The Bullet Theory

by Sonya Jesus

  “Kace told me about the fight you two had yesterday.”

  I already knew he went over to her place. The pictures in my purse proved it, but the bile in my stomach isn’t enough to digest the fact. “What else did he say?” I slide into a more comfortable position by turning my body toward her and bending my knee, tucking my foot under my thigh. Open posture of communication. “Did he mention I’ve been sleeping on this couch?”

  “Not yesterday, but yeah, I knew. It hasn’t been easy for him. I don’t know why you two are still together. It’s been months, and you haven’t made amends. Do you honestly think you’ll be able to?”

  “He tells you everything, right?”

  I catch the shake of her head before her answer. “Yes, usually.”

  Usually.

  “Everyone knows you’ve been having a hard time since losing the baby.”

  My hands freeze in the air momentarily. Her neck is a magnet for my fingers—I want to wrap my hands around the delicate neck and squeeze, crushing her voice box to stop her from talking. But I need her to talk. It takes all my strength to thaw out my muscles and move them. “It’s hard. Not many people can say they’ve been through the same thing I have.”

  “That’s true. No one doubts your situation is hard.” She keeps using general comparisons. “Kace mentioned therapy. Is that going well? Will you be back at work soon?”

  I pump my shoulders and answer, “All I do is talk about my feelings. Not really sure how much help it’s doing. Honestly, working on the Bullet Man case feels good. The distraction helps, and until yesterday, things were better with Kace.” I allow her to take control and feel like the interrogator.

  She’s always liked the role. I had invaded her territory and taken the things she liked: her favorite part of the job, the position as Cap’s favorite, and her partner.

  “What do you mean better?” she asks.

  My eyes fixate on her when I deliver the next stressor, “We slept together, and for the briefest moment, things were so different in his arms.”

  She clenches her jaw and crosses her arms and legs. “A goodbye fuck,” she mumbles as she rationalizes his action with her lying brain.

  I fuel her theory. “Probably, because Kace’s coming by soon to pack his stuff.” I remove the engagement ring on my finger and glance away to hide my immediate reaction. I wiggle it in the air, luring her focus to the symbol of my relationship.

  Control. Suppression, I coach myself and assuage my aggression. I’m not here to know when she’s telling the truth; I’m here to know when she’s lying. Then, with the confirmation, I can unleash my rage.

  Only nonverbal actions will be left.

  I hold the diamond up in the air and hand it to her. “Can you give this to him?”

  Her eyebrows arch before she reaches for the ring, the right corner of her lip slanting upward.

  Superiority. She thinks she’s won, and this is how I’d get the confession from her.

  “I’m so tired of fighting for something I’m not even sure I want anymore. We are two different people who want different things.” I shake my head and tuck the pillow between my stomach and my forearms, using my hands to gesture and keep her focus off my face. “He wants a family, and I can’t give that to him. Not anymore.”

  “That’s true.” Again, a five-second smirk before she flattens it and smooths the material of her shirt with her free hand. The other clutches onto my ring as if it were a medal. “He’s mentioned wanting kids since I’ve known him.”

  “You guys are close, huh?” I bite out.

  “For the most part, he tells me everything.” Again, she emphasizes the fact of their open communication.

  Exclusionary qualifiers. She’s hiding something. “And you tell him everything?”

  She shrugs, crinkling her nose before she nods her head. Disconnect. “We’ve been partners for years. We went to the academy together, got placed in the same precinct, and during our rookie time, we were partnered with other people, but we always checked in with each other. I trust him with my life, and I wouldn’t ever hurt him.”

  No, just the people he loves.

  She hasn’t given me an answer yet, so I nod my head three times consecutively, cueing her to keep going—to keep convincing me she’s a good person when she doesn’t even understand what the word means.

