by J W Becton
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s been my philosophy. Hey, why don’t you pick what we’re having for dinner? You deserve it.”
I hoped she’d choose somewhere dark.
Without hesitation, Helena said, “Downtown Pizza. Meet me in the driveway in ten. I’m starved.”
I disconnected, thinking there was no way ten minutes would cut it, not if I wanted to hide my black eye. I pulled open my makeup drawer and rummaged around until I found a dried-up container of liquid concealer, which I tossed in the trash, opting for a tub of loose powder instead. I opened the lid, spilling some on the sink.
As I brushed concealer on the most discolored sections of skin, my mind drifted back to Helena’s new job at the US attorney’s office. She said I had inspired her, and the incongruity of that fact with the way I viewed my professional life struck me hard.
Here I was feeling like a punching bag after a day at work, and Helena was crediting me as her inspiration for choosing a new career path.
Sure, my job at the DOI had become far more interesting than I had originally anticipated. I had made some huge busts and been in the news, and today’s operation, though it went a bit sideways, was successful overall. Neither Vincent nor I were recognized as cops, and the runners had ushered us right into their game. As a result, we had learned that we could be onto one of the largest fraud rings Georgia had ever seen.
As I swiped more powder on my skin, I wondered why no one ever identified me as a law enforcement officer. What did that mean? What did it say about me?
What if criminals saw me as a good victim, an easy mark?
Just as the rapist had viewed Tricia.
I leaned back from the mirror and considered my reflection from a wider perspective, trying to be objective. Did I fit the victim profile? When people looked at me, did they see what I saw in my sister: submissiveness, low self-esteem, and the need to be protected?
I shuddered at the idea.
For my entire career in law enforcement, I had used my un-coplike appearance to my benefit. I could approach suspects, and I could often get more information out of interrogations because I didn’t look threatening. But what if, in reality, I looked like another hapless victim?
I blinked at my reflection. Maybe now, with my face aching and swollen, was not the time to contemplate the matter.
Besides, Hels was waiting.
Deciding I’d done the best I could to conceal my black eye—yellow powder on top of purple bruising resulted in a color undefinable on the rainbow spectrum—I screwed the top back on the powder and pushed away from the counter.
A nice dinner out with my best friend and a little girl talk: that was all I needed.
Helena left her family at home with their dinners—leftovers for Tim and gourmet toddler cuisine for Violet—in front of an episode of the Muppet Show, and she and I made our way to Downtown Pizza, a Mercer staple establishment where the lighting was mercifully dim, the atmosphere was raucous, and the pizza fairly floated in cheesy goodness. We plunked down in a semi-quiet booth and ordered an Ultimate Downtown Pizza, which boasted of almost every topping known to man.
While we waited for our order to arrive, Helena plucked a bread stick from the basket on the table between us and then raised an eyebrow at me.
“Okay,” she said, almond-shaped eyes playful, “I’ve let you get away long enough without explaining what happened to your eye. Either you’ve gotten hit in the face or you seriously need a lesson on how to apply eye shadow. I mean, I know a smoky eye is all the rage, but I think you’ve gone overboard, hon.”
I laughed, feeling only slightly envious of Helena’s flawless chocolaty skin and chic eye makeup. Even with a young child, she always managed to look polished, every detail from her close-cropped pixie cut to her sexy winter boots in perfect order. I couldn’t even go to work without some sort of beauty or clothing disaster, and as usual, tonight I’d opted for comfort over style.
Over the din in the background, which grew even louder when a group from the local college bounded in, I explained about the staged accident and the unexpected air bag deployment.
And as it often happens when in the company of dear friends, the trials of the day came into a better perspective. They transformed from stressful events to light-hearted conversation topics, and by the time I got to the part in the story when I rushed to check on Vincent, my sides hurt from laughing.
“Wait,” Helena said after putting down her half-eaten bread stick and taking a sip of red wine. “Vincent’s back at work?”
“Yeah,” I said, casually stirring my water with a straw.
“And he’s still hot, right?” she asked, eyebrows raised again.
I gave her a wry look, but my mind immediately reverted to the moment when I ran into Vincent in the DOI hallway.
“I’ll take that as a ‘hell, yes!’” Helena said. “So are you two going to start dating or what?”
I gave her a noncommittal shrug. This was quickly becoming one of Helena’s favorite questions, and if our relationship had been up to her, she would have Vincent and me engaged by now.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Oh, my God! Did the phrase ‘It’s complicated’ just escape your lips? Please,” Helena huffed. “It isn’t complicated. People always say that when they want to avoid the truth.”
I could feel Hels going into courtroom mode, so I responded in kind.
“Oh, is that the case, Counselor?” I asked, partially amused and partially afraid of her coming response. “What truth am I trying to avoid?”
“You two are attracted to each other,” she stated, her flat tone brooking no argument. “Isn’t that true?”
Yup, she was in full-courtroom mode, and like any good lawyer, she already knew the answer to her questions. No point in lying. Besides, she was my best friend.
“Yes, I’m attracted to him,” I said.
“And…?”
“He seems to feel the same.”
Helena sat up straighter.
