on Thursday. After depositing my purse and laptop on the bed, I pat two different pockets to ensure my pepper spray and knife are still inside. They’re there. I get my flashlight and go around the back of the house, where we keep the large, rolling trash bin. Grabbing the handle, I push the base with my foot to set it on its wheels. I hold the flashlight in my other hand, shining the beam down the driveway on my way to the curb. I even shine the light at the street and into the yards on the other side, just to be cautious. Nothing unusual. I roll the trash can to the verge along the sidewalk and leave it there.
However, something about the mailbox catches my attention. I’m standing right next to it, and although the flashlight beam points at the ground, I can see something—a white square against the black metal. I know it’s probably a flier, but my breath catches in my throat anyway. The fire set me on edge. Stepping closer to the mailbox, I find a folded piece of paper stuck between the little red flag and the exterior. I inhale and reach out to grab it.
No. I withdraw my fingers, thinking better of it. What if this is a message from Nick Pearlman? What if he found out where I live and delivered a nastygram? He might have left fingerprints, and I’ll have physical evidence of him threatening me. Providing, of course, he was stupid enough to have written it barehanded.
After going back inside, I take some pink plastic gloves from under the kitchen sink. I tuck them in my pocket and return to the mailbox. I slip them on and carefully tug the letter out from behind the red flag. Without unfolding it, I jog up the driveway and let myself in the front door.
“Good night, Margarita,” I call.
“Night,” she says, holding up her free hand while she sips her drink.
I get to my room and quietly close the door behind me. I click on the nightstand light. Sitting on the bed, I hold the slip of paper in my trembling, gloved hands—hands that look more prepared to clean the bathroom than receive evidence. I unfold the paper carefully.
My breathing quickens. I wasn’t expecting this, and I blink as I scan the words. The letter is in Trent’s handwriting. I would know it anywhere. The thin, watery letters. And the slight, left-hand slant, even though he isn’t left-handed.
Aria,
I want to let you know that I’ve decided to move on. You’re a great girl, and I care about you a lot. But I have to pursue my career, and I can’t give you the safe life you need. I hope you can forgive me and come to find your own happiness.
Trent
My face burns. The familiar ache smolders instantly, but there’s no point in crying over it. My body goes slack, and I release the slip of paper. It flutters beyond sight below the edge of the bed. Since I’m already sitting on the mattress, I let myself fall and land on the comforter with my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes closed tightly, clenching my jaw as a wave of pain hits me.
Why is Trent telling me this now? He seemed friendly at the restaurant like he wanted to talk. And I’ve been giving him space, just like he wanted. But now he leaves me this. His words solidify my aloneness. It’s far too real, and I bury my head in my arms. I was coping until this moment, but I don’t want this. Not now, not ever.
I sit up, finally pull off the gloves, and throw them on the floor. I retrieve the letter from the carpet and return to the bed, where I sit cross-legged. I force myself to reread the words now that the initial shock has worn off.
What does he mean he’s decided to move on? Move on from what? The fact of us not having a relationship? There’s nothing to move on from. And as far as pursuing his care
er, well, he was going to do that anyway. I don’t understand what goes on in his mind.
I shake my head. I set the letter on the nightstand. While I undress, I realize Margarita was right. My clothes do reek like I’ve been standing downwind from a campfire. I toss them into the hamper, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed.
After flipping off the lights, I turn on a fan for noise. Then, with trepidation doing backflips in my chest, I turn the fan off. I lie in bed, listening to the silence before I try to sleep. Unfortunately, too many images badger me. They pound, they needle, they whirl and tumble inside the blackness of my skull like a cyclone of insanity, and it’s as mentally loud as it is disturbing. Surrendering to slumber is impossible.
