by A. R. Torre
So I’d stayed. Wrapped a leg around his hip and curved into his body. Listened to his breath settle into sleep. I’d closed my eyes and hoped for sleep. Said my prayers and sent a few messages upward to Summer and Trent. Lied a little in the update I sent to my father. I didn’t pray to my mother. There are nights I do, nights I don’t. I thought about my grandparents, how it had been too long since I called them to check in. In college, I did it monthly. Now… it’s mostly limited to holidays and birthdays. Honestly, I think they dread my calls almost as much as I do. I thought until I ran out of things to think about.
I moved to the window and tweaked the blinds. Stared through narrow slits at FtypeBaby, who sat like a coiled cat on the curb, a devil in suburbia. I saw a shadow move and hoped for a car thief, someone looking in her windows, a crowbar in hand. It’s not murder if it’s justified. I closed the blinds and turned back to the bed. Looked at the man lying there and wondered how vulnerable he made me. How deep in I really was. Wondered if the tug on my heart was love for him or desire for the life he represented, one of freedom and normality.
“What’s healthiest for you is a strong relationship, built on an honest framework.”
I knew that Derek was right, that Jeremy needed to love all of me, including the dark corners. But J didn’t know those corners. I’ve flooded our relationship with enough sexy sparkles and deception to distract him. It’s easy to distract a man who doesn’t want to look in the first place. Our relationship worked because we both had the same goal, to avoid the inevitable. But what was the inevitable? Was it for Jeremy to leave me because of the secrets he finds out? Or was it for me to snap and kill us both in a moment of breakage?
CHAPTER 55
Past
WHEN I WOKE up in Jeremy’s bed, I cried. I shouldn’t have cried. When a person wakes up to the smell of bacon, to the sound of a spatula scraping against a skillet, it shouldn’t produce tears.
“Deanna.” Two tiny hands pushed at my hip and I rolled onto my stomach.
“Go away.”
“Get up!” Trent’s voice, when properly worked up, had an expectant air of authority that closely mimicked my father.
“No. It’s Saturday.”
“Mom says to get up. ’Reakfast is ready.”
I lifted my head long enough to smell bacon. Weighed the temptation and lowered my head back to the pillow. “Tell her I’m skipping breakfast.” My pillow was wet from drool, and I twisted my head to the other side.
“Hi.” The whisper was directly in front of me, a huff of breath hitting my cheek, and I opened my eyes. Summer’s eyes widened when she smiled, her tiny hot pink nails biting into my bedspread as she rested her chin on the bed, our faces inches apart. On her head, for some unknown reason, sat a crown.
“Hi, pumpkin.” I closed my eyes. “Tell Trent to leave me alone.”
“TRREEEEENNNT!” she hollered louder than any little girl on earth. “’Eeanna says to GO AWAY!”
The little boy’s hands pushed on my legs again, the sheet dragging away from me as he got hold of it. I grabbed at the material and kicked out with my feet. “Stop it, Trent! Go downstairs!” I turned to Summer and waved my hand at her. “You too! Both of you—out!”
“Deanna!” I heard my mother yell from downstairs. “Come down to breakfast. It’s past ten!”
“Please let me sleep in!” I called back, ignoring the dramatic stomp of Summer, her blond curls flying, her parting look one of indignation.
“I’m not warming this back up for you!”
I plopped back down. Like anyone wanted warmed-up eggs and bacon. “I’ll be fine!” I called out, pulling the spread over my head and closing my eyes. From downstairs, something was called up, but I missed it.
That afternoon, I’d left for my grandparents’. That night, everyone died. I missed the last breakfast we’d ever had had together as a family. I opened my eyes in Jeremy’s house, smelled the familiar scent, and was flooded with a hundred memories I’d hoped to never find again. I curled into his pillow, rolled my lips between my teeth, and tried to contain myself, the break of emotions pushing through, shaking my body, my eyes burning wet at the corners. It was fucking bacon. Not a family video of the five of us. Not the sound of Summer’s giggle or Trent’s shout. It was Jeremy, probably attempting to be sweet and cook his insane girlfriend some breakfast. I needed to be normal right now. I needed to be bright and grateful and sexy. I needed to be the girl who wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed his ass. Who crunched on bacon and perched on his counter. I could be that girl; I could play that girl. I closed my eyes and pretended the cameras were rolling, hot lights on. I pretended I was in my pink bedroom, with a hundred clients before me. I pretended I was Jessica Reilly and rolled out of bed.
“Please tell me that’s bacon!” I called out the words and checked out my reflection. Wiped a smudge of mascara under my eyes and blinked rapidly. Put a skip in my step and rounded the corner, skidding across the floor and meeting his eyes, a smile easy and natural when I saw him there, shirtless, in blue boxer briefs, the love on his face when he smiled at me warming every corner of Jess Reilly’s soul.
I stepped closer and he reached for me, holding the spatula out of the way as he hugged me, the pop and sizzle of the pan behind us. When he dipped his head I lifted my chin, and smiled against his kiss when he pulled me closer. Hard. My man was hard while scrambling eggs. I giggled and pushed him away.
