by Hamel, B. B.
And yet I’m doing it anyway. I always had a weird thing for Cora, even back in the day when we were kids, although I don’t know if I understood those feelings back then. And anyway, Atticus would have killed me if I had admitted anything like having a crush on his kid sister.
Atticus loved that girl more than anything, although he never said it that way. He always let her tag along, and was always nice to her, but he was still her older brother. He teased her mercilessly, beat her up sometimes, but she always fought back and I always liked her for that. Atticus taught her things, tried to make her less dorky, and looked out for her. At least until he started having issues himself.
I should have seen it coming back then. I just thought he was a stoner dick, and he was getting boring and hanging around with shitty kids with petty criminal records, just like their petty, shitty parents. I wanted to stay away from all that Mason River bullshit, but not Atticus. He fell right in with the sort of kids you should never fall in with, and he never got out.
I got out, though. Got the hell out of there. And now my friend’s dead, and I’m home for his funeral.
Fucking murdered. The Atticus Lewis I remember was kind, loyal, the sort of person that everyone wanted to be around. He was always smiling, laughing, trying to be helpful. He was a good student too, although that quickly went downhill in high school.
He was still a shadow of that kind, happy person when we parted ways last. I haven’t seen him since high school, but I’ve caught glimpses of the guy he turned into through Facebook and through mutual friends.
Heroin does a lot of shit to people. Atticus went from the best friend I’ve ever had, the guy that made me a better person, to just another starving junkie willing to do anything for his next fix.
I’ve known a lot of guys like that. Chicago is full of them. I just never thought Atticus Lewis would go down that path.
Now he’s dead. As far as I can tell, the locals don’t know why yet, but Cora’s desperate. I could see it in her eyes. She wants me to investigate this, push this, find out what’s happening.
I don’t want to do it. I want to get back to the city as soon as possible, get away from this piece of shit motel and this piece of shit town. But I told Cora I’d look into it, and I will.
My phone finally rings. It’s Mitch Range, a friend from school. He’s a local cop these days. I pick it up on the third ring.
“Hey, Mitch,” I say.
“Wyatt, how are you?”
“Fine,” I answer. “I’m in town right now.”
“Oh yeah? What for?”
“Atticus Lewis’s funeral.”
Mitch laughs a little bit. “No shit? I knew you guys were friends back in the day, but I didn’t know you kept in touch.”
“No, we didn’t,” I say. “I just saw that he died and thought…” I just shake my head, not sure what I thought.
“Well, yeah, it was good of you to go,” he says, though he doesn’t really sound like he means it. “How was the service?”
“Like every other funeral,” I say. “Listen, I actually wanted to ask you about Atticus.”
“All right.” Mitch says, sounding a little wary. His tone switches from the friendly, open voice he was just using with me to his professional cop voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just curious about the case. You guys have any leads?”
Mitch scoffs. “Plenty of leads,” he says. “But let’s be honest, we’re not actually working them too hard.”
I frown at that. “Why not?”
“Come on, Wyatt. From one cop to another, who fucking cares who killed Atticus Lewis?”
My blood runs ice cold in my veins at that. I have to take a deep breath before I answer him.
“His sister does,” I say finally.
“I know,” Mitch answers, sounding a little more sympathetic. “She calls almost every day. I think she’s the only person left that cares about that junkie.”
I wince at that. “I care too,” I say. “Look, as a professional courtesy. What do you guys have?”
He gets a little touchy. “Professional? You involved with this case now, detective?”
“No, you know I’m not,” I say. “Come on, Mitch.”
He sighs again. “Fine. We don’t have much. Just a few leads. We’re looking into a few of his junkie friends, and then there’s his ex-girlfriend. She went missing, and we haven’t really had the time to shake her out just yet.”
I nod my head, pacing my room. “So pretty standard, early investigation stuff.”
“Like I said, nobody’s working the case too hard.”
“Thanks for sharing,” I tell him. “And hey, while I’m in town, let’s grab a drink.”
“Of course,” he says, relaxing. “It’s good to hear from you, man.”
“You too.”
I hang up the phone and toss it onto my bed. I stand there, anger flowing through me.
Atticus Lewis was a junkie, an asshole, and a thief. He did unforgivable shit, and he died in the gutter, probably because of all that shit.
And yet he deserves to be put to rest. He deserves justice. Whoever killed Atticus is still out there, and the Mason PD isn’t going to fucking find that killer any time soon.
No wonder Cora came to me. She can sense the local PD’s reticence here. They really don’t care about a gutter rat like Atticus.
Well, I fucking care. Or at least I used to. I grab my phone again, making up my mind, and call Cora.
“Hello?” she answers.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Oh, hi, Wyatt.” She doesn’t sound surprised to be hearing from me so soon.
“Are you busy right now?”
“No, I’m just at home.”
“Good. Mind if I swing by?”
She hesitates. “No, that’d be fine.”
“Okay. I spoke with a friend at the police department.”
“Really? What did they say?”
“I’ll tell you in person. Text me your address.”
