Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  “You’re a little whore, aren’t you? Just like your mother.” His chuckle scrapes her insides.

  There is no air. He stinks of whiskey and humiliation. Her heart is galloping in her chest.

  That bullying hand sinks a little lower, the thumb stroking the back pocket of her jeans. Her fingers whiten on the edges of the plate. “Here’s your dinner,” she finally says in a gasping voice. “Where do you want it?”

  He chuckles as if she’s just done something funny, and Skye feels her eyes start to burn. Holding her breath, she turns around quickly, wedging the plate between them and knocking his hand off her bottom. It’s a risk, though. If he puts his hands on her again, they’ll land on her front instead of her back…

  After the longest three seconds of her life, Jimmy takes the plate. He hooks his whiskey bottle between two fingers and carries his meal toward the sofa.

  Skye counts to ten as slowly as she can. When the TV sounds start up, she counts to ten again. Then she slips quietly into her bedroom and shuts the door. The lock is deployed, but she knows that it will be useless if he decides he’s coming in.

  It’s cold tonight, and her jacket is out of reach—hanging on the back of the trailer’s front door. So Skye scrounges through the tiny closet and puts on one of Rayanne’s flannel shirts, then adds a sweater and a scarf, too. She doesn’t wait for Jimmy’s knock or his shouting. She’s not going to feel that hand creep down her body again tonight.

  Dirty girl, he called her. He’s half right. She feels very dirty right now, thanks to him.

  Armed against the cold, she opens the window all the way. Then she climbs out, dropping carefully onto the leaves and avoiding the stump below.

  The stump was Benito’s idea. He placed it there to help her climb back inside on nights when she needs to flee. She stands on it now and closes the window to make her escape route look less obvious.

  Then Skye walks carefully into the darkness toward Benito’s outdoor living room. She can barely see the chair when she arrives. It’s covered with a tarp, and a rock in the center holds the cover in place. She removes the rock and the tarp and sits down.

  Who knew that sitting in the cold woods alone at night would seem cozier than being at home? The air is crisp and still, and there are no bugs this time. Small mercies.

  Not ten minutes later she hears footsteps and sees a flashlight bobbing in her direction. The approaching footsteps might have been terrifying, except she knows it’s Benito. He’s humming to himself, and she’s familiar with the sound of his voice.

  “Evening,” he says mildly when he arrives a moment later. As if this were a perfectly normal place to be on a cold fall night.

  “Evening.” She hopes he won’t ask why she’s here, because she can’t say it out loud. It’s too icky. She feels gross, just thinking about Jimmy and his hand on her in the kitchen.

  But Benito doesn’t ask. He sets his backpack down beside her but doesn’t sit. Instead, he wanders around the edges of the clearing, picking up little sticks and snapping them. Then he takes a few bigger logs from a collapsed stack at the base of a pine tree.

  He arranges his finds carefully in the center of the fire pit. From his backpack he removes a section of newspaper. He balls this up and shoves it under his wooden structure. Lastly, he pulls a book of matches from his jacket pocket, lights one, and sets the whole thing aflame.

  He kneels there a while, watching his fire catch, poking at it. The air fills with the scent of wood smoke, and the orange glow from the flames illuminates the clearing.

  Skye can’t take her eyes off Benito. The warm light makes his eyes shine. He’s the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen. But she’ll never tell him so. She wouldn’t even have the words.

  Eventually, he’s satisfied with his work. He adds one more log to the fire and then comes to sit next to her on the doublewide chair. He kicks his feet up and leans back, hands behind his head, eyes to the sky. “Marshmallows,” he says quietly. “I’ll try to remember to get some.”

  “Mmm,” she agrees. Skye feels so much safer sitting next to this boy in the woods than she feels in her so-called home. He’s right there beside her in the dark, but he doesn’t touch her.

  Mostly she’s grateful for that. But she has the unreasonable urge to rest her face against his sweatshirt right over his heart. She wants to know what would happen if she tried it. Good things, maybe. He could put an arm around her, and they could sit just like that together and listen to the fire crackle.

