by Cari Hunter
Chapter Two
The bar beneath Sarah’s fingers was slippery with sweat. She gripped it more tightly, trying to find the purchase that would give her legs the support they needed.
“You’re doing great, darlin’.” Standing at the far end of the parallel bars, Ash waggled the gift-wrapped bar of chocolate she had brought as motivation.
“Fuck off,” Sarah muttered, her teeth gritted as she tried to summon the strength necessary to take another step. Her left leg obeyed her without too much complaint, but her right, its femur held together by a titanium rod, told her in no uncertain terms that it had had enough. “I can’t.” An uncontrollable trembling started in her arms. She shook her head. “I can’t do this.”
“Three more steps.” The warm hand in the middle of her back belonged to Isaac, her physiotherapist. He had shown infinite patience, surprising in such a young man, first in coaxing her out of her hospital bed and then in getting her to the point where she was confident enough to stand. Not wanting to let him down, she concentrated on slowing her breathing and then straightened her shoulders. She reached out with her right hand, making sure of her grip before bringing her weaker left arm forward.
“Good, that’s good.” Isaac was close behind her, poised to steady her if necessary but allowing her the space to make her own move.
“This really is a huge bar of chocolate,” Ash announced, before making a show of zipping her lips shut when Sarah scowled at her.
“Not helping, Ash,” Sarah gasped as she lifted her right leg. It dropped down clumsily, but she had succeeded in taking a full step, and she glanced up. “Okay, if it’s Cadbury’s then you’re helping a little bit.”
“Dairy Milk,” Ash confirmed. “Two more steps and it’s all yours.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Lowering her head, Sarah ignored the pain coursing through her battered body and slid her fingers along the rail again.
*
Alex’s first day back in uniform passed in a haze of comradely smiles, careful claps on the back, nods, and well-wishes. She had been assigned desk duty for the week: a gentle and mandatory reintroduction to the job she had lived and loved for five years. Immersing herself in reading through a stack of case reports, witness testimonies, and official bulletins helped the morning pass uneventfully. With a pleading expression, Jack had dropped a tub of ice cream on her desk as he wandered through, his temporary partner in tow. She had laughed, waved at him as he headed out again, and then eaten the ice cream in lieu of lunch.
As the clock on the wall crept around to five p.m., the regular clerical staff started to straggle toward the exit, their complaints about aching backs, budget cuts, and the inevitable snarl up on the freeway filtering through the desk partitions. Lights dimmed one by one, leaving Alex with only the glow of her computer screen and a bulb that flickered intermittently above the fax machine. Somewhere down the corridor an industrial vacuum cleaner began to hum, the rise and fall of its volume as it was steadily moved reassuring Alex that she wasn’t entirely alone.
The case file she had located earlier that day was easy for her to access, no one having had the presence of mind to lock it against her username. For the space of two breaths, she stared at the small icon, her hands slick against the plastic of the keyboard. One tap of her finger gave her an index: ballistics, CSI, crime scene photography, medical reports, witness statements. Calmly deciding on an organized approach, she started with ballistics.
The vacuum cleaner and its operator had gone and the corridors had long since fallen into silence. After three hours, the caution Alex had initially employed had been subdued by her own exhaustion and the repetitive, often impenetrable nature of the forensic analysis. With only two items remaining on the index, and her mind already distracted by thoughts of a long, hot bath, she was largely functioning on autopilot as she opened the penultimate folder.
“Jesus.”
The sequence of images filled the screen rapidly and without warning. Instinctively, she pushed her chair back, trying to distance herself from photographs she could not remember being taken, photographs that recorded in unflinching detail the injuries she had suffered. Unable to close down the images fast enough, she resorted to shutting her eyes, cursing herself inwardly for being so stupid and then cursing herself with more vehemence for being such a coward.
In her last counseling session, the therapist, sitting in his cozy office with its lofty view and its expensive coffee maker, had blithely told her to confront her fears. She had just about resisted the urge to throttle him at the time, satisfying herself with a sarcastic comment that had drifted right over his head as he smiled infuriatingly and nodded in unthinking agreement. She was quite certain this scenario wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but she decided that for once she would follow his advice. On the count of five, she opened her eyes.
The woman in the photographs seemed like a stranger. Bloodstained and beaten, she stared unseeing at the camera as gloved hands guided her into position. Alex could remember only the terrible sense of disorientation, the clamor of multiple voices, and finally, the irresistible pull of strong narcotics. The medics had obviously waited until she was unconscious before they unwrapped her back.
Cleansed of blood, the lettering was easy to decipher, the H slipping away clumsily where her assailant had started to lose his nerve. In the hospital, she had compulsively traced her fingertips first across the lines of sutures and then across the raised scars, but she had never actually seen the initial damage. It was only now, weeks later, that she appreciated the tact of the doctors and the fierce, protective determination of the nursing staff. She closed the images one by one, to leave only the snow-capped mountains of her desktop wallpaper. The computer shut down with a cheerful tune. She wiped her face dry and reached for her jacket.
