Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  But you don’t care, I remind myself. It’s not your family.

  Right.

  In Benito’s kitchen, I discover that he does not own a lot of bakeware. But there’s a casserole dish that will suit my needs. I whip my cream and sugar together with a little vanilla. This takes some effort because Benito doesn’t have an electric mixer.

  See? This place isn’t so great. I’m just going to keep telling myself that.

  I blend in the mascarpone cheese and set the whole creamy mixture. Then comes my favorite part—dipping each ladyfinger in espresso, and filling the bottom of the dish with a layer of cookie goodness. I spoon the cream on top, and the sweet scent of it fills me with longing.

  Hang in there, I coach myself. Let’s not get sentimental over something that’s really too fattening. Besides—tomorrow I’ll be back at Fairway, stocking up on healthy groceries in New York. All by myself.

  Yikes. I’m practically wallowing now. It’s not a good look on a girl.

  After I carefully arrange the layers, there’s nothing left to do but shake fine cocoa powder over the top in a tidy layer. I’ve made a beautiful dessert that’s meant to be shared among friends. And maybe it will. But not with me.

  Tucking the dish into the freezer to chill, I start packing all my belongings. Not that it takes very long to remove all my makeup from Benito’s bathroom and my limited supply of clothing from his room.

  I take a quick glance around, looking for anything I might have left. But it looks like I was never here at all. And I don’t allow my gaze to linger on the bed. That way is darkness. Sleeping next to Benito was all I’d ever wanted. The sex had been great, but the best part had been hearing his even breathing as he’d slept and feeling the heat of his body seep into mine.

  It had been my first time sleeping beside a man, and the way I’m feeling right now, it might be my last.

  My last act in Benito’s apartment is to write him a note.

  Dear Benny,

  I have to go. I know I’m leaving without a proper goodbye again. But it’s best for everyone if I just slip out of town. I’ve got work to do, and so do you.

  Seeing you again has been

  It’s a struggle to finish that sentence. I think about it for a long time. How nice am I willing to be? How honest?

  Amazing, I write eventually. And it’s true. But it’s still not enough to make me face down all the ways that he and I are different. I can’t linger in his aura and hope that eventually his definition of I love you will match up with mine.

  My life is so much different than yours, and I have to get back to it.

  I can’t stop the platitudes from flowing onto the page. Honestly, it gives me pause that I’m having so much trouble explaining why I’m so upset with him. I’m a flipping writer, for flip’s sake.

  It’s crazy, but I actually walk back to the bedroom and stand in the doorway. And I make myself picture Jill in that bed with Benito. And it hurts just as much as I thought it would.

  I’m glad he can’t see inside my head right now, because it’s full of ugly, jealous thoughts. Maybe other women aren’t quite this crazy. It’s not like I assumed Benito was a virgin. But why did it have to be her? I thought I was so much older and wiser than my sixteen-year-old self. But how many times can I repeat the same mistakes?

  I turn away from that bed. I get my bag, and my tiramisu in Benny’s dish. I cover it with plastic wrap and prepare to head out.

  My last act is to leave that I Love Vermont keychain next to the note I left him.

  I don’t love Vermont. That hasn’t changed.

  The door clicks with finality as I close it behind me. And nobody sees me climb into the car and drive away.

  Ten minutes later I’m standing in the kitchen of Rayanne’s yoga boyfriend’s squalid little house across from the high school running track. It smells like incense and cooked beans.

  “Where is he?” I whisper over the cup of tea that Rayanne has poured for me. “Isn’t he going to come out and say hello?”

  She shakes her head. Rayanne looks really tired. But I guess that’s what happens when you accidentally become a conduit of fentanyl for drug dealers. She’s thin—maybe from stress or maybe from all that yoga—and looks older than her thirty years. “He’s embarrassed to throw me out. He’s worried about karma.” She rolls her eyes. “Men, Raffie. They’re all children.”

  I bob my head in agreement, even though this isn’t my area of expertise. “Why do you keep finding new ones, then?” Given the way I feel right now, I doubt I’ll date anyone again. But Rayanne keeps going for it. “I mean, first Sparks and now yoga guy?”