“Oh? Has something happened that I need to know about?”
“Nothing really happened, but I just get the feeling that whatever has been simmering just under the surface between me and Vincent isn’t going to stay at a simmer much longer.”
“Set to boil over, huh?” she asked, smirking. “I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah, I guess. But it’s such an awkward time for me, and I don’t want to mess anything up. I always figured that I’d deal with Tricia’s issue first, and then I could get the rest of my life in order, starting with my work and then finding a man.”
I shook my head. I’d always claimed not to be obsessed with vengeance, but hearing my priorities spoken aloud made me wonder if maybe I was.
Just a little.
“I know, I know,” I added quickly in what I hoped was a preemptive tone. “I’ve always said that I didn’t intend to put my whole life on hold for Tricia, but now that we’re so close to ending the whole sad saga, I don’t want anything to get in the way.”
I realized how melodramatic I sounded and expected Helena to call me on it, but instead she took the conversation in a completely different direction.
“Any word on Clayton Slidell?” she asked, her demeanor and tone turning serious and businesslike.
Helena knew about Slidell, but not about my less-than-legal actions to find him. In fact, using the power that came with her position at the US Attorney’s office, she had been the major force responsible for working the plea deal that had extracted the last bit of information I needed.
She scooted forward on her seat.
“Okay, that ominous silence can’t be good,” she said, “Tell me.”
“Tripp called today. Orr County PD can’t find Slidell, but Tripp had the neighborhood canvassed, and he found another name. A woman. Slidell’s girlfriend, we think.”
“So they’ll question her?”
“Once they locate her, yes. She and Slidell moved out of their rental house, and we haven’t f
ound either of them yet. But when we do…”
“You can finally get out of your self-imposed nunnery,” Helena supplied.
I blushed under her knowing gaze. Why did the conversation keep coming back to my love life?
“I don’t know,” I said, looking away briefly.
Helena rolled her eyes and said, “For such a smart woman, you can be a real idiot sometimes.”
I snorted. “Wow, thanks for the encouragement.”
“You want encouragement? First you have to sit through the truth-telling. And the truth is that as worthy as the search for your sister’s rapist is, you’re using it as an excuse not to live.”
I couldn’t deny the truth of what she said, so I decided to remain silent. Plead the Fifth and all.
Helena waved what was left of her bread stick at me. “Look, Jules, you’re my best friend, and I say this out of real love. I commend you for pursuing justice for Tricia, but girl, if you don’t move on, move forward, then you’re going to die. Metaphorically speaking.”
“I’m going to die. Metaphorically speaking,” I repeated, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
“Yeah, you know, most people don’t literally risk their lives like you do, getting punched in the face by air bags while staging accidents or being shot by thugs. Most people only risk metaphorical death. They fall in love with the wrong people and have their hearts broken, or they try for that big promotion and get passed over,” Helena explained. “Metaphorical death. Ego death. It hurts”—she tapped her chest—“in here.”
I shook my head at her. “You’re saying I don’t take enough risks with my heart?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you call my rape investigation, then? That’s a big risk,” I insisted. “I hope that we’ll prosecute the rapist successfully, and my family will heal, but I worry that dredging up the past now will just end up pushing everyone over the edge. Make things worse. I think complete family destruction is a pretty big risk”—I tapped my own chest—“in here.”
Helena reached across the table and took my hand. When she spoke again, her voice was tender and soft, and I could barely hear her over the din of the pizza place.
“Yes, you are taking a big risk, and I’m proud of you for that. But….”
Her voice trailed off.
“But what?” I asked.
“But that risk is also a sign of stagnation. You’ve been stuck in the same place for seventeen years, taking the same risk day after day, resolving nothing and not moving forward.”
“No, I haven’t,” I protested. “I’ve moved forward. I bought my own house, moved up in my career, got a cat.”
I knew that sounded lame, and I couldn’t even convince myself of the truth of my words.
“People who don’t grow just stagnate and die off eventually,” Helena said, still holding my hand across the table. “I’ve seen it happen. In fact, I think half the cases I’ve prosecuted in my career have come down to some person who faced a difficult choice or a big life change and just couldn’t keep growing past it, despite it. I mean, look at you and Tripp….”
Hels let her voice trail off again, and I did think of Tripp, my high school flame, my first real love. Our relationship had stagnated largely because we’d both been obsessed with solving Tricia’s rape case, and though he was still handsome today, I felt no attraction to him anymore. He was just Tripp.
Good looking, flirtatious, but still just Tripp.
“See,” she said, letting go of my hand and picking up her wine glass. “You were all hot and heavy and then boom. Stagnation. Neither of you could move forward.”
She leaned toward me, continuing, “And it’s not just with men. You can stall your whole life out if you don’t keep growing and changing and taking risks, and I don’t mean the kind of risks that get you shot. Feel free to avoid those. I mean the ones that risk your heart.”
I nodded mutely.
“Tell me the truth. Do you want a relationship with Mark Vincent?”
I gave that some good, hard thought, even though I didn’t need to.
“Yes,” I said, experiencing a strange, giddy sensation at the admission.
