Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “What’s going on? Get your hands off her!” She turns and hollers out into the hallway. “Security! Security!”

  “For the love of God, woman, she’s only crying!” Barney shouts at the nurse.

  Then like a whirlwind Kat bursts through the door, her eyes wild, her long, dark hair flying around her face. As soon as she spots me she lets out a loud string of curses. She barrels across the room, knocking aside Nurse Cuddleby, who shrieks in panic.

  Kat flings herself on me, hugging me so hard it hurts.

  “Tell me you’re okay,” she begs.

  I’m crying so hard I can’t answer.

  Barney says gently, “She’s fine, Kat. She’s just emotional. Under the circumstances, it’s to be expected.”

  Kat hugs me even harder and starts to cry, too. She wails, “Goddamn it you crazy bitch if you ever scare me like that again I’ll kick your fucking ass so bad you won’t be able to walk!”

  “Security!” hollers Nurse Cuddleby, hurrying from the room.

  Through my tears, I have to laugh.

  Kat pulls away and cradles my face in her hands. She whispers, “I’m so sorry, honey. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”

  “So everyone knows everything about . . . ?”

  For some reason, it’s suddenly impossible to say Brody’s name.

  Kat nods, swallowing hard. “He and Barney told us everything. And I don’t know if this is the wrong thing to say right now, but I think you should know that this situation is killing him. Not knowing if you were going to be okay, not knowing if you would live to hear what really happened, or if you did, if you’d ever forgive him . . . he’s a total wreck. He won’t eat. He barely speaks. He hasn’t changed his clothes or showered in five days.”

  Her voice drops. “He was the first one on the scene, honey, when you went over that cliff in Malibu. He pulled you out of a wreck again. He thought he’d lost you again. Can you imagine? I’ve never seen anyone in so much pain. I’m worried . . .” She bites her lip. “Honestly I’m worried he might do something to hurt himself.”

  My stomach turns over. I don’t know what I expected to hear, but it definitely wasn’t that.

  Barney says, “He’ll be all right. I’ll talk to him. Once he knows I’ve seen you, that you’re gonna be okay—”

  Kat says, “You can’t talk to him. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” I repeat. “Where?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Right after Barney left the waiting room, Brody just got up from the chair he’s been in all week and walked out without a word. Even when I called his name he just kept walking like a zombie without looking back.”

  Barney lets out a long, low sigh. “Fuck.”

  When Kat and I look at him, he says with quiet resignation, “I think I know where he went.”

  BRODY

  I was a fool to believe there could ever be redemption for someone like me. No amount of good deeds can erase the things I’m guilty of. No force in this world can wash away my sins.

  Not even love.

  With a crowd of reporters and cameramen at my back, I slowly walk up the wide stone steps of the Santa Monica police station, pull open the glass door, and go inside.

  GRACE

  Four days after I’m released from the hospital, television news vans are still parked on the street outside Nico and Kat’s house, where I’ve been staying.

  “Vultures,” mutters Kat as we drive past in Nico’s big Escalade, turning our faces away from the blistering eruption of camera flashes our departure provokes.

  Sitting in the front passenger seat beside Barney, who’s driving, Nico says, “You gotta admit we’ve given them plenty of interesting stories to report on over the last couple of years.”

  Next to me, Kat reaches over, grasps my hand, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “We certainly have,” she murmurs, looking at me.

  Yes, I think sadly. We certainly have.

  After that, we’re all quiet until we’re past the news vans and cameramen jostling each other for a closer position and shouting questions at the blacked-out windows as we go by. Once we reach the freeway and are speeding away from the Hollywood Hills toward the lavender dusk of Santa Monica, Kat asks, “You sure about this?”

  “I’m sure,” I answer firmly.

  I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life. Locked up in the guest bedroom at Kat’s, I’ve spent the last four days pacing, thinking, and agonizing over the unbelievable position I’m in, and I finally came to the conclusion that this is the right thing to do.

  As if my heart would give me a choice, anyway.