  But the risk is too great. Things are pretty nice as they are, and Skye knows not to rock the boat.

  “My sister Zara lives with another senior girl,” Benito says suddenly. “Jill Sullivan.”

  “I remember.” Benito has told her this already. They talk all the time now. “Because there’s more room for her at Jill’s.”

  “That’s not really why she lives across town,” Benito says quietly. “Jimmy Gage is why.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh. Her heart dives again.

  “He started harassing Zara last year. Gage would always try to get Zara alone. That’s not an easy feat when there are so many of us. But he was relentless, so my brother Damien went to the police station and complained to the chief.”

  “And it didn’t work?”

  Benito shakes his head slowly, his eyes deep pools of empathy. “The chief didn’t even write him up. And afterward, Gage threatened to torch our trailer if we complained about him again. This was five months ago—in May. Since then we’ve gotten twelve traffic tickets. Every cop in Colebury stops us. Mom is saving up money to move somewhere else, but it’s gonna take a while.”

  All the air leaves Skye’s lungs. She’ll never be safe. And Benito might move away.

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” he says quietly. “But you need to know how it is. The chief thinks anyone who lives in the trailer park is trash who deserves what she gets. Since he doesn’t care, Gage does what he likes. But that doesn’t mean you have to take it.”

  Skye makes a polite noise to show that she’s listening. But inside she’s collapsing.

  “Does your mom know the things he says to you?” he asks.

  Skye shakes her head.

  “You have to tell her.”

  Skye knows he’s right. And she also knows it might not matter.

  Seven

  Benito

  Skye is strutting away from me. I give her a ten-yard head start before I begin to follow her.

  Just then, my phone vibrates with a text. Ahead of me, Skye is looking both ways, preparing to cross the two-lane country highway.

  The text is from Nelligan. I called for backup and still can’t find the suspect. I’m so sorry. She’s in the wind.

  Roger that, I reply. New development. I know who Raffie is, and I’m following her into central Colebury. Turns out it’s an old friend of mine. Stay tuned.

  Stay sharp, is his reply.

  Always.

  But I’m a liar. Tonight has already knocked me on my proverbial ass. Seeing Skye in the Gin Mill was like seeing a ghost. A six-foot tall, long-legged, girl-of-my-dreams ghost. Who also broke my heart.

  Our little chat in the booth was completely unsatisfying. And now she’s striding across the road. She makes good time on those long legs of hers—the same ones that marched through my teenage fantasies the whole year we were friends.

  Hell, she still walks through my fantasies. And I’d follow her no matter what. Case or no case. It’s not even a conscious choice. Wherever she goes is where I need to be.

  Apparently that’s uphill toward town. I follow about thirty paces behind her. Meanwhile, my foolish mind can’t help replaying the first time I ever laid eyes on Skylar.

  At eighteen I’d been on the cusp of my last year in high school, imagining that senior year would be a snore, and feeling more than ready to leave for the military and see the world.

  I’d been a dumb kid hanging out in the woods, thinking he had somewhere more important to
be. And then she’d appeared—as if a wood nymph dropped from heaven into the forest in front of me.

  It’s no exaggeration to say that I’d never seen such a beautiful girl—in my town, in my life.

  Stunned, I’d watched her approach, wondering if she was even real. She hadn’t seen me, but even before I opened my mouth to warn her not to trip over me, my heart spoke up.

  Mine, it had said. And I’d been pretty much gone for her from that day forward.

  But at that point in my life, I’d already known that love at first sight was a curse. Everyone in my family knew it. My mother had fallen for my father from across a crowded dance hall in Montpelier, before she ever knew his name or heard his voice.

  Nice story, right? Except that the man broke her heart on a weekly basis from that moment on. He gave her five children to feed and raise, and had been no help at all. He slept around, toyed with her affections, and then disappeared for months at a time. When I was fourteen he’d disappeared for good.

  And yet if you cornered my mom right this minute, she might tell you she still loves him.

