by Jeff Shelby
Paulus nodded. “Yeah. I actually wasn't sure if I had anything, so we walked to my car. He wasn't nervous or anything like that, so it really wasn't a big deal.” He bit his bottom lip for a second. “I don't remember exactly what I sold him, but I'm pretty sure it was Xanax. If I have anything, that's what I usually have, so that'd be my guess.”
“He buy a lot?”
He shook his head. “Think I sold him half a bottle? And I only charged him like forty bucks. He was Patrick's friend and all, and I like I said before, I don't much care about selling that kind of stuff.”
I nodded, thinking. It wasn't that unusual for anyone to buy Xanax illegally and it certainly wasn't frowned upon socially. I'd seen it passed around by adults like it was ibuprofen. The fact that you needed a prescription to obtain it didn't seem to cause people to blink. I remembered a doctor trying to prescribe me some after Elizabeth's abduction and I'd turned it down. Lauren made a joke some point later about how I should've taken it so I could sell it when I'd left the police force and make some extra cash.
“That was the only time?” I asked. “You never sold to him again?”
He shook his head. “I've never seen the guy again. I haven't been to any of their shows and like I said before, Patrick and I are friendly, but we don't hang out or anything like that.” He paused. “But I know I sold that bottle to him that night.”
Just because he'd sold pills to Ricky Brown didn't mean a whole lot. For all I knew, the entire band could have been using some sort of drug. Ruben had been forthcoming about using weed. Patrick could've easily borrowed or taken from Ricky, if he had a stash. It was the fact that no one else seemed to think Patrick was using anything other than heroin that was ringing the bell for me. The tox results were weird, and while I still wasn't sure that it ruled out suicide, I was finding myself with more questions than answers.
“Hey, I really do have some stuff I've gotta do,” Paulus said, glancing back at the front door. “Are we done?”
I nodded. “Think so.” I nodded at the house. “You should get your one friend looked at. Seriously. He took a pretty good shot to the head.”
“Okay,” Paulus said, stubbing the toe of his shoe against the ground. “Hey, is any of this gonna come back at me? The stuff I just told you?”
I pulled the keys from my pocket. “No idea. I don't think so. I've gotta talk to Patrick's uncle, but I appreciate you being honest with me. I'll keep your name out of it. He's not really interested in you. He just wants to know what happened to Patrick.”
He nodded for a moment and studied his shoes before looking up. “Patrick was a good guy. I'm sorry he's...” His voice trailed off.
“Me, too,” I said, heading for the car. “Me, too.”
TWENTY SIX
The traffic getting out of the east county was brutal and after thirty minutes, I'd barely managed to get on the freeway. It was already a little after five o'clock, and cars and semis clogged the lanes, inching along as they marched toward downtown and the 15 interchange. At this rate, I wouldn’t be home for hours.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and swore under my breath when I saw I'd missed two calls from Elizabeth.
I tapped her number and she answered on the second ring. “Oh, good. You're alive.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Got tied up with something. What's up?”
“I thought we were gonna have dinner,” she said.
“We are,” I said. “I mean, we still can. But I'm out in El Cajon and the traffic sucks. Gonna be awhile.”
“I already put chicken on the grill,” she said. “Thought we could have an early dinner.”
My stomach knotted. “I'm sorry. I should've called and said I was running behind.”
“It's fine.”
But I could tell it wasn't. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing. I just thought we were gonna have dinner.” There was an edge in her voice that I couldn't decipher. “But I guess that's a no go now.”
“We can eat when I get there,” I suggested.
“It's almost done,” she told me. “And you’re in El Cajon.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, because it was the only thing I could say. And because it was true.
“It's fine.”
“No, it's clearly not,” I said, switching lanes, trying to get into any lane that was moving. “I should've called.”
“Or texted,” she said. “I texted you, too.”
The guilty knot tightened. I'd nagged at her so many times about how she didn't have to call. A text would be fine, just so I knew where she was. And I had ignored my own advice, my own rules. “Or texted. Yeah. I'm sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
I almost said I was sorry again, and pressed my lips together to prevent the words from slipping out.
“Are you going to quit teaching?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.
“What?” I was genuinely surprised. “Where's that coming from?”
“I don't know,” she said. “But the last couple days, you haven't said a word about it.”
“Because I’m on vacation,” I reminded her.
She continued on as if I hadn’t said anything. “And whatever you're doing for Mike clearly has your attention. I've barely seen you and when you have been home, you've been talking only about what you're doing for him.”
I didn’t know how we’d gone from me being late to dinner to me potentially quitting my job.
I managed to get all the way over to the number one lane. It was moving at the same snail's pace the other lanes were, each car creeping along into the sun.
“I know,” I said. “Bad timing with the Mike thing.” I almost apologized but knew those weren’t words she would want to hear again.
“You can’t exactly control when people need help,” she said, her tone almost grudging.
“You’re right,” I told her. “I can’t.”
This was true. But I could control how much time I put into things, and make sure I was still available to my daughter during her break.