  “He used to tell me about his big family, and how he wanted one just like it. He wanted to wake up to kids fighting over the bathroom, and his daughters sneaking around to steal their first kisses. I want him to have that dream.” Her eyes land on me with lips pressed together and a linear lower lash line. “Don’t be offended, but with you, he’ll never see that family.”

  “You’re right.”

  She smirks and catches herself, flawlessly turning the happy sign into one of concern by putting her hand on my knee. Under her touch, my skin revolts: it burns like flesh-eating bacteria and festers rather than soothes. “You know, even if things don’t work out with Kace, you can always count on me.”

  A quick glance at her crossed legs; her hanging anchor—the foot—tells me she’s nervous. It constantly swings in the air in the direction of the door. She can’t wait to leave, but she’s enjoying the conversation—knowing she’s won.

  “Kace told you he was going to leave me, didn’t he?”

  Her palm flips upward as she massages her wrist. A tattoo I’ve never noticed before stands out today. Between the motion of her fingers, I make out a date, which sounds familiar. Whatever it is, it holds importance to her because she rubs it for luck. “The last time Kace came over to my place, he told me he didn’t know how much longer he could be with you. He said you weren’t the same girl he wanted to marry.”

  “I’m not.” I scoff without thinking and quickly justify my impulsive answer. “The woman he wanted to marry was the mother of his first child; now, I’m the woman who will never give him children.”

  She holds my gaze for a second; the right side of her face twitches in contempt before she replies, “Right.” She rubs at the tattoo again. “He said you hated him.”

  “It sounds like you’re accusing me of hating him, too,” I point out.

  She cocks her head and raises her brows. “Don’t you?”

  “No,” I answer, truthfully. “I hate the person who shot my son. I loathe them, and because of this intense rage inside me, I’ll never be the same. Kace doesn’t understand what drives me to want to find them, and he hates me for how low I’d go to find answers.”

  “Do you suspect someone?” She mellows out her voice, but the wide-eyed expression gives it away. Her anchor points have shifted. Both feet are planted on the floor, her back no longer leaning against the backrest. She’s ready to flee or react.

  “Yes!” Before she can reply, I throw her off her axis. “The doctor.”

  “Who?” She clears her head with a shake and jumps on board my train of thought. “The guy from the sting operation? Why—”

  “Something in my gut tells me he has something to do with it, Frank.”

  She shakes her head before I’m done talking, and I barely finish saying her name before she’s jumping in with a retort. “You’re grasping at straws because you want someone to blame.”

  “No,” I interject. “I’ve talked this out with my therapist.”

  She rolls her eyes, which cautions me to something. “What does your therapist know about the case, Eleanor?”

  Why would that matter? “A lot, actually. He knows it all started at the Pregnancy Center, two months before my due date, and hasn’t ended.” My train of thought temporarily derails. “Nolan,” I voice aloud and focus back on Frank, “knows everything up until yesterday. Don’t you see the sticky notes everywhere?”

  “I saw some in the busy hall of yours.”

  I’m getting under her skin. Push harder. “Sticky reminders, my homework. Nolan helped me understand where my hate was coming from, and though I displaced it on Kace, it wasn’t his fault. Both of us su
ffered the same tragic loss, but we coped with it differently, on different cycles.” I speak the truth for two reasons: one, because I want her to understand how much Kace and I loved each other, and two, because I needed to hear it.

  “Kace resents me for bringing him down, and I resent him for trying to lift me up. We stopped communicating, and that’s my fault. When he wanted to remember, I couldn’t bear the thought—just his presence triggered guilt, imagine what his words and touch did?” I pause to let her imagine but don’t elaborate. Somethings are better left up to the imagination.

  “When I was finally ready to speak about Tyler, he wanted to move on. What I thought was growing apart was just grieving. Kace tried to rescue me, but we were both drowning in loss and bringing each other down. It wasn’t until we slept together—”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” she asks with an irritated tone.

  I shrug. “I don’t know … I guess it’s because Nolan knows everything, and he’s helped me see that I’m stuck on trying to get justice for a wrong. The reason why Kace and I fought yesterday?” I bait her.

