by Stacey Jay
“It fits him.” Hitch smiles again, a real smile that makes it hard to breathe.
“It does. Jail, however, I’m sure does not,” I say. “But I might have another suspect to throw at the police. The man who attacked me last night was also very interested in where I put something he was looking for. I’m guessing he and Amity are both hunting for the drugs that weren’t in the fridge.”
“But why would they think you have them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m friends with Fernando? Or because I tied that woman up yesterday?”
“Or because you’re immune and it would be easy for you to hide a stash where very few people could find it.” Hitch bites his lip. “But if Amity and this man are both looking for drugs, then why would either of them plant the empty refrigerator in Fernando’s storage room?”
“I … I don’t know.” I shake my head, struggling to clear out the cobwebs. “Maybe the woman who attacked me yesterday planted it, to throw the other two off her trail? Or maybe there’s someone else we don’t know about yet. But I definitely think the man in the bayou could have something to do with Grace’s murder. The footprints outside her window and the ones I took pictures of this morning could be a match. Dom’s looking at them now.”
“You’ve been busy this morning.” Hitch turns left on Railroad and heads straight for Swallows. Thank God. He must still have his own caffeine dependency to attend to.
“I wanted to take pictures of the crime scene and the Breeze house before this afternoon. I … I thought maybe … ” I hesitate, wondering how honest I should be with the partner of the woman investigating my performance for the FCC. I trust Hitch to help me clear Fernando, but as far as my own life is concerned …
“You thought Stephanie might take it easy on you if you showed initiative?” He grunts. “That could work … or not. Were you careful not to contaminate the crime scene?”
“Very careful. I used gloves and the whole bit. I’m not a complete waste, you know.”
Hitch reaches for the door to Swallows, but doesn’t pull it open. “I know you’re not.” Tension spikes between us, and the morning air suddenly seems hotter, stickier. “So why did you quit?”
I swallow and stare at his white knuckles. I really don’t want to go over this again. “I’m not going to quit; I’m going to help the FBI any way I can,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Come on, let’s get a coffee. My treat.” I make a grab for the door, but Hitch doesn’t move his hand. Our fingers brush, the world slows, and I swear I can hear his heartbeat speed in response to my touch.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “Why did you give up?”
“I didn’t give up.” I pull my hand away.
“Sure looks like it. Your file was of the saddest things I’ve read in a while.” He leans closer while I hope someone will burst through the door and stop this before it gets any worse. “I know I was an asshole yesterday … ” Hitch’s voice drops, low and intimate, touching things in me I don’t want to be touched. “But if any of this is because of us … because of the way things ended … ”
No, he isn’t going there. Not here and now, on the street in broad daylight.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” Screw playing it cool; I just want this conversation to end. Five minutes ago.
“Annabelle, you’re throwing your life away.”
I manage a disdainful laugh. “Spare me the melodrama, Hitch. I’m fine. I like my life. Things are going great.”
“Really? You were brilliant, near the top of our class. You could be saving lives. Instead, you’re a borderline alcoholic working a job a trained monkey could do,” he says, his words making my jaw drop. A trained monkey? “Is that great? Is that what you wanted to be when you grew up?”
“This from the guy who drinks a six-pack every night?”
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Neither am I, borderline or otherwise, and my job is a job that needs to get done.” I’m getting angry. Really angry. “And who the hell are you to pass judgment on my life, anyway?”
“Who am I?” He shakes his head. “I was your friend. For years. I cared about you. No matter how things ended, I don’t want to see you—”
“Give me a break.” My laugh is real this time. “Just how arrogant are you?”
His eyes narrow. “I’m not arrogant, I’m concerned.”
“It’s been six years, Hitch. Six. Years. I’m not ‘throwing my life away’ because I’m still carrying a torch for you, believe me.” My tone is so harsh I almost buy my own load of crap. “You think entirely too much of yourself.”