There was a pause. “Is it gonna be like this the whole time I'm home?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“You not being home. Being distracted.”
I pulled the visor down to cut down on the glare. “No.” But even as I said this, I thought about all of the loose threads surrounding Patrick’s death, the pieces that I needed to put together to give Mike and Cleo the answers—and the closure—they needed. Because I was pretty sure it was there for me to find.
“You don't sound very sure.” Her tone had changed, and she sounded more like a petulant child than a young adult.
The car in front of me jolted to a quick stop and I slammed on my brakes.
“Elizabeth, come on,” I said. My patience was wearing thin, and I didn’t know if it was from the mess of traffic I was sitting in or the berating I was getting from my kid. “Give me a break. I told you I was doing this for Mike, and I can't bail in the middle of it.” Especially not after everything he had done for me over the years. “I'm sorry I forgot to call and I'm sorry the traffic is rotten. I'm trying to get there.”
There was silence on the other end and for a moment I thought she might have hung up on me.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was small.
“What?” The knot in my stomach was back, tightening like a noose.
She sighed. “It's just...”
“It's just what?” I asked.
“There's just some stuff I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “That's all.”
“Well, I'm not going anywhere right now.” My foot was still on the brake, and I was still at a stand still. And all I wanted to do was veer onto the shoulder and speed home to my kid. “I can talk to you the whole way home. I won't answer the phone if another call comes in.”
“Not the same thing,” she said.
“Talk to me.”
“We can talk later.” Her tone had changed, and
I could tell she was distancing herself.
“Let’s talk now.”
“It's fine. I am fine,” she clarified. “I'll take the chicken off the grill when it's done and leave it in the fridge for you.”
My hand tightened on the steering wheel. “You're not gonna be home when I get there?”
“I don't know,” she said. “Jenna asked if I wanted to go out after we went looking for apartments.” I remembered how she’d spent her day. “Told her I couldn't, but maybe I will now. I don't know.”
The guilty knot now felt like an anchor in my stomach. She'd clearly told her friend no because she'd planned on having dinner with me.
“I'd still like to have dinner with you,” I said. “And talk about whatever's on your mind.”
If she heard what I’d said, she made no indication of it. “If I'm not home when you get here, chicken will be in the fridge. I'll be home later. You don't have to wait up.”
I started to ask her again to wait on me, but she'd already hung up.
TWENTY SEVEN
The traffic was snarled nearly the entire way back to Coronado, evening traffic coupled with several accidents. I crawled along with the masses for nearly two hours before I pulled into the driveway a little after seven, giving the guilt plenty of time to settle in and take root.
I wasn't surprised to find that Elizabeth wasn't home.
The chicken was in the fridge as she'd promised, on a plate covered with plastic wrap.
I slammed the refrigerator door shut and threw my keys on the table, irritated about a hundred things. The house was quiet and empty, and it felt like my fault.
I texted Elizabeth and told her I was home.
She responded twenty minutes later, reminding me chicken was there and that she'd be home later.
I texted her back, said thanks, and told her I loved her.
She didn't respond.
I'd been hungry when I'd started the drive home, but my appetite was gone by the time I got back, swallowed up by frustration and guilt. I pushed the chicken aside on the shelf and grabbed a beer instead. I yanked the top off and downed half of it, walking back out front, desperate for a little fresh air.
The sun had disappeared, replaced by darkness and stars barely visible beyond the layer of clouds blanketing the sky. The air was chilly, the first truly cold night I could remember in a while. The house directly across the street had hung their Christmas lights earlier that day, a string of alternating red and green bulbs, and they gleamed brightly in the dark.
I looked at the lawn and took another drink from the bottle.
The spot where I'd last seen Elizabeth before she'd been taken was about four feet off the sidewalk, nearly dead center in the middle of the rectangular yard. We'd been planning to stake a wooden Santa that Lauren had purchased from a garage sale in that same spot. Elizabeth had gone and stood there and announced that was where Santa needed to go as I fussed with the lights and realized I needed another cord.
“Right here,” she'd insisted. “So everyone can see him.”
Then I'd gone inside the house, and my entire world had gone up in flames.
I shivered against the cold air.
We'd never put up Christmas decorations after that, even after I'd gotten Elizabeth back. Lauren had thrown them all out at some point after we'd divorced and I'd left. But I'd toyed with the idea of doing it this year. I didn't want Elizabeth and I to abhor the holiday. I wanted her input, and I'd been hoping to broach the subject over dinner. I didn't know how she felt about it and I didn't want it to trigger anything for her.
I walked over and stood in that spot, where Santa was supposed to go and from where Elizabeth was ripped out of my life, letting my bare feet sink into the cool grass.
I knew she was pissed at me, and no matter how irrational she'd been about it, I felt guilty. I worked hard to understand the fact that I couldn't be perfect for her, but more often than not, I felt I was letting her down. She'd even told me, maybe a year earlier, that I didn't need to be the dad who jumped when she called. She'd sensed it, and hadn't wanted me to think I was on call or being judged, or that a failure on my part would send her over some imaginary ledge.