Trent pushed me away just like Kyle said. Well, with his fiancée murdered earlier this year and left on his porch, I guess he couldn’t help it. The wound is too fresh. He’s vulnerable and unhealed. Yet, he seemed to have no problem meeting with that Naomi woman. Why? She probably isn’t a sleep-screamer like me. It’s doubtful she was raped or tortured, or all the other things that I was. And unlike me, unspeakable things don’t dwell within depraved corners of her mind. But that doesn’t mean the rejection doesn’t hurt or that being alone doesn’t terrify me. It does.
I stare at the ceiling and take slow breaths. And then, in one of my nauseating, stress-induced flashbacks, the image of my stepmother lying on the filthy floor of the County Road 140 house engulfs my mind and senses. I see her. I’m there as though it’s happening right now. Toward the end, Korey beat Carol so severely she went unconscious. I knew she was comatose and not dead because I could see her breathing from my higher vantage point against the wall. But she never woke up again. All skin and bones from starvation, she died like that, carelessly thrown on the floor like trash. Her elbow jutted out disjointedly in a silent cry of helplessness.
I didn’t do anything to help her in the end. She had done so much for me, and I didn’t reach out to at least roll her onto her side in a more natural position. I couldn’t because after Korey beat me senseless, too, he stabbed me six times and chained me to the wall. Except what the papers didn’t mention, and few people know, is that he didn’t exactly stab me in the usual sense. What Korey really did was bloodletting. It was a part of my purification, he told me.
Six puncture wounds, and none of them in vital organs, so although I would lose a lot of blood, I would die slowly. And if the blood loss didn’t kill me, the infection would. Or the starvation. Or all three. I shudder, seeing the dirty knife ooze with my own gore. I wince to shut out the memory. If only Carol could have woken up and somehow escaped to get help. If only when she and I first came around, her mind wouldn’t have been damaged by the knock-out chemical. If only someone would find us, I thought. If only. And through the pain and terror, my bottomless, desperate loneliness was strongest of all—it was a chasm I fell into again and again. I have never felt so alone in all my life. I thought I would die in there, and not a soul would know.
After sitting bolt upright in bed, I gasp and turn on the nightstand lamp. I rub my face with my hands. I hate these waking nightmares. Shock and stress always spark them without fail.
But Trent found me in January. I’m alive. It seemed like a miracle at the time, and it still does now. I can’t control whether Trent wants to be in my life or not, but I can act in the present. I can make a decision that might save someone, which is something I wasn’t able to do for Carol. I don’t care for Rance Epstein. The man is a few clauses short of a contract. However, after what happened to Ayden, I have enough blood on my hands for one lifetime.
Lying here, as I blink up at the ceiling with red eyes, it seems to me that doing nothing is the worst thing in the entire world. Maybe one day, the police will find my cold, dead body locked in a cellar somewhere. And maybe Nick will be the murderer. But do they have to find Rance’s body too?
12
Edgy after my decision to help Rance Epstein, my fingers tremble as I unlock Median Realty on Bluebonnet Lane. My cell rings. I jump so violently this time that I drop my purse. It hits the cement porch with the metallic rattling of keys. I swear, and after catching my breath, I crouch to dig out my mobile. My heart surges into my throat again. If it’s another call from that creep, Nick, I need to make sure to record. But it isn’t him. I frown, the confusion and tiredness from the bad night of sleep making my head hurt.
“Yeah?” I say. My voice comes out flat.
“Aria? Hey, it’s Trent.”
“I know,” I say. “What’s going on?”
He’s quiet for a moment since he’s used to me being appreciative and warm. This is new.
“Did you get my letter?” he asks.
“Yep. I got it. So, looks like there’s no reason for you to call me now.” I walk to my office so briskly my hip grazes the door frame. I toss my purse on the floor next to my desk. I flip on the light.
“Aria, maybe I’m missing something, but I thought that would make you happy. I thought you’d be relieved. Where did I go wrong?” he asks.
My mouth falls open. I put my hand to my head, wanting to throw the phone against the wall. Or maybe scream. “You thought that would make me happy? Sometimes I don’t understand you at all. Besides, there’s nothing to move on from since we weren’t together.”