  “I make poor life choices. But, in my defense, Sparks has some killer tats, and Yoga Guy is very bendy.”

  “But still.” Now I understand that sex can be pretty great. Thanks Benito. But it’s still not worth the heartache. “Here.” I reach into my purse and pull out the thousand dollars that I was able to withdraw at the ATM on my way here.

  “Thank you,” she says in a hushed voice. “I hope this doesn’t hurt you too badly.”

  “It’ll put a pretty big dent in my designer-cosmetics budget,” I admit. “But as long as I don’t get fired, it’ll work out.” And I’m not as worried about losing my job as I used to be. It’s dawning on me that McCracken is too lazy to find a replacement for me. And also that I’d be difficult to replace. Not that I’m brilliant—I’m just willing to put up with a lot.

  For now. It’s dawning on me that maybe it doesn’t have to be that way. That Burlington studio was eye-opening for me. Maybe I would like to work in a smaller market where the boss appreciated me, instead of a major market where everyone was trying to eat each other alive.

  “You’ve got that faraway look in your eye,” Rayanne says. “Everything okay?”

  “It will be,” I say slowly. “Tonight I’m going home to New York. What if we drove out together?”

  She gives her head a sad shake. “I gave you enough trouble already. How are you going to get home?”

  “I have a rental, too. I’ll call and ask them if I can return it in New York.” I sip my tea, and Rayanne is quiet. And I wonder when I’ll see her again. “You’ll call me, won’t you? When you land somewhere?”

  “Yeah. I promise. I’m not taking any phones, though. I don’t know enough about who can track what these days. I don’t want them with me.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  She gives me an eye roll. “Don’t worry, Raffie. I always land on my feet. I left Vermont when I was eighteen with fifty dollars in my pocket. I spent ten years as a nomad. I can do it again.”

  “Why are we like this?” I ask. “Both of us alone?” I’m not a nomad, but I’m as skittish as she is in so many ways.

  “Daddy issues and mommy issues,” she says immediately. “We’ve got the full menu. It’s hard to trust people when you’ve had parents like ours. I mean—I didn’t have a mother, and now I’m turning into yours.”

  “Don’t say that!” I yelp. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  “Fine. Unlike your mother, I learn from my mistakes. No more relying on men.”

  “That seems like a fine plan.” I only spent five days relying on a man, but that seems like plenty. “I don’t know if I got closure or not, Raye. But it’s time to go home.”

  “I won’t even ask you if he was good in the sack. Because we can’t rely on that to see us through.”

  “Right,” I say. Although sexytimes aren’t even the best thing about Benito. It’s when he looks into my eyes with his big brown ones and smiles like I matter to him.

  If only it were true.

  She gives me a pat on the butt. “Go on, then. Point your car toward New York. You look a little wistful. Blast some music. Plot out your next big story.”

  “I don’t have a next big story. You promised me one.”

  “Sorry.” She sighs. “I thought I could hand you and Benito photos of a big drug deal going down. But the joke—as usual—was on m
e. And it’s too dangerous for both of us to keep trying. Go home. You won’t have me to complicate your life for a while. Be grateful.”

  I’m not, though. “Okay. I have to make one stop first. I owe Mrs. Rossi a tiramisu.”

  “What? You and your unbreakable promises. We should just eat it. Besides, what about our vow never to set foot in a trailer park again?”

  She has a point about that. “If I’m only there for one minute, it doesn’t count.”

  “Take care of yourself, you hear me?” Rayanne leans in for a fierce hug.

  I wrap my arms around her skinny body and fight tears in the corners of my eyes. “You too.”

  She sniffs. “Go now. I’ll be ten minutes behind you.”

  And so I do it. I go outside again where darkness is falling. I get back into the rental car, which smells pleasantly of espresso and cocoa. And I head toward the one place I thought I’d never return.