  The heart is a fool, and love at first sight is a vicious bitch. She doesn't care who she burns or how much destruction is left in her wake. She will eat you up and spit you out.

  Ask me how I know.

  When Skye had come into my life, I’d wanted her from the first second. But we can’t always get what we want. I realized right away that Skye hadn’t needed a horny teenage boy trying to get under her skirt. She’d needed a friend and a protector

  It had been easy to be her friend, and harder to keep her safe. Ultimately I’d failed at both, and that’s how I lost her. I can’t fail again.

  But—Jesus Christ—the love of my life has the worst possible timing.

  Pacing up the hill, I continue to keep my distance from her, because I need a minute to formulate a plan. Not only is my mind shattered by her sudden appearance in town, my strategy is blown, too.

  I’m a hundred percent sure that it’s Jimmy Gage who’s flooding the local market with poorly cut drugs. Overdose deaths are suddenly up, because the man is careless.

  I just can’t prove it. Yet.

  I’ve spent the last several weeks gathering facts, but I don’t have enough evidence yet to proceed with a sting operation.

  On Wednesday morning, I’d gotten a break I hadn’t expected. I’d been hanging out at my sister’s coffee shop and Rayanne had been sitting at a table nearby. I’d overheard her convincing someone named “Raffie,” to drive a kayak to Vermont.

  Who goes kayaking in March?

  And my ears had really perked up when Rayanne had told Raffie that she didn’t want anyone to know she was coming. I hadn’t been able to tie Rayanne to her father’s dealings, and, frankly, I hadn’t wanted to because I knew what it was like to be painted with your father’s sins, but the conversation had been damn odd.

  Forty-eight hours ago I’d thought if I followed the lead—and Rayanne—I might crack the case wide open. But if Skye is Raffie?

  I don’t know what the hell to think.

  I hadn’t known Skye and Rayanne were close, or that they ever even spoke. I thought when Skye got out of Vermont she’d never looked back.

  The sidewalk begins to level out at the top of the hill, and we come into view of Colebury proper. Skye knows I’m walking behind her. I can see it in the determined set of her shoulders.

  She doesn’t want to talk to me, but she’s going to. Soon.

  I have to figure out how Skye is involved in her step-family’s drug business. I can’t imagine she knows what they’re up to. In the first place, I don’t buy that Skye turned to a life of crime. But even if she had, Jimmy Gage would be the very last man on Earth she’d help. She’d sooner run him down with her car then help him smuggle drugs across the border.

  I know this in my gut, but I’m still on the job. And if she’s not involved, she’s in danger.

  After our nice, brisk walk into Colebury, Skye skirts the perimeter of the town green. She takes her phone out of her pocket and peers at the screen, perhaps checking the address. It’s dark in spite of the street lights. And most of the old houses that line the square aren’t well lit. So it takes Skye a moment to get her bearings.

  I can tell when she’s figured it out. She straightens her spine and marches toward the smallest house on the block. It’s obviously a rental—it has that under-cared-for look. I break into a jog to close the distance between us, so I don’t miss any details.

  I stop at the foot of the front walk and watch as Skye climbs three wooden steps and then stops. Without a search warrant, I can’t follow her into that house. I can only observe. And what I see is Skylar going absolutely rigid as she stares at the front door.

  Fuck. It’s ajar. I can see light creeping out between the door and the jamb.

  “Raye?” Skye calls in a quavering voice. She gives the door a gentle push. More light escapes. I get a glimpse of the mayhem inside—furniture knocked over, books strewn across the floor.

  This house has been tossed.

  “Raye!” Her voice goes up as she takes a step inside.

  “Wait,” I call after her. “Hold up.”

  She turns, showing me wide, frightened eyes. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Then don’t go in there. Come here,” I say in my cop voice. Not that she knows it’s my cop voice.

  As much as I want to, I just can’t march into that house. That’s how good cases get blown, and that’s how detectives get fired. Anything important I spot inside will be a waste of evidence.