  It takes thirty minutes to arrive in Santa Monica, another ten to get through the heavy rush hour traffic on the streets. Then we’re parked in an underground parking garage, and Kat is squeezing my hand once again.

  “Okay, sweetie,” she says. “We’re here.”

  I meet Barney’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He asks, “You want us to come in with you?”

  “No.” I pull my coat a little tighter around my shoulders. “I need to do this alone. But it shouldn’t take long. I’ll text you as soon as I’m done, okay?”

  Nico murmurs, “Good luck,” and Barney echoes it. Kat leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Love you, Gracie,” she whispers fiercely into my ear.

  “I know,” I say, my voice cracking. “And you’re the best friend anyone could ever have.”

  Before I ruin my mascara, I open the car door and step out. I take a deep breath, lift my chin, square my shoulders, and smooth a hand over my hair.

  Then I take the parking elevator up to the main floor and enter the police station.

  The detective who shakes my hand is tall and rangy, with bushy brown eyebrows and a moustache to match. He wears cowboy boots with his conservative dark suit and a bolo tie made from a chunk of real turquoise, and doesn’t smile when we’re introduced.

  I instantly like him.

  “Detective MacAllister,” he says in a twangy tenor, nodding at me. “But you can call me Mac. Have a seat.”

  He waves at the pair of battered leather chairs in front of his desk, which is a mess, covered in file folders bursting with papers. A small, bronze longhorn steer acts as a paperweight atop one teetering stack, a black glass armadillo perches on another.

  “What part of Texas are you from?” I ask, settling into a chair.

  “San Antonio. Best city in the world if you like ’em flat and hot, but the food is for shit.”

  “That’s quite the recommendation. I’ll be sure to never go.”

  Mac sits, fishes a pack of gum that looks like it’s been run over from his top drawer, and holds the pack out to me.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” He unwraps three pieces from their silver wrappers, pops them into his mouth, starts to chew, balls up the wrappers, and, without looking, tosses them over his shoulder into a trash can behind him. Then he leans back in his big captain’s chair with his hands folded over his stomach and looks at me.

  Really looks at me.

  “Thanks for comin’ in,” he says.

  “Of course.”

  Working the gum between his molars, he looks at me some more, his gaze frank and assessing. I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes. Accustomed to enduring long silences between people, I sit patiently and wait for him to begin.

  Abruptly, he asks, “You know how I can tell when a man’s tellin’ the truth?”

  “Because he looks you square in the eye and doesn’t fidget, equivocate, or stumble over his words when he answers.”

  Mac stops chewing momentarily, and then starts up again, nodding. “Yep, he said you were smart.”

  He’s talking about Brody. Heat saturates my cheeks. “That’s not exactly rarefied knowledge.”

  “Rarefied?” Mac chuckles again.

  “I’m happy to know I amuse you,” I say, my stomach tightening, “but I didn’t come here to talk abo
ut myself.”

  The phone on Mac’s desk rings. He answers it while looking at me. “Yep.” Several moments go by as he listens, and then he says, “Yep,” again and hangs up.

  “Detective MacAllister—”

  “We’re not charging him,” he interrupts, sounding a little tired. “And I told you to call me Mac.”

  I feel as if I’ve been kicked off the edge of a tall building. It’s several seconds before I can speak again. “You’re . . . not . . .”

  “When was the last time you talked to Mr. Scott, Miss Stanton?”

  “Call me Grace. And not since the day of the accident. He’s been out of contact with everyone,” I answer unevenly, reeling from the news.

  I’ve been so certain the police would charge Brody with hit-and-run, or aiding and abetting, or felony something or other, that I can hardly believe my ears.

  “Well, Grace, since Mr. Scott came in to see me five days ago and insisted he should be arrested for accessory to murder, I’ve talked to a lot of folks. Folks who know his family, folks who knew his father, folks on the Topeka police force, folks at Rennett Car Rental who worked there thirteen years ago . . . even Mr. Rennett himself. Who, it bears mentioning, is doing time in a federal pen in Kansas for some unrelated nasty business he was involved in.”