*
The grass was brittle underfoot, an unusually prolonged spell of hot weather having scorched the green from its stems so that they crackled as Sarah negotiated a careful route through the stones. The walking stick that the hospital had given her tapped and jarred against the flattened markers, guiding her path and just about enabling her to keep her balance.
“Only another minute or so,” Ash said, keeping close but being careful not to hover by her side.
“I’m okay.” Sarah paused to push her hair away from her forehead, tucking behind her ear the strands that routinely escaped her haphazard ponytail. The sun was bleaching the color from everything around them, and she raised a hand to shade her eyes and regain her bearings. She set off again immediately, following Ash’s directions and trying to quiet her labored breathing.
“Oh!”
She had suddenly caught sight of her mother’s and Molly’s names, and she stopped abruptly, any sense of preparation abandoning her in an instant. The intense physical effort and a surge of uncontrollable grief made her vision gray momentarily. She reached out to grip onto the smooth granite of the headstone. It was warm beneath her fingers, and she stroked it back and forth as the dizziness abated.
“Sarah, here.” Ash held out the bouquet.
Sarah took it from her, the candy-sweet scent of the roses mingling with the cut grass surrounding the graves. It smelled like blissful hot summers, summers when she would come home from university and make up for lost time by playing in the back garden with Molly. She shook her head, her shoulders heaving as tears splashed onto the funeral wreaths that were already faded and wilted at her feet. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the pain from her legs as she tried to clear a space for her own flowers.
“Let me get rid of these, okay?” Ash waited until Sarah murmured her consent and then gathered the older tributes together. “That’s better, bit tidier. I think your mum would want things tidy.”
“She would.” Sarah wiped her nose and face with her shirtsleeve and shrugged apologetically at Ash’s expression of horror.
“Here.” Ash rooted in her pockets until she found a packet of Kleenex. “Thought we might be needing these.�
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“Thanks.”
“Any time.” She sat beside Sarah, shuffling until she was in a comfortable position. “It’s very beautiful here.” She held out an arm and Sarah leaned gratefully into her embrace. “We’ll just sit for a bit, then, eh?”
Sarah nodded, unable to reply, as the cheerful song of a blackbird perched in a tree above a freshly dug grave drowned out the sound of her weeping.
*
One by one, the peas dropped off Sarah’s fork. She swore beneath her breath, scooping up more potato to stick them into place. Dexterity was proving to be difficult, with one wrist that still creaked and complained when she wanted it to cooperate, but her mum had always told her not to shovel her peas, and even though her mum was gone, Sarah was finding that old habits were hard to break.
“You missed one.” Across the table from her, Ash snorted in amusement and flicked a stray pea back toward her plate.
Tess, Ash’s partner of more years than they could be bothered keeping track of, looked up from the papers she had been engrossed in and noticed Sarah’s predicament. “Sorry, love. I’ll do carrots next time, something you can stab.” She waved her own fork at the printed sheets. “This is quite a lot of money, Sarah.”
Her peas successfully glued into place with potato, Sarah swallowed the mouthful before her appetite—what little appetite she had—faded. “I know.”
“I can give you advice on investments, try to make it work for you and gain some decent interest. Richard may be a shit, but he’s been a generous shit.”
Ash made a disgusted noise that caught the top of her beer bottle and projected itself around the room. “Oh, he’s proper fucking big on generosity, so long as she leaves him alone.”
“Ash…” The warning in Tess’s tone was unmistakable.
While Sarah had been lying semi-conscious in the ICU, Richard had put the family home up for sale. Later, he had forwarded via his lawyer correspondence detailing the settlement of his late wife’s will and requesting that any enquiries be directed to his legal team. They had told Sarah he was in Italy, but beyond that, they had declined to comment.
Sarah placed her knife and fork neatly onto her plate and pushed it aside. “She’s right, Tess. And I’d really appreciate your help.”
Before taking a career break, Tess had been a financial advisor to a number of local charities. She nodded at Sarah and gathered the papers together efficiently. “Okay, if the missus would be so kind as to put the kettle on, I’ll go through these with you.”
Ash’s fork made a clang as she dropped it. “Oh, just because you’re having our child, I have to be your galley slave?”
Tess grinned as she struggled to her feet, her swollen abdomen straining the limits of her T-shirt. “Want to swap? Be my guest. He was kicking me all night, and for the third day in a row, my ankles are the size of tree trunks.”
Ash rolled her eyes. “Tea or coffee?” she asked, and then gave a melodramatic sigh that earned her no sympathy whatsoever.
*
Sarah sipped her tea, glancing around the familiar layout of the living room. Tess was still reading through the legal papers, and in the kitchen, Sarah could hear Ash washing the dishes, clattering crockery and pans with carefree abandon. The living room of their two-up two-down terraced house was small but cozy, with a sofa running the length of one wall and much of the remaining floor space taken up by a home birthing pool, yet to be unwrapped. Following her discharge from the hospital, Sarah had been sleeping in the only spare room, sharing the space with a baby’s crib, a changing table, and stacks of tiny outfits knitted by proud grandparents-to-be.