She just wanted me to be her dad.
I knew something else was bugging her. She never would've gotten so angry at me for just missing dinner. It wasn't like her. So whatever was on her mind was probably the root cause.
But that didn't assuage my guilt very much.
I walked back into the house, brushing the dead blades of grass from the soles of my feet. I finished the beer and set the empty bottle down by the sink. I laid my hands flat on the counter and took a couple of deep breaths.
I'd avoided her question about teaching. It wasn't that I wasn't planning on returning to it in a couple of weeks. I was. I was going to grind it out and hope for the best. But I couldn't deny that I'd been far more engaged investigating Patrick's death than I had been with any lesson plan I'd thrust upon my students.
I wasn't sure what that meant.
I walked into my bedroom, took a quick shower, then laid down on the bed. It was still early, but I was tired, both physically and mentally. The conversations I’d had with Cleo and Erin, and the physical altercation with Paulus’s guys, had taken their toll on me. Coupled with my phone call with Elizabeth, I didn’t have the energy to do much else.
I powered on the television and went through my usual routine of scanning the channels before deciding there was nothing on that I wanted to watch. I settled on some kitchen show where a bunch of people were cooking food I'd never heard of, then tossed the remote to the side.
The backpack I used for school was lying next to the bed and I reached down, yanking it up onto the bed. It was heavy with papers and the school issued iPad. I unzipped the main pocket and pulled out the stack of papers. There were roughly 120 essays, all around a thousand words, that needed my attention. I pulled a pen from the side pocket and started reading through the first one.
I made it halfway through the paper before I slid the entire pile and the pen back into my backpack.
I couldn't focus.
Or maybe I just didn't want to do the work.
I picked up my phone and checked the texts. Nothing from Elizabeth. I contemplated checking in with her but ultimately decided against it. I'd learned to give her space even when I found it to be the most difficult thing in the world to do. I knew she was upset with me and I didn't want to give her more reasons to stay angry.
I set the phone down next to the remote.
It was at that moment and similar ones that I most missed Lauren. I could talk to her about what was going on and she could point out why I was overthinking something or misreading something. At the very least, talking to her had calmed me down, cleared my head, and reminded me that I'd married her for a multitude of reasons. Our separation after Elizabeth’s disappearance had had nothing to do with our relationship with each other and everything to do with the daughter we’d lost.
But lying on the bed, wondering what my daughter was doing, and staring mindlessly at the television, I wasn't sure I'd ever felt more alone.
TWENTY EIGHT
I was up early the next morning, the product of sleeping poorly and wanting to see Elizabeth. I'd heard the door open a little after midnight and listened as footsteps tread lightly up the stairs and across the second level. I'd fought the urge to go up and see her, forcing myself to remain in bed, chasing sleep.
I threw bacon in the oven, cracked eggs into the skillet, and sliced up a couple of bagels. I stirred the eggs into a scramble while the bacon cooked, and the entire kitchen soon smelled like a diner. I set the eggs aside, threw cheese on top of them, then put the bagels in the toaster oven. I pulled the bacon from the oven and transferred it to a plate after patting the grease off of it. The toaster oven dinged and I buttered the bagels before scooping the eggs into a serving bowl.
Elizabeth trudged down the stairs as I set the table. Her hair was a mess, he
r eyes still swollen with sleep
“Morning,” I said, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinet.
“Hi,” she said, then yawning. “You made a lot of food.”
“I was hungry.” Considering my dinner the night before had consisted of a bottle of beer, this came as no surprise.
She sniffed appreciatively. “Me, too, actually.”
“Good,” I said, filling the glasses with water and setting them on the table. I grabbed my coffee from the counter. “It's all ready.”
She dropped into her chair and surveyed the table. “Why'd you make all of this?”
“Like I said. I was hungry.” I smiled. “Cereal wasn’t going to cut it.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything. She filled her plate and we ate in silence for a few minutes. The food tasted good, and I was actually hungrier than I thought I was.
“How was your night?” I asked.
“Was fine,” she said, chewing on a bagel. “I went over to Jenna's, and then we went and got dinner and to a party down in PB. It was lame. I got home around midnight.”
“A party?” I didn’t ask why she’d gone out to dinner after making chicken here.
“Just people getting together at a friend of a friend's,” she said, making a face. “Not some giant rager.”
“Ah. She find an apartment?”
She shook her head. “Nothing she really liked. She's gonna keep looking.”
I nodded and we ate some more.
She scraped the last of the eggs off her plate. “I'm sorry if I snapped on the phone last night.”
“You don't have to apologize,” I said. “I'm sorry I didn't get home when I said I'd get home.”
She frowned. “That wasn't even it. I was just in a bad mood, and I guess I just took it out on you. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” I told her, holding my coffee cup up towards her. “And I'm sorry for not being home like I said I'd be.”
She picked up her water glass. “Apology also accepted.”
We clinked our drinks together.