  On the other hand, if Skye walks into a dangerous situation while I’m standing out here on the sidewalk, I’ll never forgive myself. I take a step forward—

  She hops off the porch and comes to stand beside me, trembling.

  Old instincts kick in, and I wrap an arm around her and pull her to my chest. I pull out my radio. “Nelligan.”

  “Sir.”

  “Get over to 15 Elmhurst. I’m standing in front. Your ETA?”

  “Ninety seconds,” he says.

  “What was that?” Skye asks with wide eyes.

  “A police officer is on his way,” I say quietly. “Tell me where you think Rayanne is tonight.”

  “I…was meeting her,” she says in a choked voice. “But she took my rental car and drove off. She left me a phone and a note and told me to go find you.”

  “To find me?” That makes no sense. “Where is this note?”

  Rob Nelligan pulls up before Skye can answer. He hops out of the cruiser. “Evening, detective.”

  “Detective?” Skye says.

  Nelligan gives me a questioning look. “Sir?”

  I turn Skye to face the patrolman. “Rob is a Colebury policeman.” Skye shivers, and I realize too late that her only experience with the Colebury police was Gage and sexual harassment.

  Shit.

  “He’s one of the good ones,” I add quickly. “If you’re worried about Rayanne, you can ask him to do a welfare check. That means we’ll go inside the house and see if anyone is there.”

  “Okay,” she says quickly.

  “What’s your name, miss?” Nelligan asks.

  “Skylar Copeland.”

  “This is your place?” he asks, even though he knows it isn’t. Nelligan is a good cop.

  “No.” Skye shakes her head. “My stepsister’s. I was supposed to spend the weekend here, but then she ditched me. The front door is open, though, and it looks like someone trashed her place. Raye isn’t a slob.”

  “So you’re inviting us inside to look for her,” Nelligan clarifies.

  “Please,” Skye says. “I’m worried.”

  Nelligan trots up the walkway, identifies himself at the open doorway and then steps inside.

  I give him a thirty-second head start, then I walk Skye up to the front door.

  “You’re a cop, too?” she asks.

  “Yep. Different kind, though. I’ll explain later.” We step through the door.
Rayanne’s belongings are scattered everywhere. A gym bag is crumpled on the floor, its contents dumped out on the rug. A bamboo plant lies toppled on the coffee table, its water dripping everywhere.

  The house echoes with silence, except for Nelligan’s solitary footsteps upstairs. My gut says there’s nobody else here. Still, Nelligan does a thorough check—I hear him finish upstairs and then watch as he comes down again and walks through the little messy kitchen.

  “Nobody home,” he says. “I’ll check the cellar.”

  I follow Skye as she flips on all the lights and picks up a few items. I’m pretty happy not to find Rayanne’s dead body lying on the floor. Given the people she’s mixed up with, it’s a very real possibility.

  I’m not looking forward to explaining this to Skye. But my job isn’t always a good time.

  Eight

  November, Twelve Years Ago

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and Skye’s mother is preparing to go to work. She’s wearing her orange polyester waitress uniform.

  Skye is in a dark mood. Gage isn’t home yet, but Skye knows he’ll turn up. He always does. “Why do you have to work six to twelve? He's terrible to me.” She can hear how unattractive her whiny tone is. How shrill and desperate.

  Her mother is unmoved. “Maybe don’t sass people and you'd be easier to live with,” she grumbles, tugging the too-short uniform skirt down. Her mother’s life is a series of dead-end jobs and dead-end men. Skye is never, ever going to walk that same path. She will get through high school and work her way through college so she won’t come home at midnight smelling like hash browns and bacon.

  But some days just don’t feel survivable. “I don't say a word to him,” she tries. “He comes after me.” She’s afraid to bring up the time Jimmy Gage grabbed her ass. Her mother will assume she did something to attract his attention.

  And deep in her heart, Skye is a little worried that maybe somehow it’s her own fault. She might have given him the wrong signal. She won’t make that mistake again. Skye doesn’t ask her mother for new clothes anymore because wearing Rayanne’s old too-big sweatshirts seems safer.