Imperfectly Criminal

by Mary Frame

  She looks like I feel.

  There’s only a thin band of air separating our bodies.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask. My voice sounds rough and slightly lower than usual.

  “Like what?”

  “You’re looking at me the same way you look at food,” I say.

  Her eyes move up to mine. “Do you feel as if your life’s in danger?”

  “I’ve seen what you do with your food. I’m terrified.”

  She leans forward and kisses me. It’s not much of a stretch, with our lips only inches away. I reach out to pull her closer, but it’s over before I can make contact. She pulls back and rolls to her feet.

  I miss her immediately.

  “Where are you going?” I ask from the ground.

  “To cool off,” she says, heading towards the water.

  I have to take a moment to compose myself and my pants before following after her. The creek is only a dozen feet away, hiding behind the tall grass.

  I find her standing at the edge of the small embankment, looking down at the water.

  “Are you going to cool off?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She looks over at me with a smile. “I don’t swim.”

  I frown and look down at the water skeptically. “You don’t need to know how to swim. This isn’t more than a foot wide and two inches deep.”

  “Oh, no. I know how to swim. It’s not that I can’t, it’s that I don’t. I don’t like to swim in anything other than a pool.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jaws.”

  I laugh and rub the back of my head with my hand, deciding to play along with her ridiculousness. “I’m pretty sure Jaws can’t fit in there.”

  “You never know.”

  I shove her gently in the shoulder, making her trip forward, her sandal making a loud plop sound in the shallow water.

  “Hey!” she yells.

  “Don’t worry, fair maiden!” I proclaim, stepping into the water after her. “I will rescue you!” I grab her arms, pulling her up onto the other side of the small stream.

  “Thank God.” She clutches at me. “I thought for sure I would drown.”

  “It’s a good thing I was here.” I smile down at her. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself be silly and not worry about what’s going to happen tomorrow. Not since I was a kid. Before Mom got sick.

  She grins up at me, and I can’t help what happens next.

  I bend down and kiss her, keeping my lips gentle, and pulling her small frame into mine so we are flush together. Her lips are quite possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I try to take it slow and enjoy the moment, but at some point, it changes. The motion of our mouths progresses from slow and gentle to intense and almost rough, so much so that I barely notice when we move from standing to lying down on the soft grass embankment.

  The next thing I know, she’s half underneath me and one of my legs slides between hers. She reacts by arching herself into me, making my breath falter and even more blood rush southward. My hand slides down her side and I squeeze her hip. Her skin is impossibly soft.

  And then it happens. She tenses and stops breathing. I pull away to see what’s wrong, and I watch it come over her like a wave. Her breath bursts suddenly from her lungs in quick spurts and I help her sit up and put her head between her legs.

  After a moment of sitting there with me rubbing her back and murmuring words that mean nothing, her breathing returns to nearly normal.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “You had a panic attack.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s happened to me before.”

  “Oh.”

  She sits up and looks at me. Her face is flushed and a sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead.

  I must look concerned, because she pats me on the knee. “I’m okay,” she says. “Mortified beyond belief, which must be shocking to you considering our history together has been chock-full of me being an idiot, but I’m still okay.”

  I don’t say anything. I know there has to be a reason she panicked, and I imagine the reason is a goddamn douchenugget named Cameron.

  But I know she won’t talk about it, even if I ask. Finally, I say, “Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Freya

  The most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless.

  –Arthur Conan Doyle

  I can’t believe that just happened. I was making out with a hot dude, and I totally lost my shit.

  I don’t know if it’s because we were lying down, or because the kiss had morphed into crazy passion, but something started building in my chest. It was like a balloon, expanding, pounding, pressing against my lungs and making it harder to draw in air. I couldn’t breathe.

  One second, Dean and I were kissing and touching and melting into each other like snow on hot asphalt, and then next thing I knew, I was sitting up and he was rubbing my back, my head between my legs, heart pounding and chest burning.

  In a word, horrifying.

  I glance over at him while he’s driving. It’s been a quiet ride home. He must think I’m a total fool. I am a total fool.

  And he’s…so not a fool. The more I get to know him, the more I realize that Dean is the antithesis of Cameron. The way he takes care of his mom and sister. So different from what I would have expected.

  It makes sense now, why he’s always grumpy. I guess I would be grumpy too if my mom was sick and had no one to support her but me, and I was trying to go through college while participating in illegal activities to make ends meet not just for myself, but for an entire family.

  The drive home ends quickly since I spent most of it lost in self-loathing.

  He parks in the lot next to my car.

  It’s immediately apparent that every single window of my vehicle has been smashed to bits.

  “What the hell happened here?” he asks.

  “How am I supposed to know? I’ve been with you all day!”

  He gets out of the car, slamming his door, and stalks around my vehicle. “Stay.” He points his finger at me.

  Oh, no, I am not a dog. He cannot tell me to stay. I immediately open my door and follow him while he examines the damage.