“Not yet.” I rounded the corner and pulled up a stool. “I’m starving. Food, then sex.”
He winced and pulled a plate from the cabinet. “Well then… in that case, let me feed you.”
I smiled, I ate every bite. I knelt on his new couch and moaned his name as he took me from behind. But I never forgot about the bacon. And I never washed my family from my mind. Not that morning, not that day, not even now.
I could play the part.
I could walk the walk.
I just didn’t know how to make it stick.
After bacon and eggs and sex, we washed the dishes, Jeremy’s hands in the suds, mine on a towel. Our elbows bumped, his wet hand occasionally brushed mine, and there was a moment when he pressed against me and put a gentle kiss against the back of my neck. Once the dishes were washed, we moved to the couch, his arm looped around my shoulder, my head resting on his chest. And I realized, my bare feet digging under a throw blanket, that it was the first time we’d ever been on a couch together. We watched Andy Griffith episodes, then a show called Beachfront Bargains, and discussed vacation destinations we’d try and houses we’d buy. Pretended, while he ran his fingers through my hair, that we had a chance at that future. Then, in the third episode, he lifted me up and slid behind me. Lying down, he held me against his body, his breath warm on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes, wrapped in his arms, and didn’t think about the clients who were waiting for me, missed appointments ticking by. I enjoyed the moment, in his house, in his arms. I enjoyed the moment and drifted off to sleep.
Four hours later, the sky newly dark, streetlights flickering on, we pulled FtypeBaby into my complex. When we stepped off the elevator, his fingers were looped through mine, the swing of our hands in tune with our steps down the hall. I moved my thumb slightly and it brushed against his knuckles. He glanced down, at our hands, then at my face, and smiled. “I love you.”
My next step cut off his path, my free hand moving up and pushing at his chest, his resistance weak, his back hitting the wall at the same time as my lips met his. I released his hand and grabbed at his shirt, gripping the blue fabric and pulling it out of place, his mouth responsive against mine, pushing back, the palm of one hand sliding down my back and into my jeans, squeezing the top of my ass as he leaned against me and deepened the kiss. When I pulled off, he smiled at me from under the brim of his baseball cap.
“I love you too.” I grabbed his hand and pulled, his back lifting from the wall as he followed me. I couldn’t help myself, not when he said those words I so desperately
craved. And yeah, a part of me wished that the hall rat saw us. Saw the connection that she had no chance of breaking.
I kept his hand in mine those final steps. As I twisted the knob and shouldered the door open. As I stepped inside, I pulled him toward the bed, one imminent goal in mind.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know that it would be our last moment.
CHAPTER 56
Present
THE POLICE CAR smells, the handcuffs put my wrists at an uncomfortable position, digging into my spine, and I can’t evade the glare of the afternoon sun. None of it matters. I close my eyes against the sun and rest my head back, the hell in my head drifting down into a muted chaos. I climb the mountain of thoughts in my head and try to find the top. A lie. Brenda had lied. Deanna Madden, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Jeremy Pacer. No. Never. Attempted murder. He is not dead. One good current in a sea of bad.
Seconds pass in the silence of the car. I turn my head and shift in the seat. Rotate and crane until I can see the huddle of cops, Chelsea on its flank. The car I sit in is on Glenvale Street, the front of Mulholland Oaks stretched out in all of its depressing squalor along the side of the car. We’ve got blood. The man had yelled from the front of the building, from the place around the corner of where they now stand, looking behind the pitiful bushes that lie in front of the brick, in the thin alley of nothing where bums like to sleep and cigarette butts and beer bottles collect like leaves in a neglected gutter. We’ve got blood. There?
I think of the cop, her point, focus, examination of my window. The slow turn and stare she had given me. We’ve got blood. Oh. The tumblers of my mind finally line up, the pieces turning into place, the door to awareness opening. I lift my eyes from the group, traveling slowly up the building, my stomach dropping as my eyes rise. They think he jumped. They think he fell. They think he was… pushed? A cop turns away from the group, ziplock bag in hand. Evidence. I lean closer, my breath fogging the glass, my eyes burning as I try to focus, try to see… a flash of metal, a bit of yellowwwwww… no no no no no no noooooo… my Spyderco Pacific. A bright yellow handle, short sharp blade. Online reviews swore it was one of the sharpest knives on the market, with an added bonus of being rust-free. I hadn’t expected a true rust-free product, my mind pushing that aside with the exuberant joy of its razor-sharp edge. It’s one of my favorite knives and it’s in an evidence bag. We’ve got blood. I had to unlock the safe in preparation for the cops. I had to unlock the safe to pack up its contents and ship them to Mike. I had, at some point in the night that Jeremy broke my nose, locked the safe. The Spyderco Pacific, at some point in that night, had ended up outside my apartment. Covered, best I could tell from my awkward place three parking spots up, in blood. I turn away from the window and drop my head against the seat. My window. My knife. We’ve got blood. Deanna Madden, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Jeremy Pacer. Attempted. He is not dead. Attempted. He is still alive.
