Headlights appeared in her rearview mirror. A sedan pulled up next to her. The engine died, then Sten got out of his car and slipped into Val’s.
“You rang?” He glanced at the bottle of vodka in her hand. “Fun’s already started, I see.”
She took another swig of alcohol. “There’s a dead man in a car outside of a bar called Billy’s Roadhouse in Lakewood. He…drowned in his own blood, I think. Something like that. I’m not really sure.”
“Huh,” Sten replied with mild curiosity. “Another unfortunate friend of yours?”
“I don’t know who he is. His coveralls said ‘Cal.’ He was snorting what looked like coke, and I think that might’ve killed him. You ever heard of a drug that makes your face and throat hemorrhage blood?”
“Nah, but you know kids these days—huffing paint and shoving horse tranquilizers up their asses. A little face melting wouldn’t stand in the way of a good high.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the drugs originated from Lucien Christophe, the man you refuse to investigate because he’s rich and white. So not only is he kidnapping women, he’s distributing deadly drugs. That enough for you to care yet?”
“Getting warmer. Depends on what we find at the crime scene.”
Val sighed. Of course he still didn’t care. “Max and I got in a brawl with this guy a few minutes before he died. We didn’t kill him, but when someone finds his body, I’m sure people from the bar will mention the fight. They might ID us. Can you throw the police off our trail?”
Sten lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to interfere with a murder investigation?” He leaned back in his seat and threaded his fingers behind his neck. “Can do. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I want to make a missing persons report.”
“For who—Margaret Ann Monroe, also known as Celine for a good time?”
She hadn’t told him Margaret’s full name, or her escort pseudonym. “How did you know—”
“When I was shagging you last, you gave me enough details to follow up, so I did. You wanted my help, didn’t you?”
Val scoffed. “So it only took me having sex with you for you to give a shit?”
“Missing prostitutes do fall into my job jar. I’ve added her name to the three dozen already in the queue.”
“Do you know a guy named Ginger was the last person seen with her, at the Pana Sea, which Lucien Christophe happens to own?”
“Yes, and Mr. Eugene Westford swears he had sexual relations with her in his car before dropping her off at a party, which she later left by herself. Multiple people corroborate his story.”
Val let her head fall back into the headrest. “Fuck.” She took a long drink. Even with police resources, Margaret’s trail had gone cold. And Sten had been unperturbed by her mention of Max. He already knew everything she did, probably more. Val was one step behind.
“Adults are allowed to disappear,” he said. “That’s the great thing about being an adult. That and voting.”
She glared at him, clenching her teeth so hard she thought she might break her jaw.
He shrugged at her barely contained rage. “Without any clear evidence of foul play, there’s nothing we can do. Sorry, that’s how the justice system works. If you don’t like it, take it up with your Congressman.”
“I saw Lucien kill her! Her body’s going to wash up on a beach any day now.”
“Ah, but not everything you see comes true, correct?”
He was right; rational, even. A rarity for Sten. It was possible she’d seen a future that wouldn’t come true. At this point, all she could do was hope for Margaret’s safe return—and fight for justice.
“I also want to report a rape,” Val said.
“Margaret again?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “And mine.”
She expected him to laugh at her, to roll his eyes and throw out some smart-ass quip about regretful sex or how prostitutes couldn’t be raped. When he said nothing, she glanced at him. He studied her face, maybe trying to gauge her sincerity, though his own face remained unreadable.
“When?”
“Mine happened the night you came to my house.” Val’s voice trembled, but she forced herself to spit it out. She had nothing to lose. “I’m not sure when it happened to Margaret. Probably the night she left the Pana Sea with Ginger, after he supposedly dropped her off at a totally innocent party.”
“Who?”
“Three for me; two for Margaret. I tracked one of my attackers down—Michael Stevenson. I don’t know who the others were. I was drugged and don’t remember. Another fucking weird drug, probably courtesy of Lucien. The same thing happened to Margaret. I only know the attacks happened because I found videos of them online. Probably got millions of fucking hits.” She paused to take another long drink. The bottle shook in her hand. “The dead guy at the bar knew something about my video, and then he mysteriously died. Since there are no such things as coincidences for people like me, he must be involved. So…So, I want to make a report, and have a police officer investigate, because I’ve been doing a shit job of it myself.”
Sten stared at her, face still a passive mask. His eyes lacked their usual smarm, however. He almost looked serious. “Don’t make a report.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Val yelled at him. “I should keep my mouth shut so horrible people can keep doing horrible things? Roll over and accept that life is a soul-sucking death march from one trauma to the next? That we’re all just things to be manipulated and coerced and used and—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She gave him a mirthless laugh. “You? Really?”
“That’s our deal.”
“How?”
He picked up the metal cap from the center cup holder and screwed it back onto the liquor bottle she still clutched in her hand. “By doing what I do best.”
“Being an asshole?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
She didn’t know what he meant to do; likely the usual—nothing. Val rubbed her eyes, swiping away tears that gathered as the world tried to crush her. “What do you want from me, Sten?”