  My heart is going a million miles an hour, like a crazy hummingbird flying around inside my chest.

  Mac continues, his tone friendly. Casual. As if the world itself hasn’t stopped spinning on its axis and is standing still in space.

  “Under the laws of the State of California, Mr. Scott might have been prosecuted for something called accessory after the fact, which basically means there was no criminal intent but the individual somehow assisted a perpetrator in the commission of a felony—which, as you probably know, a hit-and-run resulting in death most definitely is—but because he was a minor, was under duress to leave the scene by physical force from his father, and he reported the crime, accessory after the fact doesn’t apply in this case.”

  He leans back in his chair again. “In addition, his total lack of a criminal record and the fact that he’s given millions to Mothers Against Drunk Driving in the past decade has led the DA to conclude this is an untriable case. There’s not a jury in the world that would put him behind bars.”

  As I sit stunned and speechless, Mac chews for a few beats, thoughtfully smooths the ends of his moustache with his fingers, and then says, “Quite frankly, it’s not only the laws of the State of California that don’t apply here. The laws of reason, probability, and sheer dumb luck don’t, either. I’ve been in law enforcement a long, long time, and I’ve never heard of nothin’ like this.”

  He shakes his head. “You two give ‘star-crossed lovers’ a whole new meanin’. I gotta say, Romeo and Juliet are lookin’ pretty tame in comparison.”

  Overwhelmed, I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, and concentrate on breathing.

  Mac leans over his desk, resting his elbows on the blotter. “For what it’s worth, my experience with people bein’ what it is, I think he’s a good man. I can understand why you’d hate him and want him to pay for what happened, but tryin’ to get him prosecuted just isn’t gonna—”

  “No!” I say, so loudly Mac blinks. “I don’t want him prosecuted. I just wanted to tell you my side of it, so you wouldn’t file charges against him. And I don’t hate him. I could never hate him. I . . . I . . .”

  Love him, my heart whispers.

  Heat flashes over me in a wave.

  I love him.

  Even though it’s impossible. Even though none of it makes sense and if you tried to tell the tale to a stranger they’d laugh you right out of the room.

  I love him, and it’s the only really real thing there is.

  Tears gathering in my eyes, I stand abruptly. “Thank you, Mac,” I say. “I have to go.”

  He smiles at me. “All right, then. You take care now, Grace. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never meet again.”

  “You and me both,” I say, and bolt from the room.

  “Can’t you drive any faster, Barney?” I plead.

  He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Not safely, no.”

  Fuck safety! I want to scream, but don’t. In the backseat of the Escalade, Kat beside me gripping my hand, I bite my tongue and watch Pacific Coast Highway fly by in smears of color and darkness. Instead of screaming, I start to pray.

  God, if you’re listening, I just want to tell you that if Brody isn’t okay when we get to his house, I will find a way to make you pay.

  So it’s more of a threat than a prayer, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.

  Nico hangs up his cell phone and from the front passenger seat looks over his shoulder at me. “He’s still not answering his cell.”

  Kat whispers, “Oh no.”

  “Call the house,” I suggest, my panic growing.

  “I did. Got the machine. Same as I’ve been gettin’ every time I’ve tried to call for the last few days.”

  “Shit.” Dread is growing inside my stomach like a nest of tumors. The closer we get to Brody’s house, the worse it feels.

  I won’t allow myself to dwell on all the what-ifs and worst case scenarios my mind keeps thrusting at me in lurid detail, or on the memory of Kat saying she was worried Brody would do something to hurt himself. He’s going to be okay when we get to his house. He’s just avoiding the paparazzi, that’s all. He’s lying low. The story that his father, the late senator from Kansas, caused and then covered up the car crash that killed two people thirteen years ago who, in a strange twist of fate, happened to be the parents of his new girlfriend, a fact which neither of us knew, is causing a media sensation.