“Fine.” His jaw clenches and his left eyelid does that twitchy thing it does when he’s really angry. “Fuck me for giving a shit.”
“No, fuck you for being an asshole.”
“Right. Fuck me for being an asshole.” His hands lift into the air as he backs away from the door. “But if nothing else, you need to wake up and realize how serious this review is. You could be fired or serve jail time if Stephanie—”
“Screw Stephanie,” I say. “Really, why don’t you go screw Stephanie and leave me the hell alone.” I sound jealous and immature and stupid, but I don’t care. I just want him to go away, to take the pity in his beautiful blue eyes and scram before I do something embarrassing. Like cry. Or apologize. Or cuss at him some more.
Or worst of all, give in to the temptation to tell him the truth …
What would he say if I confess I can’t remember how I ended up in bed with his brother? That the world went fuzzy after those first few drinks?
Last night in the dark, with the fear of losing him so close, maybe I could have said the words. I probably should have said them years ago, on the night he came home with the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. But I didn’t. He’d been so certain that I’d willingly slept with Anton.
And maybe I did. Maybe I told his brother I liked it rough and we went at it all night like bunnies on roofies, just the way he said. I still can’t remember. A few too many drinks coming off a triple shift pulling hurricane victims from the wreckage and I blacked out. I was craving oblivion and Anton had been there with a bottle of Jack and an easy smile.
Maybe, I said yes to that oblivion in all its forms … Maybe not … Either way, it doesn’t matter now. The past is the past and no amount of painful truth can change it.
“I’ll go.” Hitch’s soft voice doesn’t fool me. He’s still livid. “But keep your damned phone on. If Stephanie or I call you, I want you to answer on the first ring.”
“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm is so thick you could cut it with a plastic spoon, proving once again that I am a Mature Adult.
Hitch shakes his head, and smiles an ugly smile. “I should have known this was a dumb idea.”
“Yes, you should have. I don’t need to be saved. Not by you or anyone else.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” he says. “Just keep your mouth shut about what we discussed. If I find out you gave anyone on the DPD a heads-up about the pending internal affairs review or compromised either of our investigations, I’ll—”
“Don’t threaten me. Don’t you dare.” I swallow, torn between the urge to cry and punch Hitch in the gut. Instead I glare my best, skin-melting glare. “I want to find the man who killed Grace, I want to shut down those Breeze houses, and I want my friend out of jail. I want to help. I’ve been trying to help all fucking morning.”
“Good. Then I’ll contact you this afternoon. I’ll suit up and we’ll go have another look at the Breeze house you found and the other three in the area. It will go faster with two people, and there may be places I can’t get to easily in the suit.” He looks as thrilled by the idea of spending the afternoon with me as I feel. “We’ll leave after your review.”
“I can’t. I have … a meeting.”
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t. I have to give Dicker my statement about last night,” I lie, determined to get to the Beauchamps and assure Libby t
hey have the wrong man in custody for her sister’s murder. She should be on the lookout, careful and watchful for bad guys prowling around. Not to mention that I still want to get another look at those footprints under Grace’s window myself.
“Can’t it wait?”
“I’ve already put it off too long. I don’t think he’ll be happy if I tell him I can’t get around to it until tomorrow.” Which is why I’m planning to avoid Dicker or going home to check the messages he’s left on my machine until he’s off duty and it’s too late to call him back.
Hitch sighs. “Then we’ll go right after. If we leave by three there should still be enough time to make it through all the houses before dark. Bring your gun and your camera.”
“I can’t bring the gun.” I cast another longing look at the door. Why hasn’t someone come outside? Probably because half the town is watching me argue with the FBI agent through the glass. Damn sunlight. I can’t see anything in the window except a reflection of the street. “My license is expired. I’m not supposed to carry until I get it renewed.”
“Then why are you wearing it?”
“I just found out.”
“You just found out it was expired?” he asks, his expression achieving new levels of disdain.