  Thirty-Five

  Benito

  No motorcycle repair shop needs so many cameras. But this one has six. That’s a pretty good clue that they’re not just shining fenders in there. The second clue is the black Taurus with the Smokey’s sticker parked outside for the last seven hours.

  Surveilling this place is unfortunately difficult. It’s on a wooded lot with a long driveway. Very little of the building is visible from the two-lane road. And if we parked a vehicle out there, it would be as good as posting a sign reading: “We’re here to surveil you.”

  As a result, I’m currently propped in a low fork of an old tree. My ass is numb, and my fingers are getting there. Another officer is waiting behind a nearby tree, similarly uncomfortable. And a third one sits on a fire tower a couple hundred yards away, with a camera.

  Furthermore, I’ve got the Vermont State Police tactical unit standing by, because Sparks’s arrest is high risk. But no pressure.

  On the plus side, I’ve got a warrant for one John Oscar Sparks burning a hole in my pocket. I could use it right now. But first we need to learn what he’s doing in that building. We’ve never known Sparks to hole up with a motorcycle club before. And if I’m very, very lucky, there’s a special reason he’s there.

  “Unfamiliar vehicle entering the Pine View trailer park.” This bit of information is delivered into my earpiece by Nelligan, who’s sitting at the entrance to Pine View, watching for any activity from Gage. Tonight we’re watching everyone.

  I touch the microphone button. “Copy.”

  “Silver RAV4 with Connecticut plates. The driver is your friend Skylar.”

  My pulse rate doubles. Because that makes no sense. “Passengers?” I ask quietly. Perhaps Rayanne is visiting her father? Strange timing, though. And I can’t imagine Skye would willingly go anywhere near Gage.

  “No visible passengers,” Nelligan says. “Driver only.”

  Shit. I could ask Nelligan to follow her up there and watch. But if Gage is at home, he’ll see the officer. Nelligan’s job is to watch for Gage leaving Pine View via the only exit road. Not to show his face and tip off Gage that we’re watching.

  I don’t know what to do.

  And I don’t have any time to decide, because I hear motorcycles approaching.

  “Two bikes,” says our officer in the fire tower. “White males. No visible weapons, but plenty of storage.”

  “Copy that.”

  Two dudes just stopping by for a little bike repair at six p.m. In the dark. That would be weird, but not illegal. Although the tingling at the back of my skull says otherwise.

  The guys roll up the long drive and then turn their bikes around in the gravel circle in front of the shop. They park facing outwards. That’s what I’d do if I thought I might have to make a sudden getaway.

  “Can’t read the plates,” my earpiece says.

  And I can’t either. It’s dark, and they’re facing the wrong way now.

  The bikers dismount without removing their helmets or goggles. There’s no way I can ID their faces. One of them unzips a saddle bag and pulls out a large shipping envelope and tucks it under his arm.

  This is the fun of twenty-first century narcotics police work. There’s no aircraft full of pot and no tractor trailer full of coke. Pure fentanyl is so strong that you can put enough of it in an old FedEx envelope to kill the population of a medium-sized city.

  The door to the bike shop opens as they approach. A yellow rectangle of light shines out, and Sparks is silhouetted in the door before the two bikers disappear inside.

  The door shuts.

  I listen to the thump of my heart and breathe. I feel it in my gut that those guys are making a drop. That bulky envelope will not turn out to be full of documents. This is really it.

  “Tactical team to positions,” I whisper. “We’re going to wait until Gage leaves with the drop. The couriers are a lower priority.”

  “Copy,” my boss says from a mile away. “We’ll take the bikes on the highway.”

  The door opens again not five minutes later. Nobody even breathes as the bikers come out, each of them with a canvas bag. Money takes up more space than fentanyl. They zip their spoils into the saddle bags, start the bikes and drive back toward the road.

  A long minute ticks by.

  “Tactical unit in position,” someone says into my ear.

  “Copy. Waiting on the suspect.” We don’t know his schedule. More patience is required. I can’t stamp my feet, so I squeeze my cold toes inside my boots as I watch the door. As the minutes tick by, I try to relax my eyes.