“I already told you—be available when I call.”
She scoffed and tossed the vodka bottle into the backseat. “Whatever you really want, just take it. Take it all. Take everything.” He might as well. She was a shit PI and a shit girlfriend, with a shit ability to see shit futures.
Sten folded his arms and drummed his fingers on his biceps. No smirk, no eye roll, no smart-ass reply. Not amused to be the audience to her meltdown. “Anything else?”
They were alone in the dark together, the only light from a streetlamp on the other side of the gas station. They might as well have been the last two people on earth. Val reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his wallet; he didn’t stop her. She flipped it open and pulled out a fresh condom. He watched in silence as she shimmied off her jeans and underwear, then straddled him. She unzipped his pants. Already hard, she slipped the condom on. His hands cupped the flesh of her behind as she slid him into her.
“Show me something happy,” she said, rolling her hips into his in a slow, deep rhythm. “I don’t care if it won’t happen. Just show me.”
His gaze ran up her torso, tracing an outline from her naked waist to the nape of her neck until his dark eyes settled heavily on hers. “Do you prefer the ocean or the forest?”
Val closed her eyes. “The ocean.”
“You’re at the ocean with someone you love. The sky is clear.” He slipped his hands underneath her shirt. Her skin tingled where he ran his thumbs across her nipples. “The water is warm.”
He was quiet for a while as she moved against him, slow and deliberate, relishing the sensation, a moment of pleasure in a storm of misery. It still felt good, even after being violated, even without love. Her body wasn’t broken; only her soul.
He pulled her deeper onto him, his chest heaving into hers as he eased her closer. “There are boats on t
he horizon,” he said at almost a whisper, breath hot on her neck. “How many boats do you see?”
“How many am I supposed to see?”
“It’s your future. See what will be. Picture them clearly.”
Val imagined basking in the glow of love, jumping into an ocean of warm water, coming up for air and scanning the horizon. She looked for the boats, then gasped as tendrils of fire rushed up her spine—
I see two blips on the horizon—sailboats with white masts gliding over the water, far enough away that I can only tell they’re moving if I hold out my arm and watch the patch of blue between the blips and my thumb slowly grow. I lie on a small yacht in the middle of an ocean of turquoise water dotted by far-off islands, and let the sun dry salt water off my bare skin. Max sits at the edge of the boat, naked and brown, throwing pieces of bread into the water. Birds circle and pluck bits from the sea.
“They could see you,” I say to him, pointing at the boats.
He shrugs. “They’re too far away.” He doesn’t care anyway. Nudity’s never been a big deal to him.
“If they’re paparazzi with telescopic lenses, you’re in trouble.”
“You’re in trouble.” He throws a piece of bread at me that bounces off my naked breasts.
“Nobody cares about me. A Carressa dick-pic would go viral, though.”
He stands, walks over, and lies on his side next to me. He runs a finger from my collarbone to my belly button. “You’re starting to show.”
I laugh. “You’re making me fat.”
Blur.
A Frisbee flies overhead, caught by a teenage girl who throws it back to her partner. I’m surrounded by families in a public park, the Seattle skyline glinting in a clear, azure sky. A warm breeze tickles my skin. The grass around me is so green I think someone’s littered the ground with emeralds. A little boy runs up to me with blond hair and gorgeous brown eyes with bursts of green at their centers.
“For you, Mommy,” he says, and hands me a dandelion.
I reach for him as he runs away from me to gather more flowers. I feel kisses on the back of my neck, hands resting on my shoulders.
“Let him go,” Max whispers into my ear. “He’ll be back.”
Blur.
I light a paper lantern over the ocean and let it go. Max stands next to me. Tears trickle down his face. We watch the lantern float away until it’s only a speck in the evening sky. A tribute to our lost son—
In a bittersweet afterglow, Val opened her eyes. Sten breathed hard underneath her, sweat moistening the collar of his dress shirt.
“Do you need me to keep going?” she asked. It wasn’t explicitly part of their deal, but if she was going to use him for sex, she could at least ensure he was satisfied. Maybe he’d count it toward her debt.
He laughed. “Val, the generous lover. I never would’ve figured. Thanks but no thanks. I come when you come. I’m efficient that way.”
She slid off him and pulled her clothes back on as he did the same.
“Happy now?” he asked.
Her visions of Max were always the same. They were happy together, then they had a child—sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl—then the child went missing and they were miserable. Max couldn’t understand. He hadn’t seen it like she had, over and over again. Whatever happiness they found with each other wouldn’t last.
“You did your job,” she muttered.
“I aim to please.”
“You can go.”
“I have your permission to get back to my actual job now? Thanks.” He opened the car door. “Until next time.” Sten stepped out, then dropped his head back in. “And don’t drink and drive.” He shut the door, got back into his own car, and drove away.
Val closed her eyes and let her head fall backward. What the hell was she doing? Having sex with Sten so she could fantasize about a future with Max she was determined to prevent? She was losing her fucking mind. Val felt around behind her for the vodka bottle. She found it, unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to her mouth, then stopped. An unexpected but familiar taste lingered on her lips, like red meat with a hint of tobacco and mint chewing gum—Sten’s mouth. He must have kissed her when she was in her trance. Why would he do that?