  Add to that my amnesia and identity change and that Brody tried to have himself arrested as an accessory to murder, and you’ve got the makings of a pulp journalist’s wet dream.

  Trying to distract me, Kat says, “You’re going to sue the hospital for breach of privacy, right? Those fuckers need to pay for leaking information to the press!”

  “Coulda been someone at the police station, too,” says Barney. “I know TMZ pays a lot of money for a scoop on this kind of story.”

  It doesn’t matter to me who leaked the story. It’s out, and it’s out of my control. The only thing that matters now is Brody.

  Who hasn’t been seen or heard from in days.

  Romeo and Juliet are lookin’ pretty tame in comparison, Mac had ominously said.

  And we all know what happened to them in the end.

  “Barney, please. Go faster,” I whisper, but almost as soon as I say it we’re pulling up to the large iron gate that leads to Brody’s house.

  “God, they’re everywhere!” groans Kat.

  Four white news vans are illegally parked on PCH right outside the gate. When Barney rolls down his window to punch the security code into the black box on a stand on the side of the driveway, half a dozen guys with cameras rush him, shouting questions into his face.

  “Eat a bag of dicks!” he growls.

  The gate swings open and we pull through.

  I’m out of the car before it even comes to a complete stop. I sprint toward the front door, my heart thundering inside my chest. Without ringing the bell or knocking, I throw the door open and run inside. All the lights are on. Wild hope that someone’s home surges through me.

  “Brody!” I call, running into the kitchen. “Magda! Is anyone home? Hello!”

  Magda appears suddenly from the doorway to the garage. I run to her and give her a hug. Breathless, I ask, “Where is he? Is he home? Is he okay?”

  She reaches up and sadly pats my cheek. “Sí. Y no.”

  Yes and no. Oh God.

  He’s not okay.

  Panic claws its way up my throat.

  “Tell me where he is, Magda, please,” I beg, frantic.

  She says, “He didn’t know. He didn’t know it was you, cariño.”

  Exaspe
rated, I shout, “I know! Please, just tell me where he is!”

  “In the guest house,” she answers, her eyes shining. “With all of your things. He locked himself in there days ago. I tried to bring him food and he told me to go away. He wouldn’t even open the door for me.”

  My stomach drops like a brick. Without another word, I turn away from Magda and bolt.

  I pass Barney, Nico, and Kat just coming in the door. I don’t answer when they call out to me, I just sprint through the yard toward the guest house as fast as my legs will take me. The trees and garden are crowned by moonlight, the air is thick with the sound of the restless ocean and redolent with the smell of night-blooming jasmine. Ghostly fingers of fog creep low through the grass, clinging to my feet as I run.

  When I reach the front door of the guest house, it’s locked.

  With shaking fingers, terrified of what I’ll find when I go inside, I withdraw the key from the pocket of my coat. Fumbling and cursing, I insert it into the lock. The handle turns. I throw the door open and run inside, shouting Brody’s name.

  Everything is dark. My voice echoes eerily throughout the silent house.

  “Brody! Brody, where are you?”

  I run through the living room, dining room, and kitchen, but he’s not there. When I run toward the master bedroom, I glimpse light spilling out from under the closed door.

  My heart stops. Time seems to slip into slow motion. I fly down the hallway as if in a dream, my blood pumping through my veins like wildfire.

  I throw open the bedroom door.

  There he is, sitting on the edge of the mattress, with his elbows propped on his knees and his head hanging down. He’s barefoot and bare chested, wearing only an old, faded pair of blue jeans. The room is dim, lit only by the candles guttering on the dresser. On the bed beside him is my memory book, the album filled with pictures he took of the two of us, open to the first page.

  On the nightstand next to the bed is an empty water glass.

  In his hand is an empty bottle of pills.

  I fly to him, knock the bottle from his hands, and cry out, “What have you done?”

  His head lifts. His cheeks are wet. He blinks at me slowly, as if not believing his eyes, and then whispers raggedly, “Grace?”