Trent sighs. “Wow. Well, I guess I really misgauged this. Okay. I won’t keep you before work. Just give me a call if you need anything, all right?”
“Give you a call if I need anything?” The ice in my voice melts a little, and hot venom seeps in to take its place. I swallow and purse my lips.
“If you want to,” Trent says. “I just want you to know that if you change your mind, and if you want to call me, you know, if you ever want to, you can. I’m always here.”
His words ring in my ears. I wonder why. Then I recall saying almost that very same thing to him months back when we met at Cianfrani Coffee in downtown Georgetown. His tone is even, the concern evident. He didn’t strain to sound genuine. But I still don’t get it.
I stop pacing and blurt, “If I change my mind?”
I really need to stop repeating everything he says, but I can’t help it. Standing here with the phone glued to my ear, I feel like I’m going crazy all over again. He’s the one who changed his mind, not me. But maybe that isn’t fair. He never made up his mind in the first place, and I was pushing him. His fiancée hasn’t been dead a year.
“Yes,” Trent says. “You have an open invitation. Call any time.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay. Until the next time we talk, I hope things go really well,” Trent says.
We hang up, and I shake my head. I don’t have time for emotional gymnastics right now. The office opens in forty-five minutes, and there’s stuff to do. I already phoned Kyle last night and let him know the property we sold yesterday caught fire. He didn’t act nearly as alarmed as I did. My belly is still full of rocks over what I’m withholding—what I’m about to do. But there are no laws against warning someone. There are, however, laws against threats and arson, which is why I emailed Spade the latest developments last night. It probably isn’t much from a legal standpoint, but the detective should know what I know.
I dial up Rance Epstein on my mobile. He picks up within two rings. I arrange to meet him for lunch, and despite his understandably dour tone, I manage to avoid giving any information over the phone.
We meet at Kerbey Lane Cafe on South Lamar at noon and take a booth near the large windows. The place is casual and bustling. Mismatched, plastic chairs in bold colors skirt the smaller tables in the middle of the room. Every seat is full. A trendy section of white wall with large holes in it to our left reveals glimpses of the waitstaff coming and going. The air smells like fish and chips.
Across the table, Epstein’s face reddens, and a vein pulses on his forehead. He glares at me with a constipated frown. My heart races, and I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. All I can think about is him suing Median Rea
lty for what I’m about to tell him. But isn’t that better than him winding up dead? For a moment, I hesitate. I stare across the table at Rance’s flaming skin. My mind reels with confusion. It’s as murky as my untouched mug of coffee.
“Mr. Epstein, I have to tell you something which I feel you have a right to know,” I say.
Rance’s forehead vein tics in acknowledgment. He doesn’t answer, keeping his dark gaze riveted to mine.
I don’t beat around the bush. There’s no point. Instead, I explain the bizarre threats from Nick Pearlman. And that because I’m concerned, I’m imparting what I was told to hopefully give him some warning for whatever this guy is planning. I leave out that Nick also seems to have a vendetta against me for what happened to Ayden. Epstein doesn’t need those details, so whatever I do say about it, if anything, will be brief.
“I’ve already been told about Nick Pearlman—by the police. I don’t know anyone by that name. But you knew? You knew, and you didn’t mention this before I signed on the property? The detective who called me didn’t mention the source of his information. Un-fucking-believable.” Epstein nearly comes off his seat. He snorts and glances off at some distant point as he shakes his head.
A flush of heat races across my cheeks, and I straighten. I did know that Detective Spade warned Rance but not to what extent. I don’t want the withholding of my direct experiences with Nick to be what gets Mr. Epstein killed.
I say, “It didn’t seem relevant at the time. I don’t know this guy. And if he has something against you that shouldn’t affect whether you buy real estate—he has no say over that. Do you know of anyone with whom you’ve had a long-standing dispute?”
“It didn’t seem relevant at the time? Are you kidding me?” He runs his right palm over his short-cropped hair and looks toward the restrooms behind us. “You have to be the—”