Maybe he cared. Fucking Sten. The thought made her laugh so hard she cried.
Chapter Sixteen
Max tried to focus on the last chapter of Capital in the Twenty-first Century in its original French, but his eyelids kept growing heavy and he’d have to shake himself awake. It wasn’t the author’s fault. He’d upped his dosage of OxyContin when the previous amount failed to keep thoughts of Val away. His father had begun making appearances in his nightmares, too, lecturing him about family and loyalty and sacrifices, before the touching began. Then he’d wake up in a cold sweat, furious with himself for putting up with the monster for so long, and needing to pop his meds to calm down. And so went his nightly routine.
In the day he’d catch himself thinking of Val, her crooked, sly smile, the smell of apple shampoo in her hair, the salty taste of her skin, the feel of her lips against his, when they’d first made love in the boathouse, their epic fights over a future she couldn’t face. He’d wonder what she was doing at any given moment, who she was sleeping with, if she thought of him at all. He would turn his phone over and over in his hands, thinking up excuses to call her just to hear her voice, or maybe set up a meeting so he could see her, until he forced himself to drop the phone, get up, and take Toby for a walk or go for a run instead. The part of him that still loved her wouldn’t die, and it wouldn’t shut up. So he took extra meds to keep those voices silent. And so went his daily routine, until the days blurred into one another.
After a few more minutes of trying, Max gave up reading. He flipped to the last page and wrote a series of numbers at the top—the winning combination for next month’s state lottery. He would leave the book at the library, or donate it to a used book store. If some lucky economist made it to the end, they’d be rewarded with a golden ticket into the world of one-percenters.
Max shut the book, then shook his head, opened it again, and tore the last page out. He’d tried the divine-charity trick before almost twenty years ago, when he was a stupid kid who thought he could use his ability for good. Make the torture of his own existence meaningful in some way other than to feed his father’s greed. Lester found out, as he always did when Max tried to exercise some agency without his knowledge. As if someone told him. During the subsequent beating, Lester had “explained” to Max that a dead-on prediction of winning lottery numbers wouldn’t go unnoticed by the media. A legion of treasure hunters would track him down. Max had to admit Lester was probably right. Maybe one of these days he’d do it anyway, and jump off a bridge before they could find him.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it at the kindling box next to the fireplace. It missed and bounced off the wall, rolling onto the carpet. Toby launched from Max’s feet and chased the ball as Abby walked into the living room. She knelt to pet him; Toby eyed her hand and growled.
“Toby,” Max snapped.
She gave up trying to make nice with the stupid dog and sat next to Max.
“So…I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said.
Max forced himself not to cringe. “Okay.” Please don’t ask about Val or the bar fight again. Every time she did, and he refused to give details, the tension between them ratcheted up another notch. It was a small miracle the police hadn’t shown up yet to question him about the dead guy in the parking lot.
“I want to go back to school for my graduate degree in art history, after our wedding.”
Art history sounded like a pretty useless degree. Then again, he had a business degree he never used. Whatever floated her boat. “Okay.”
“That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”
“What else do you want me to say? You don’t need my permission.”
“No, but I’d like your support.”
“You’ve got my support.”
“Do I?”
Great, this was another conversation about Val. He willed himself not to get angry. “You always have my support, Abby.” He put his arm around her rigid shoulders. “You’ll be my wife in less than two months. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what you want to do.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her. She relaxed in his arms and nestled her head in the crook of his neck.
“I want to go to couples counseling,” she said.
Max felt his calm resolve wane. Another touchy, familiar topic. “You know I can’t do that.”
“We could at least try it.”
“I’ve been to psychiatrists before. They can always tell I’m hiding something. Then they insist I come clean so the ‘healing process’ can begin, and I can’t.”
“So tell them the truth, like you told me.”
He pushed her away so she faced him. “They won’t believe me.” Frustration he couldn’t suppress crept into his voice. “I told you because I trusted you, and I could prove it. How am I supposed to convince a psychiatrist I’m not crazy? Jack off in front of him and then spout off tomorrow’s NASDAQ numbers?”
“I could back you up—”
“No.”
She looked at her feet, her mouth a tight line. “Does Val know what you can do?”
“Stop asking me about her.” He stood and folded his arms, holding in the urge to yell. “No, she doesn’t know. Only you know. Everyone else I’ve told is either dead now, or didn’t believe me.”
Her gaze met his, and he saw doubt in her eyes. Either she knew he was lying, or she didn’t believe anything he said anymore.
Max knelt beside Abby and took her hands in his. “I’m only helping Val because an innocent woman is going to die if we don’t do something. That’s it, baby. I promise. There’s only you.” He meant every word. Val didn’t trust him, and she didn’t love him. Val was gone, no matter if his heart couldn’t accept it. Abby was with him, and she loved him. Abby was all he had.
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