  She nods for me to continue.

  “Was because I was so desperate, I wanted to find the Bullet Man and hire him to help me find evidence against the doctor. I wanted to blame him for Tyler’s death.” Partial truths suffice.

  “You wouldn’t have gotten shot if you hadn’t done the undercover mission. You were reckless,” she growls, as she points a finger in my direction.

  “You’re right again. It was stupid of me to even consider it.”

  She agrees with my self-deprecation comments and doesn’t bother to console or correct them, but she does angle her body toward me, inviting conversation.

  “Maybe I would’ve been holding my baby right now and planning a wedding instead of sleeping on the couch.” I get up and wipe my hands over my face, twirling around the center of the room with my palms out. “Every day, I waited for him to leave me. I guess, working on the case together somehow opened the line of communication again.”

  “Is that why you’ve been working this investigation? To try to find the Bullet Man and get him to help you find the killer? Or because you wanted to make Kace change his mind.”

  Change his mind? “The Bullet Man.” Another true answer. “Since the beginning.”

  She rubs her forehead and blows out a puff of air between her lips. “So, not only did you ruin your future marriage, but you involved yourself in my case, with my partner, and put all of my work in danger?” If the pitch of her voice and emphasis of ‘my’ didn’t give it away, the widening of her nostrils, to allow more air into her lungs, tells me I’ve cracked the surface.

  “Whoa…” I calm her down and head through the open floor plan into the kitchen.

  She follows me, my ring still in her hand. “Where are you going?”

  “Coffee. Or do you think it’s easy for me to talk about this?”

  She smooths her ponytail and answers with an uninterested, closed mouth, “Hmm.”

  “The Bullet Man can help me track down the person who murdered my baby and help me get closure.”

  She scoffs. “Are you serious?” She pauses as she contemplates the idea. “Eleanor, he’s a killer. Have you even thought this through?”

  So is she. “Yes.” Using her love for Kace in my favor, I convince her by giving her the alternative she wants. “I don’t care if Kace hates me and never wants to see me again. I want the Bullet Man to help me prove the doctor ordered someone to shoot me and teach me a lesson.”

  She flinches ever so slightly and smooths the strands of her perfectly pin-straight hair down. That’s twice. “Again, with the doctor?”

  I take her hand in mine, purposely positioning my hand on her pulse. Steady beat, slightly elevated. “What is Kace not telling me?”

  She doesn’t know I’m measuring her reaction through the pads of my fingers. The faint beat remains unchanged. “That’s not for me to say.”

  “So, he is hiding something?”

  She elongates her spin, pushing her shoulders back and tilting her chin upward, almost inconspicuously, but enough to be looking down her nose at me. Bitch. I mislead her to feel her heart’s reaction. “He knows who shot me, doesn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “Do you?”

  Liar, liar. Her heart is beating so fast, I’m not sure how the words come out calm. “Of course not.”

  “I don’t know why I asked that.” Removing obstructions from the facial features often soothes a questioning, so I drop my hand and take a hair tie from my wrist, twisting my hair into a messy bun at the base of my neck. “Help me, and I’ll help you. You can get all the credit for finding the Bullet Man and bringing him down. You and I both know it’s not the nurse.”

  “I think it is, but some things don’t add up.” Once the body had been called in, Cap admitted to not having enough to pin all of it on the nurse.

  Her eyes perk up. “This is insane, Ellie. If Kace knew I was helping you do this, he’d lose his mind.”

  “Probably.” I turn the coffee maker on. “I already have an idea about who it is.”

  “How?” She absentmindedly slides my ring on to her finger, testing it out.

  I point to the papers on the table. “I stayed up all last night working on the case, going over interviews, jotting down notes on micro-expressions, and reviewing the couriers. Two were lying when they said they didn’t know about where the package came from. The cleaner and the kid.”

  “The cleaner?”