  Then the lights flip off inside the building.

  “Stand by,” I murmur to my team.

  The door opens, and two men come out. Sparks and a bearded guy I haven’t seen before.

  “Two suspects,” says the officer on the fire tower. I’m surprised he can make them out in this light.

  I make myself wait another moment, until Sparks has bleeped the locks on the black car, and the bearded guy is locking his shop door. “Police! Hands in the air!” I shout as I step toward them.

  The two men bolt in opposite directions, and I take off running after Sparks. The first thing he does is drop the envelope. I actually have to leap over it in pursuit.

  Sparks reaches the tree line before I do. So I snap on my headlamp to follow him. Behind me somewhere, the tactical vehicle accelerates up the drive and then brakes hard. But in their armored vehicle, they’re prepared for an armed standoff, not a foot race.

  I’m gaining on Sparks because I have a better visual. With my light on his back he’s literally running into his own shadow. And now there’s more of us. I see more headlamps illuminating the edge of woods.

  Sparks dives behind a fallen log, and I hear him fumble for what is inevitably a weapon. “Gun!” I yell as I cover my headlamp and duck behind a tree. It’s not really wide enough, but it’s all I’ve got.

  He fires three times, and only one of them comes close to me. But it buys Sparks a moment. The next sound I hear is him crashing farther into the woods. “He’s on the move.”

  One of the tactical guys turns on a flood lamp. The tree trunks break up the light into slices, but it’s enough to see Sparks’s form crashing through the woods ahead and to the left. I can feel the tactical team fanning out as I move forward.

  And then? Sparks trips and goes down. His weapon discharges again.

  “FREEZE! Drop your weapon!” the nearest tactical guy calls as they close in.

  I arrive at Sparks’s side five seconds later. But I’m not the first. One officer is already bagging his gun and the other applies a nice tight pair of plastic restraints to Sparks’s wrists.

  My earpiece is full of instructions my boss is dishing out. “Take care—look for any signs of tearing on the packet. If it’s damaged, wait for assistance. And wear a mask and gloves when you touch it.” We don’t need any of our officers OD’ing on a stray microgram of fentanyl. “Pick up the bikers. What’s your ETA? Nelligan, status update at Pine View.”

  “Quiet,” he says. “Nobody l
eaving or arriving. I got a visual of Skylar Copeland talking to a neighbor girl.”

  I don’t understand that at all. “Let’s pick up Gage,” I chime in. I can’t stand the idea of Skylar near his home.

  “No, I want to see where he goes when he’s shitting himself,” my boss says. “There’s more evidence to find,” he says. “Speaking of which, what’s in the bike shop?”

  “Bikes,” someone reports. “No cutting agents or bags. Just greasy tools.”

  Shit.

  My night is far from over. And what the hell is Skye up to?

  Thirty-Six

  Skylar

  Two seconds after my rental car climbs the winding road into Pine View, I know that I’ve made a miscalculation.

  The Rossis’ trailer is not the Rossis’ trailer anymore. It can’t be. Where Mrs. Rossi had once hung lace curtains in the window, there are now broken blinds slanting sadly behind the dirty glass.

  Come to think of it, neither Benito nor his mom had said she still lived in the same spot. I’d just assumed it, and now I’m feeling pretty stupid. I’d come to my least favorite place in the whole world for nothing.

  My headlights illuminate Gage’s trailer next. I notice thick curtains where there never were curtains before. Maybe he’s gone, too? I wonder if he’s been alone all these years. I hope so. I hate to think that there’s a string of girls like me who took his abuse.

  I pull the car around to the other side of oval, where a teenage girl is checking her mailbox. She gives my rental car an anxious look. Then her eyes flick toward Gage’s place.

  And I know what her look means. He still lives there. And she’s afraid of him.

  Furthermore, I know this girl.

  I roll down the window so she can see my face. “Hi,” I say softly. “Misty? I’m Skylar. I used to babysit here when you were four.”

  She cocks her head to the side and studies me. “Skye! I remember. You used to let me chew gum.”