A burst of rain hit the window, breaking into her thoughts, as the rumble of distant thunder signaled a break in the recent spell of uncomfortably humid weather. Even with the tea burning her throat pleasantly, she found herself unable to relax. Although she had come to terms with her decision over the last few days, she was dreading broaching the subject with her best friends. This was obviously a perfect opportunity, so continuing to tell herself that she was waiting for the right moment sounded like a hollow argument. It was only when her palms began to sting that she realized how tightly she was gripping her mug, and set it on the table.
“Tess?”
“Mm? What, sweetie?” Distracted, Tess didn’t look up, which somehow made it easier for Sarah to continue.
“I handed my notice in at the pool.”
That got Tess’s attention, and her head lifted sharply. “You did? When?”
“Yesterday. I took a walk while you were at the hospital.”
“Must’ve been some walk.” Ash stood in the doorway, wiping her hands dry on a towel. “That’s a good couple of miles each way.”
“Yeah, but I caught the bus home,” Sarah admitted with a small smile.
Ash perched on the arm of the sofa and took hold of her hand.
“You know I’d have given you a lift. Why didn’t you ask?”
“Because you’d have tried to talk me out of it.” And probably succeeded, Sarah added silently. “But I can’t stay here.” She held up her hand as both Tess and Ash drew breath to protest. “I can’t. I love you both, more than I can probably ever tell you, but you need your space. And with the money, I’ve been thinking…” She squeezed Ash’s hand, a wordless plea for support, for her not to make this any harder than it already was. “I want to use some of it to travel.”
“Sarah—”
Sarah shook her head at Tess, breaking into whatever she was about to say. “Please don’t.”
Ash ran her fingers lightly through Sarah’s hair as Tess came to sit on the sofa.
“You’ve thought all this through?” Tess asked quietly.
“Yes.” Sarah sounded more confident than she felt. “I never really knew what I was doing before. I got lucky, somehow drifted into a job I enjoyed, but I’m not sure I want to teach swimming for the rest of my life. I’m not sure what I want.”
“So,” Ash said lightly, “you’re going to run off, have fabulous adventures, have fabulous sex with fabulous exotic women, find the real you, and then come home to tell us all the gruesome details?”
Sarah blinked slowly and then looked up at Ash. Ash ignored Tess’s horrified expression and smirked as Sarah started to laugh helplessly.
“You’re a bloody idiot,” Sarah managed to gasp. “I’m not sure about all that finding the real me crap, but the rest of it sounds great.”
*
Blue and red flashed steadily, splashing color across the magazines at the front of the store and giving unnecessary prominence to their lurid headlines: Angels Murdered by their Mommy, Stars With Cellulite: Exclusive Photos! Blue then red, blue then red.
“I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do it.” The kid was sweating, hopped up on who the hell knew what, as he stared glassy-eyed at Alex. Mucus and tears ran together on his face and clogged his throat, giving his voice a perversely childlike quality. In one hand, he still gripped the bag of money he had taken from the cashier, and in the other, his gun was beginning to waver.
“We know you didn’t mean to,” Jack said, unbelievably calm at Alex’s side. “Just put the gun down.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her wrists aching from the strain of keeping her weapon trained, Alex tried not to allow the crumpled form behind the counter to distract her. Blood still seeped from its ruined skull, and the thick metallic smell was making it hard for her to breathe.
“If you put the gun down, we can help you. We can help him.”
Alex nodded when Jack looked to her for confirmation, but she couldn’t speak, and for a split second, she saw a flash of fear in his eyes.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
“Michael.” Barely a murmur, but Jack was undeterred.
“Okay, Michael, I need you to trust me. Here’s what we’re gonna do: you’re gonna hand me your gun and we’ll walk out of here together before this gets any bigger than it needs to, okay?�
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The strobes from their patrol car lit up Michael’s face, catching the blond streaks in his hair and the sheen of his semiautomatic. Perspiration trickled down Alex’s neck as she battled the almost overwhelming urge to just run for the door, to let someone else stand in front of a trigger-happy kid with nothing to lose.
“Put the gun down,” she whispered, almost a plea, and Michael flinched at the unexpected edge of desperation in her voice. “Just put it down.”
The kid’s hand shook violently, rattling the coins in the bag, and Jack opened his mouth to reassure, to placate, to try to bargain some more.
“Just…” Alex raised a finger from her gun, stilling Jack as Michael slowly lowered his weapon.
“Please don’t shoot me.” His gun dropped to the tiles, spinning lazily in place until Alex, reacting quicker, kicked it beneath the magazine rack. The paper bag split, scattering coins as the kid lifted his hands in surrender. Mesmerized, Alex watched nickels and quarters flip and slide while Jack moved in front of her to cuff Michael’s hands. The cashier’s life had been worth less than twenty dollars.
*
The technicians from the medical examiner’s office were respectful even in their well-practiced efficiency, but Alex still shuddered as the weight of the body bag thudded onto the gurney. The Styrofoam cup of coffee someone had thrust into her hands was too strong, and the few sips she had managed were already churning in her stomach. Her shift had finished more than two hours ago, but they weren’t letting her go home; hours of debriefings and statements were still to come, and she was already so tired. Despite the sultry temperature, she turned the heat up in the car. She pulled her jacket tighter and hunched forward with her arms folded across herself.