  “Yes, the Botox hid it, but she was too willing to accommodate, and she closed the shop for us. And she lied about the cameras. At first, I thought it was a nice gesture, but I think she was waiting for someone.”

  “So?”

  “So, I think someone was watching. Kace told me the dry cleaners used to be a drug drop. What if they still are? And what if these couriers, through these apps, are in on it somehow?”

  “This has nothing to do with the Bullet Man.” Frank’s gaze flicks upward. Her gait changes, shifting all her weight onto her left foot. “The couriers are just people who the Bullet Man utilizes to get his point across.”

  How does she know? “You don’t think the Bullet Man is the doctor?”

  She watches me furtively, crossing her hands as she motions toward the table. “If you’re going to tell me the Bullet Man is the doctor from the Pregnancy Center, then I should go. It’s crap.”

  “Actually, it’s someone else. I was able to go through unsolved files and make a list of possible bullet receivers.”

  “No!” she squeals and heads over to investigate.

  I grab the cast iron frying pan from inside the oven and balance it in my hand; the sweet smell of a fragrant spritzer hits my nostrils, attempting to dissuade me with the tender note of lavender and vanilla mix. Not even that will save her. “Open the manila folder.”

  She takes a seat at the table, back turned to me, and opens the green file. “Ellie, there’s nothing here.”

  I answer with a pan to the back of her head.

  14

  Revenge

  Eleanor Devero

  I scrutinize over every line, every pore, every beauty mark—and ponder on what drives her. From her pocket, I slide her phone out and flip her wrist over. To unlock, I hold the pad of her index finger to the print-reader and remove the fingerprint-lock. I search through her applications for any evidence, and that’s when I notice the password-protected file.

  Turns out the numbers on her wrist are the password. “Not very smart,” I tell the unmoving woman next to me while swiping through an album. Pictures of her and Kace when they were younger fill one album. Another has surveillance photos of Kace and me when we first started seeing each other two years ago.

  Entering the hockey stadium, packing the car for Vermont—it even has pictures of us sneaking around and having sex in the woman’s locker room and in their office. She could have gotten me fired with all of this, but she chose to kill
my son instead.

  Another album was of the Pregnancy Center. Of the rooms and women. She had obviously taken them without anyone knowing. There are no dates, so I can’t be sure of when they were taken, but I recognized the shoes she had on. I bought those for her birthday a little over a year ago.

  I close the app and search through her phone log and messages. Secret messages pop up with a little lock. One of them to Kace. Clicking it revealed over one hundred unanswered messages from her to him. Nude pictures, sexts, random questions referring to a time seven years ago and an anniversary.

  A date that corresponds to the numbers on her tattoo.

  I had been wrong. Maybe Kace wasn’t cheating on me. He’s been ignoring these messages for months, but why?

  I check the normal messages, and a few nearly pop off the screen.

  Kace: Fuck, Frank, respect the shit I’m going through right now. I already told you to stop sending me those things.

  Frank: You see them. Your body responds, even if you don’t.

  Frank: Is it the pictures you don’t like, or the temptation? I know you’re lonely.

  “You’re a real fucking bitch, you know that?” I growl at the knocked-out woman in front of me and scroll until something else catches my attention.

  Frank: I can help you. I’ve always been here for you, listening to you and helping you see she’s not the right person for your life.

  Kace: You mean, waiting for things to blow up?

  Frank: They already blew up. You got blinded in the process and can’t see it’s over. She’s ghosting you, and she lives with you!

  Kace: I love her, Stef. I can’t leave her. Why can’t you understand that? Maybe we shouldn’t be partners anymore.

  “You shouldn’t have been partners in the first damn place,” I shout, squeezing the phone between my hands. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t talked about her much, or why she hasn’t come over lately.

  Kace: No.

  Kace: No

  Kace: No.

  Kace: How many more times do you need to hear it?

  Frank: I’m not like her. I don’t give up on us.