“I just found out I’d be arrested if I keep carrying it with an expired license.”
“Your boyfriend is going to arrest you?” There’s something in Hitch’s voice, the barest hint of jealousy that makes me feel better about my “screw Stephanie” comment.
“He’s not my boyfriend … not anymore.” Is he? Is it really over? The thought makes my throat tight. “I don’t think so, anyway.”
“Oh.” Hitch looks down, as uncomfortable as I am. “Is that because of … ”
“There was a camera in the squad car.” I do my best not to squirm. “He saw what happened.”
“Oh … ” The word hangs in the air, strangling the life out of both of us.
“It’s fine. We’ll work it out.” I grab for the door. I reached my awkward limit ten minutes ago. “So I’ll talk to you la—”
“I can talk to him if you want,” Hitch cuts in. “Last night was a mistake, just a response to stress. We both know there’s nothing between us anymore.”
We do? I loathe this new Hitch as much as I ever loved the old one, but still … There was something in that kiss last night, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at me this morning. Surely this energy between us is more than “nothing?”
“I’m in a relationship; you’re in a relationship. We don’t even like each other,” he says, the confirmation that he can’t stand me hurting more than I expect. “It seems like you two are close. It would be a shame for you to lose something good because of one little … lapse.”
The irony of his statement is clearly lost on him, and it would be pointless and painful to remind him that one “lapse” was all it took to destroy everything we built in three years of loving each other.
“So, your girlfriend understands?”
“My fiancée,” Hitch says, twisting the knife another quarter-turn. He never asked me to marry him. We talked about “forever,” but he never went down on one knee. Maybe he always considered me a loser on some level, even before what happened with Anton, before I gave him a reason to cut me out of his life. “Stephanie knew before we got here that you and I had a past.”
Oh God. It’s Stephanie. It really is. He’s engaged to Stephanie. It makes me physically ill. I’ll probably yarf if I order that cappuccino I’ve been craving all morning.
“She knows life-and-death situations can make people do crazy things.”
“Crazy,” I echo, trying to laugh and failing.
“Crazy and stupid. Things they don’t even want to do.” His expression couldn’t be more serious if he was talking about shooting Breeze. I am a trashy, shameful habit he can’t believe he ever indulged. “Nothing like that will ever happen again. Ever.”
It feels like I’ve been slapped in the face. Worse, even. Amity’s wallop hurt, but it didn’t make me feel so small and misunderstood, so pathetic and exposed. Hitch hates himself for loving me and considers what happened last night a moment of insanity that was thankfully forgiven by the woman he really loves. Stephanie. Tall, beautiful, has-her-shit-together, FBI agent Stephanie with the dimples and the soft brown eyes. She’s the one he goes home to, laughs with, makes love to.
“I’ll see you this afternoon.” I pull the door open, but Hitch stops me from opening it all the way.
“I mean it. Assuming he isn’t charged with misconduct, if you want me to talk to Cane for you, I—”
“Close the door!” Theresa shouts from inside. “I’m not paying to air-condition the fucking street.”
I slam the door, nearly catching Hitch’s fingers in the process. “I don’t want anything from you. I just want you out of town as fast as possible.”
“Then we’re on the same page.” He steps back with a businesslike nod. “Meet me at the gate near where the body was found at three. We can knock one more thing off the list before we go out to the houses.”
“See you at three.” I open the door and flee into the cool Swallows air, stalking past the usual stool at the front, needing more distance between me and the table full of men at the door. Judging from the harsh whispers that cease the second I step inside, Patrick and his cronies have seen—and maybe even heard—everything.
The backs of my eyes sting and my fingers itch. I can’t remember the last time I felt so embarrassed, so cracked open and leaky. Everything I’ve tried to become is crumbling all around me. The drama of the past few days has chipped away at my amiable apathy, making me care too much, worry too much, and feel, feel, feeeeel more than I ever want to feel again. My muscles ache from all the feeling as much as from my various scuffles.