“Yeah, okay.” She sounds eager now.
I hang up the phone and get her address a minute later. I change out of my suit and put on my civilian clothes. I frown at my bag, and wish I had packed more stuff. I didn’t plan on staying here for very long.
Hell, I’m not staying. I’ll tell Cora the truth then I’ll get the fuck out of town. I did what I said I’d do, and that’s the end of it. I don’t care if Cora Lewis is all grown up and fucking gorgeous now. Atticus isn’t my problem, not anymore.
I check myself in the mirror one more time, grab my keys, and head out.
3
Cora
I barely have enough time to change and get myself together before Wyatt shows up outside.
I knew he’d look into what the police have on Atticus’s murder for me, but I didn’t expect him to do it so fast. I have to admit though, I’m nervous for a few different reasons as I open the door.
Wyatt practically fills the frame. He’s wearing faded jeans and a loose white button-down, tucked in. He looks both professional and gorgeous at the same time.
“Mind if I come in?” he says.
“Please do.” I step aside then lead him into the kitchen.
“Nice place,” he says.
“Thanks.” My apartment is pretty small, just a little one bedroom in a converted house. I have the bottom floor and there’s another tenant upstairs, though I never see him.
“Want something to drink?”
“Sure,” he says.
“Wine?”
“Sure,” he says again
.I smile to myself as I open a bottle. I pour two glasses and hand him one. We clink and sip, and I watch him as he does it.
Wyatt moves with purpose, which is something I’ve seen in other cops. But with him, it’s not obnoxious or practiced. Wyatt was a great athlete back in the day, and it really shows. There’s a lightness about him, almost a grace, despite his big, muscular frame. I’m only five foot four, and he
’s almost an entire foot taller than me.
“So, you talked to the cops,” I say to him.
He nods. “Right down to business. I respect that.”
I shrug, leaning up against the refrigerator. He sits on a stool next to the island. “I’ve been banging my head up against a wall with those assholes,” I say.
He grins at me. “They’re just doing their job.”
I sigh. “I know. I get it, you’re a cop too. But still, I’m frustrated.”
His smile falters. “I can’t blame you,” he says.
“What did they tell you?”
He glances down at his glass, not able to meet my gaze. “Not much,” he admits. “But I get the distinct impression that they don’t really care much about this case.”
“Fuck,” I say, anger welling through me.
He looks up quickly. “They’re definitely investigating,” he says. “They have some leads. But there’s a bias against Atticus.”
“I knew it.” I pace across the floor, angry as hell. “I fucking knew it. Just because Atticus had problems, they’re going to let his killer get away.”
“No,” he says. “They’re not. They don’t want murderers running around this town.”
I stop and look at him. “You just said they don’t care.”
“They don’t,” he admits. “Which means it might take longer. But they’re not going to let this linger.”
I watch him, trying to decide if he’s covering for his cop buddies, or if he’s telling the truth.
He sighs and stands up. “Listen, Cora, here’s the thing. They need to close cases, prove they’re doing good, in order to get funding. Mason gets maybe a handful of murder cases a year, and they have to close every single one, which means making an arrest and getting a conviction.”
“So they’ll find his killer because of… funding?” That’s almost worse.
He shrugs. “I never said it made sense, or that it wasn’t fucked up, but there it is. They’ll do it, just slowly.”
“Fucking hell,” I say softly.
“I’m sorry, Cora. Truth is, this isn’t my jurisdiction. I can’t do anything about this here.”
I don’t know what I expected. When I saw him at the funeral, and heard that he was a cop, I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be willing to care about Atticus enough to help. Maybe Wyatt could solve this. I don’t know why I put so much effort and belief in this man, someone that left our town years ago and hasn’t been back since.
He hasn’t been friends with Atticus since we were kids. Wyatt doesn’t owe me or Atticus anything at all. The fact that he’s here, and that he made some calls for me, just shows that he’s a decent guy. But he doesn’t owe me anything.
Still, it’s not okay. It’s not okay that the cops don’t care about Atticus just because he had problems and was a pain in their ass. Atticus was still a person, and he was murdered. They have to find the killer. That’s what they fucking do.
I lean back up against the counter and take a deep breath. Wyatt watches me carefully, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if I’m going to freak out or something. I look up at him and force myself to smile.
“Thanks for trying,” I say.
“Yeah,” he answers, looking a little relieved. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news.”
“I just wish,” I start saying, but I stop.
“What?” He cocks his head at me.
“I just wish someone like you could investigate,” I say finally. “I mean, someone who cares about Atticus, or at least used to.”
“I know,” he says softly.
“Maybe you can take it on as a freelancer?” I say to him suddenly, not even sure if what I’m asking is possible. “You know, like a private investigator?”
He frowns. “That’s not what I do.”
“I know, but I could pay you. And it could be like a side job.”
He looks away. “I can’t, Cora. I have to go back to Chicago soon.”
“Yeah,” I say, deflated. “Of course you do.”
“I wish I could help more,” he says, and then stops himself, because of course he doesn’t.