“Then what are you waiting for? It’s time to fish or cut bait.”
“A fishing metaphor, really?” I asked.
“Corny and clichéd? Yes. True? Also yes,” she said. “I know romance isn’t part of your plan right now, but sometimes life turns out better when we accept that changing the plan is a part of the plan. Sometimes an opportunity crops up that has to be seized. Change is part of life.”
We fell silent as I chewed over her words.
“How did you get to be so smart?” I asked.
“Naturally gifted, I suppose,” she said with a laugh.
I pulled my hands into my lap, clasping them as I considered Helena’s words.
Had I been avoiding risking my heart?
Was I risking emotional death?
Maybe I was. Maybe I should act on my feelings for Mark Vincent.
Before I could allow hope to unfurl in my heart, our pizza arrived, and Helena and I were both distracted with copious amounts of grease and cheese.
Seven
Late Sunday morning, before I’d even left the warmth of my comforter, my phone trilled. I tried to crack an eyelid to check the caller ID and experienced a moment of confusion when my eyelids wouldn’t seem to open all the way. Not only had I stayed up far too late the night before chatting with Hels after we’d gotten home from dinner, but I was guessing that I had acquired some quality black-eye swelling overnight. Finally managing to squint against the morning light, I saw who was calling.
Tricia.
I struggled to sit up and greet her using my real cheery voice and not the fake one I had used so often when my sister had been drinking. But I was groggy, so I sounded more six-pack-a-day than genuinely cheery. That was a shame because I really liked my sister when she was sober and wanted her to know that I was pleased she had called. In the not-so-distant past, I had dreaded conversations with her, but since she had surgery on her broken ankle and went through medical detox treatment, our relationship had vastly improved.
Tricia had been discharged a few weeks ago and was staying with my mother, which meant she was probably parked beside the living room phone, her leg perched on a stool, desperate for something to do.
As I expected, she sounded inordinately excited that I had answered.
“Hey, Tricia,” I said, quickly clearing my throat so she wouldn’t guess I was still in bed. “How’s the ankle doing?”
“Oh, Sissy! Thank God, you’re there,” she said in a hushed tone. “I’ve got to talk to someone sane before I lose it. Mom’s driving me bonkers with all these godawful courtroom Judge So-and-So TV shows. Did you know they’re on seven days a week?”
I smiled to myself but made some noises that indicated my pity, all the while envisioning my mother planted on the couch and yelling at the defendants right along with the judge. That had pretty much been Mom’s life once she and Dad divorced and she learned of the joys of alimony. Since then, she divided her time between watching TV, enabling my sister’s drinking habit—at least she had until recently—and going to various civic clubs and society-type functions in order to keep up appearances.
In the background, I could hear my mother telling someone to get off the couch and get a job.
I would have laughed aloud at the irony, but Tricia interjected, “You heard that, right?”
“Yup,” I said.
“She’s been doing this since I got out of the hospital,” she added in a stage whisper. “I never knew there were so many courtroom shows. I just don’t get them. I would do anything to stay out of court, and it seems like these people are just making stuff up so they can be on TV.”
She paused, and I heard my mother say, “Yeah, you get ’im, Judge!”
I giggled at Tricia’s groan.
“Don’t you want to come over now?” she wheedled. “Share in m
y misery.”
“Gee, call me crazy, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Well, then can you pick up some of those apartment brochures from the grocery store?” she asked, sounding so positive that I hardly recognized her. “I can use them to fantasize about getting this walking cast off so I can move out on my own again.”
“Sure, I can do that,” I said, “but remember I won’t be there for lunch this afternoon.”
I’d already informed them that I wouldn’t be able to make the trek to my mother’s house in North Mercer for our regular Sunday lunch that week, but Tricia had a tendency to forget.
“I have a work thing,” I lied.
Plus, I really didn’t want to explain my shiny new black eye to my mother. I could just imagine her response: “Oh lord, what did I do wrong? I tried to raise you right, to be a proper Southern lady. But you insist on doing a job that ends up making you look like the south end of a north-bound horse.”
Okay, maybe she wouldn’t say I looked like a horse’s backside, but she might as well. She’d be thinking it, or something very similar. My mother had always had such high hopes for her daughters. They would attend cotillion, have a big society coming-out party, get married to a UGA graduate, have 2.5 children, and join the Junior League.
Tricia and I had both failed to meet these lofty goals.
My sister became an alcoholic, and I joined the law enforcement world. I wasn’t sure which of us disappointed her more.
Now was not the time to try to figure it out, I decided.
“Work on a Sunday sucks,” Tricia said, interrupting my thoughts.
Of course, calling my plans a “work thing” was pretty inaccurate. I did have plans of the law enforcement variety, but they didn’t exactly involve the DOI.
Today, I was going to search for Marnie Jacobs, Clayton Slidell’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. I wasn’t sure yet.
And wasn’t it convenient that I was close to dropping a bomb on Tricia at a time when she was finally getting her life together? Yup, it was only appropriate—given my current run of ill luck—that she would be doing great just when I found the guy.
Tricia had never seemed to take much of an interest in getting justice and closure.