I slide into a booth at the back and toss my glasses onto the table. I bury my face in my hands and struggle to draw long, smooth breaths. How am I going to make it through this day? How am I going to survive a review conducted by my ex-lover’s new fiancée? Let alone an afternoon with a family that just lost a child and an early evening spent hunting for serial killer mementos and crawling through Breeze houses with a man whose biggest mistake in life was giving a shit if I live or die?
The twin thunks of two glasses landing near my elbow make me jump and suck in a breath. I look up to see a glass of water, a gently sweating, thick and spicy Bloody Mary with extra celery, and a grim-faced Theresa.
“Looks like you could use one of these,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s Saturday, right?”
I glance at the frosty glass with the liquid calm inside and think about my giant pupils and my review in less than two hours and the big day ahead and all the reasons I should tell Theresa to take the drink away and bring me a cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes. Instead, I wrap my fingers around the Bloody and pull it close.
“Make it two. And a plate of spicy sausage and toast.” Vodka doesn’t tell on the breath and the spicy sausage will finish the job of keeping my adult breakfast between me, Theresa, and the darkest corner of Swallows.
“Got it, honey. Out in ten.” Theresa bustles away, narrow hips twitching, as I tip the glass back and pour a little peace down my throat.
Fuck Hitch and his judgment and labels and holier-than-thou attitude. I don’t have a problem; I have a habit. A habit that holds the fear and sadness at a distance, a habit that keeps me from turning into one of the crazy folks who yell at invisible people on the street corner.
Invisible people. Shit.
I down the rest of my drink so fast my brain freezes, temples exploding with cold, agony flowing down into my neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I growl beneath my breath as I dig my fingers into my eyes, hunching my shoulders as I wait for the spell to pass.
The moment is so intense that I nearly miss the soft cry and the scuff of shoes on the tile floor. By the time I open my eyes, all I see is a flash of blue dress and tang
led black braids disappearing out the back door. The girl’s moving too fast for a one hundred percent positive ID, but I can guess who was watching me wince and curse. There’s only one kid who comes looking for me and Marcy on Saturday mornings.
It’s Deedee. Percy’s daughter, Grace’s friend, and one of the only people who might have seen something that could lead the police to the real killer.
I bolt out of the booth and run, following the sound of dress shoes pounding on the pavement in the alley behind Swallows, ignoring the spinning in my head as the vodka and tomato juice hit my empty stomach and rush straight to my brain and the pain that jabs at my eyes as I realize I’ve rushed outside without my sunglasses.
None of that matters. Deedee matters.
She stops in the shadows a few feet away, eyes wide and shining, damp trails marking her cheeks with rivers of sadness.
Twenty
Hey.” I stop, giving Deedee some space.
She’s a cornered animal ready to bolt, and I really don’t want her to run away. Everything in me is screaming that those tears aren’t just for the friend she’s lost. They’re for herself, inspired by real and present danger. Deedee is terrified. She saw something, and has information that will lead to Grace’s killer, I’m sure of it.
Now I just have to figure out how to make her feel that she can trust me … the cussing, crazy woman squinting like a mole ripped from its hole.
“I’m sorry, Deedee. I didn’t see you or I wouldn’t have said that word. Especially not three times.” Or four times? How many times did I drop the f-bomb?
My short-term memory is getting cloudy as the vodka swims through my bloodstream, taking me from zero to intoxicated in a startlingly short amount of time. It’s just like last night. The alcohol hits me in a way it normally wouldn’t, impairing and aggravating instead of soothing. I have to fight to focus on Deedee, to keep from swaying on my feet.
“I … I’m sorry.”
“You already said that,” Deedee says, leaning back against the brick wall behind her and curling her chin to her chest. Her body language tells me to leave her alone, but her eyes peek at me through the braids that have slipped into her face. All isn’t lost, not if I can manage to act like a normal human being for a few more minutes.