Nobody wants to help more, not even Wyatt, the only person in the world that knows the real Atticus like I do.
I put my glass down and meet his gaze. “You don’t have to stay any longer,” I say to him. “Thanks for trying.”
He looks a little hurt at that but he nods. “Of course.” He puts his glass down and heads back to my door.
I sigh to myself. What’s wrong with me? Wyatt is a good person and he clearly wants to help, but what do I expect? He can’t drop his life and investigate this murder. He doesn’t work in Mason, this isn’t his life. The fact that he showed up at all is proof that he’s a decent guy.
I walk with him to the door. “Listen, thanks for coming,” I say to him. “Seriously, it was really good of you.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry about him, Cora, I really am. He was a great person.”
“Back then he was,” I agree with him. “I guess that Atticus died a long time ago.”
He frowns. “Maybe,” he says. “It was good to see you again.”
“Yeah. You too.” I let him kiss me on the cheek again before he turns and leaves my apartment.
I watch him go for a second before closing the door. I’m such an idiot, such a stupid, stupid idiot.
I shouldn’t be so pushy. I could have just been nice to him, thanked him, maybe convinced him to stay around a little longer. It’s Wyatt Reap, after all. He’s gorgeous, kind, smart, and the sort of person I should be spending time with.
Except I can’t stop thinking about my brother’s murder, not even for a second. It eats me up inside, and if Wyatt can’t help me, then I have to move on.
I lean up against the door and clench my hands into fists. I feel broken, like Atticus’s death took something from me. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t know if I can get it back, whatever it was. Part of me thinks that if I can find Atticus’s killer, then maybe that part will come back, or at least the gaping wound in my chest will heal.
And I hoped Wyatt would be the guy to magically rescue me. I guess life doesn’t always work that way.
I shake my head, fighting back the tears that threaten to tear me apart every second of the day, ever since Atticus’s body was found.
4
Wyatt
Still in fucking Mason River.
I could be back in Chicago by now. I could be rolling up into the Salty Pine, that little bar around the corner from the precinct where me and the boys like to tie a few on and try to fuck whatever pretty little thing thinks she can handle a real cop. I’m usually the one they leave with, and I always have them coming back around begging for more. That’s when the boys can get a taste, because I don’t take them twice.
But here I am, still in Mason. I sigh to myself as I park my rental outside of the Great American again. Around nine at night, the diner crowd thins out, replaced by the pub crowd. That’s how small Mason really is: their most popular bar is also their one big diner.
I can’t help but smile, though. Atticus and I used to spend a lot of time hanging around here. Actually, that’s how we first met.
I was just a kid back then. I was a scrawny kid when I first met Atticus. I was riding my bike along the road and I decided to stop in the Great American for a soda before heading home. I parked, went inside, got my soda, and when I came out there were three older kids standing around my bike.
I told them to back off, but they weren’t looking to rob me. They were looking to have a little fun.
“You want me to back off?” the biggest of the group said, grinning his piggy grin. “I don’t think so, you little shrimp” He shoved me hard, and I slammed back against the wall.
The three boys all laughed, and I can feel tears in my eyes. I was so mad at myself for being a little baby, for being too afraid to fight back. That was the moment I decided I’d never back down agai
n.
But I didn’t have to fight, because that’s when Atticus showed up.
“Leave him alone,” Atticus said. “Jimmy, I know you’re too stupid to realize, but I know your daddy and he’d whoop your ass if he knew what you were doing.”
The big, pig-faced one faltered. “You’d tattle on me, Atticus?” he asked, angrily.
“Hell yeah, I would,” Atticus said. “You three are picking on one kid like a bunch of cowards, so I might as well.”
I thought the big guy, Jimmy apparently, was going to step up and slug Atticus right there. But instead, he just kicked over my bike and the three boys walked away, cursing and laughing.
Atticus walked over to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking away the tears. “I’m okay.”
He helped me up from against the wall, and we were friends ever since.
I was probably eight years old back then, maybe younger. I smile to myself and kill the engine before getting out of the car. Nothing’s changed in this town, nothing at all, and yet everything is rotten to the core.
I walk into the Great American. Seeing it again at night, I’m reminded of how seedy the place’s gotten. I wonder if Cora ever comes here, but I doubt it. She doesn’t seem the type to come drinking at this shithole, and I don’t blame her.
It’s packed with local idiots. The kind of guys that barely got through school, since school is for morons and pussies. It’s full of broken dreams and depression, guys drinking too much, hitting on women that long since stopped caring about that kind of thing.
I spot Mitch sitting at the end of the bar, sipping a beer. I catch his eye and he nods to me, waving me over.
“Hey, Mitch,” I say.
He grins at me. “Hey yourself, big guy.”
I sit down next to him and he looks at me, grinning. Mitch isn’t such a bad guy, as far as Mason lifers go. He’s a cop now, which says something about him at least. He’s a couple inches shorter than me, going slightly bald up front, still thin though I doubt that’ll last based on the two empty beers and the third he’s nursing. I order myself a beer and Mitch leans back in his seat.