  “Someone shot through this window,” he says.

  I peer at the window, standing behind him. There’s a small circular hole surrounded by a spider web of cracked glass. I scratch my head. “With a gun?”

  He gives me a look. “What else would they shoot with?”

  “Sorry, it’s just…why would anyone want to shoot out my windows?”

  “I’m guessing that Corey is venting his anger at you.”

  “Cameron has no reason to be angry at me. We broke up months ago.”

  “Well, I can’t think of anyone else who would do this to you. Unless you have an enemy you aren’t telling me about?”

  “What? No. I am universally loved.”

  He gives me another look.

  “Okay. Maybe I’m universally tolerated.”

  He nods and turns back around, shading his eyes to peer inside the windows.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The bullet. Your friend Lucy said Matt and Jesse were both shot with a—”

  A loud crack splits the air, echoing around us. The next thing I know, I’m slammed into the ground on my back, Dean’s body hovering over mine.

  “Ow! You hurt my butt, you jerk.”

  “Someone is shooting at us.”

  “That’s ridiculous, you’re losing your mind. No one is shooting at us, it was just a car backfiring.”

  There’s another loud pop and the window we were just looking through shatters completely, bits of glass flying all over us.

  “It shattered this way,” Dean whispers. He’s still hovering over me, our legs entangled, trying to keep his body wei
ght from crushing me underneath him, his face only inches away from mine.

  Perhaps there really is someone shooting at us.

  “So?”

  He seems remarkably calm, and I am freaking the eff out.

  “That means they’re on the other side of the car. Maybe on the other side of the street or hiding behind some of the construction equipment.” He slides off of me and sits with his back to my tire, motioning for me to do the same. I roll over, cutting my hands on glass against the black top before scooting over to the opposite tire and sticking my head between my legs.

  This can’t be happening. This doesn’t happen in real life. This only happens in the movies, or to people who live in big cities with ghettos and gangs and things that only exist on TV. Not in front of my quiet little apartments!

  “Do you have your cell on you?” Dean asks while he’s trying to peek over the hood in the direction the shots are coming from.

  “It’s in your car.” I motion towards it.

  He crab walks over to his vehicle, ass in the air, and I’m struck with an irrational and overwhelming urge to laugh. I feel a hysterical bubble rising and clap my hands over my mouth.

  Staying down on his knees, he opens the car door and reaches inside for the phone. “If you laugh…” I can tell he’s trying to be serious but there’s a thread of laughter in his voice. “I swear to God, woman.”

  “I find that I’m frequently avoiding the urge to laugh at the most inappropriate times.”

  He’s got my phone now. He crab walks back to me, and now I’m really laughing.

  “Why is that, do you think?” he asks, dialing 9-1-1 into the phone before pressing it against his ear.

  “I’m sure Lucy would be able to give us a scientific explanation. Probably has something to do with nerves and my body’s reaction to stressful situations.”

  “Yes, hi, I need to report an active shooter,” Dean says into the phone when someone answers on the line.

  “They’re going to send Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber, aren’t they?” I mutter while he’s giving the operator our location and an update on what’s happening.

  “With your luck,” Dean says, holding a hand over the mouthpiece, “absolutely.”

  ***

  By the time the cavalry arrives, the shooter is nowhere to be found. A police officer searches both of us and the vehicles, lights are shone in our eyes, and we have to fill out statements. At Dean’s insistence, I mention Cameron the douche in my statement and write about how he came over the night before and acted threatening.

  Once all of that’s done and we’ve stood around forever, a detective comes over to ask us questions.

  This time, it’s not the two yahoos that interrogated Dean; instead, it’s a woman. She looks young, not much older than us. Her hair is pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, and she’s dressed casually in jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket. I wouldn’t have pegged her as a cop except for the badge stuck to her jeans.

  “Hi,” she says sticking out her hand. “I’m Detective Hanson.”

  “Dean,” he says shaking her hand.

  “Freya.” I shake her hand, too, and then step back and stand closer to Dean.

  “I heard from Miller and Stevens that you are being questioned in connection with two separate counts of homicide.”

  Dean nods.

  Miller and Stevens must be the other detectives that were questioning Dean after Matt died.

  “Have you two heard of Devil’s Gate?”

  “As in the doorway to hell?” I ask.

  “Pretty much. It’s a new drug going around, a very powerful hallucinogen. There’s been a rash of crimes around the university and this drug might play a part. There was a similar shooting last week, and we think these two incidents may be related.”

  She’s watching Dean as she speaks.

  “I don’t do drugs,” he says.

  “If you were, maybe, selling these drugs, that would give someone ample motive to be shooting at you to get to it. It’s highly addictive.”

  “I don’t sell drugs,” Dean says.

  She nods. “It’s obvious neither of you are using. This drug makes people crazy. Jittery, paranoid. It also makes your pupils dilate like you wouldn’t believe. However, I did read in your file that you refused a search of your apartment.” She shrugs and smiles at us disarmingly. “Some might think you have something to hide.”