The doors open and shut with quick efficiency, the two detectives getting in. I wait for the car to start, for the pull away from the curb. Sit on my question for three blocks, then speak. “Where is he?” A question I’ve been asking myself for two days and I may have finally found someone with the answer. The car turns left and my body rolls right, my right sneaker pushing out and finding the floor to brace myself. I was locked in all night. Before, I thought that proved my innocence. Now, with him lying underneath my window, everything in my world is unsteady. I need to remember, I need to find my footing, but I’m worried that there is nothing solid and good for me to stand on.
“Hillcrest South.”
I swallow. “And he’s alive?” You know he’ll die. That’s what she had muttered to me on their first visit.
“He’s in a coma.”
A coma. My heart falls another story. “From what?”
“I’m sorry?” the woman turns her head and her profile is ugly.
“What caused his coma?” I roll my lips and inhale a deep breath. My nose screams in pain.
“A six-story fall from your window, along with six stab wounds.”
The fall I survive, the stab wounds pry open my chest and ravage my soul. My Spyderco. Stab wounds. I run my whole life and end up slamming into my enemy head-on. Anything but stab wounds. My Spyderco, covered in blood.
The bitch reads my mind. “You like knives, Deanna?”
They’ll find the order; I paid with a credit card. Even worse, my prints are all over that baby. I look out the window. “My mother did.”
“But you don’t?”
“I avoid them.” When I can.
“Interesting choice of words.”
I turn my head and see her watching me in the rearview mirror. “I’d like to speak to his doctor.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth.”
She laughs and pushes on the brake, the car jerking to a stop at a red light. “That’s funny, Deanna. I feel the exact same way about you.”
A car pulls up next to us and I turn my head, a boy in the backseat leaning forward, his breath fogging the glass, his eyes widening when they meet mine, a criminal in the backseat of a police cruiser. “I’ve never lied to you, Brenda.”
“Maybe because I haven’t asked the hard questions.”
The car pulls forward, and I lose sight of the boy.
CHAPTER 57
Present
SOMETHING IS WRONG. Brenda felt it before, felt deep in her gut that the girl was guilty, the girl was evil. But now… having her in cuffs, in the back of the car… something is off. She turns into the precinct’s parking lot and glances at David. He winks at her and rubs his hand on the knee of his pants. He always loves a collar. She parks and turns the key, looking up and into the rearview mirror, at the side profile of the girl.
I’ve never lied to you, Brenda.
She is too old and too smart to be jerked around. Huffing out an irritated breath, she shoves the door open and kicks a black-toed boot outside. Time to get this bitch behind bars.
CHAPTER 58
Present
I THINK, AS I walk down the white hall, following the detectives, a stranger’s hand pushing on my back, willing me forward, about my mother. Had a dozen tiny details been different, she’d have walked down a hall similar to this. She’d have pushed out with her wrists, and realized the futility of movement. She’d have heard her shoes slap against dirty floors and recognized her end. She’d have been alive and imprisoned instead of dead.
I am not my mother. But like her, I belong here. I inhale air that smells of cigarettes and cheap labor and wonder if this is the end of my story.
We turn left, a foursome of silence, and Brenda stops at a door, twists the knob, and pushes it open with her foot. “Sit down in here. I’ll bring in a phone, we’ll knock out some questioning, and then move you to general pop. You’ll have an arraignment in a few days to determine bail options.”
A few days. A hand pushes gently between my shoulder blades, and I step forward. Cross into a gray room with a black floor and sit carefully on a folding chair that creaks. They shut the door and I hear the turn of a lock.
Locked in. Some people would feel claustrophobic. For me, it’s freeing.
I spend the long minutes in the room deciding whom, once my one phone call privilege is allowed, to contact. I decide upon Jeremy’s sister, the only member of Jeremy’s family I am really aware of, and someone who, given the circumstances, probably knows the most about his health condition. I also decide that, given our complete lack of proper introduction prior to now, I should have gone to her damn dinner. Go figure.
When Brenda walks into the room, a phone in one hand, both of my cells in her other, I sit straighter. Put my feet on the ground and try to scoot the chair forward. Start to reach forward toward the phone and stop myself. Search for patience and find none. I hold one fist in my other hand and watch her sit down in the seat across from me.
“He
re’s the deal. You can’t touch your cell, but if you need some numbers out of it, just let me know and I’ll pull them for you.” She pushes the phone forward, pulling a line from the wall and plugging it in.
“Numbers?” I look up. “I thought I get one phone call.”
“That’s Hollywood. In the real world, as long as you’re not a pain in the ass, you can make a reasonable number of calls to get your affairs in order. You also only get privacy when you speak to your attorney, so keep that in mind when making your calls.”
A reasonable number of calls. I look at the bare table between us and try to think. One phone call was easier to navigate. “Okay. Do you have a phone number for Jeremy’s sister? Her name is Lily.”
“No.”
Very helpful. “May I have a phone book?”
That got me somewhere, her head dropping, hands moving, the screech of a drawer and then, the deposit of a large book, its spine worn, cover showing its age: four years old. I pull it to me and flip through, finding the number for Hillcrest Hospital South and dialing it slowly. Underneath my hand, the receiver feels dirty.