  “I don’t sell drugs,” Dean insists.

  “Okay.” She holds up her hands and steps away from us. “Some advice? If you are hiding something, you might want to confess and make a deal. You could get your charges reduced if you offer information to help us squash the people dealing this drug. And I recommend sooner rather than later. It’s bad enough to have homicide on your ass, you don’t want to add vice breathing down your neck. We make very bad bedfellows.”

  Then she spins on her boot and walks away.

  ***

  Once we’re able to get away from all the fuzz and we’re safely ensconced in my apartment, I call Lucy to tell her what’s going on.

  I get about two sentences in when she interrupts with, “I’m coming over,” and hangs up on me.

  While we’re waiting, Dean grabs a first-aid kit from his car for the cuts on my hands. I sit on the counter in the kitchen and he stands in front of me, taking one hand at a time and gently cleaning the dirt out.

  I watch his tender ministrations in silence.

  When he’s finished bandaging both hands, instead of letting go, he rubs a gentle finger against the inside of my wrist. I stare down at where his hand meets mine. The unexpected touch makes my breath catch in my throat. I meet his gaze and find his bright blue eyes focused intently on mine.

  In one swift movement, before I can even register what he’s all about, he steps between my legs, cups my face in his hands and presses his lips against mine.

  After a couple seconds, he pulls away. “Sorry,” he says, stepping away, his eyes on the floor.

  “Why are you sorry?” I ask.

  He runs a hand through his hair and meets my eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that, not after what happened earlier.”

  I reach out and grab his hand, pulling him a little closer. “It’s okay,” I say.

  He steps towards me, watching my face, and I know he wants me to tell him why I freaked. And I know he deserves an explanation.

  “Will you tell me—” he starts, but there’s a loud knock at the door.

  “Lucy,” I say. I hope off the counter and scoot around Dean to let her in.

  It’s not just Lucy at the door; Jensen is with her. I make introductions all around, and then we sit in the living room and talk over everything that’s happened. Minus the make-out sessions, I don’t think that’s relevant to the crime, although Dean is criminally hot, so there is that.

  Halfway into the shooting story, Lucy begins pacing back and forth in front of us in the narrow space between my coffee table and the TV.

  “Who was their target, I wonder,” she murmurs when I finish telling the story. “Freya or Dean?”

  I’m not sure she’s actually asking us anything, she’s more talking to herself.

  “We need to start at the beginning.” She stops suddenly and turns towards us. “Let’s make a timeline of events. Jesse was killed first. We have Daisy as a potential suspect. Five days later, Matt was killed. Same murder weapon, same general location.” She starts her pacing again. “Today, shots were fired into Freya’s car. Again, we think it’s the same type of gun. They haven’t confirmed the bullets came from the same weapon. I imagine it will take a few days to get that information from the lab. The vice detective said that another shooting happened involving a strong narcotic that’s been going around campus. What’s the connection?”

  She stops, facing us.

  I consider the connections between myself and the victims. “Daisy could have been doing drugs—she and her friends seem like party animals. But, as far as I know, there’s no
connection between us. Well, Liz the slut is a connection for me to Matt, but Jesse…nothing.”

  “Maybe the shots were meant for Dean.” Jensen motions to him. “You are a connection between the two.”

  “But who would want to shoot me?” Dean asks. “Daisy? And why?”

  “I did discover that Daisy’s brother owns a variety of firearms,” Lucy says. “He’s a hunter and an active member of the NRA and Ducks Unlimited.”

  “Ducks Unlimited?” I ask.

  “It’s a non-profit organization that works to conserve wetlands and habitat for various fowl and wildlife. They also promote the continuation of safe and regulated hunting of the aforementioned animals. So, she has access to firearms.”

  Dean clears his throat before speaking. “She had the means, the motive—for Jesse—and the perfect person to throw under the bus once Matt died.” He stops for a second before saying, “Do you think she killed Matt for the sole purpose of implicating me? Although, why would she do that if she already had a solid alibi? Solid enough for the police, anyway.”

  “Maybe she recognized that her alibi was shaky and was looking for an insurance policy?” I try.

  Lucy frowns. “None of it makes sense. She might think her alibi needed work if she knew we were digging around—it might make sense for her to target Freya. But what about me? I was with Freya when we went to talk to Daisy’s friend, and I haven’t received threats of any nature.” She shakes her head. “I need more information. Maybe there’s another connection we aren’t aware of. I was able to download half of the video files surrounding the areas where the murders occurred on campus. Once I view them, I might have more information as early as next week.”

  “Next week is spring break,” Dean says.

  “We’ll be in town,” Jensen says.

  “I’m going to my mom’s,” I say.

  “Like hell you are,” Dean tells me.

  “Are you bossing me around again? Because you know how well that works out for you.” I cross my arms over my chest.