A Time to Speak

by Riley Scott

  Pacing in her room, she forced herself to breathe. She thought about calling to cancel, but decided she was safe with Amy. The woman had exhibited legitimate stress through both their encounters—first in the coffee shop, and later on the phone. There was something more going on and, whatever it was, Dominique was the one she had called for help.

  Bracing herself against the side of the bed, she looked in the mirror. Her appearance still screamed “outsider” but she didn’t have anything else. Looking at her skinny jeans and halter-top, she looked like anything but a counselor and anything but like someone who should be out at night in Knell, Texas. Wardrobe had not been a consideration she had factored into this trip.

  She sighed. This was what Amy was going to get. She stopped for a minute, sitting on the bed and focusing her thoughts. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her best friend Cheyenne’s number. After three rings, she heard Cheyenne’s upbeat voice fill the line.

  “Hey, stranger,” Cheyenne said, and Dominique could almost see her smile lighting up the room.

  “Hey, Chey.” Dominique let out a deep breath.

  “Are you okay?” There was a pause and Cheyenne cleared her throat. “I meant to call yesterday. I’m so sorry. I saw everything in the news and knew you must have been really busy. And before I knew it, time slipped away from me. I’m so sorry for not calling.”

  “No, don’t be, please,” Dominique said. “I just needed to say ‘hi’ and have something familiar.”

  “Are you there?” Cheyenne’s deep breath filled the silence between them for a second. “Please be safe.”

  “I will,” Dominique assured her. “I’m not in harm’s way. I just needed a bit of a pep talk.”

  “You’ve got this,” Cheyenne said, laughing. Dominique shook her head. She knew her friend too well to think she was actually finding humor in the situation. She laughed when nervous. Nonetheless, Dominique let her finish. “You’re the single most talented person I know when it comes to helping people through a difficult situation, and making your voice heard. Hell, you make your voice heard even when it’s over easy things like which football team is better.” Dominique laughed, thinking about their constant battle between the Cowboys and the Texans, both who often had equally hard seasons, but who Cheyenne and Dominique argued over like a couple of children. “Not only that, but you’re the best person I know. You’re the one who is there for a late night gab session, a bottle of wine, to open my pickle jars with ease while I stand helplessly by after struggling to open it myself, to help me search for my missing dog, to get me into crazy adventures I’d never consider without you. You’re a spitfire, honey, and you’ve got this.”

  “Thank you,” Dominique said. “I knew I called the right person.”

  “Was there another option?” Cheyenne teased. “Who is she?”

  They laughed together. Over the next several minutes, Dominique filled Cheyenne in on the case at hand and what she was doing in the small town. By the time she hung up the phone, she felt rejuvenated. Speaking out for justice, fighting for equality, helping those hurt in the aftermath of horror was what she did, and she was going to do it to the best of her ability.

  Taking a steadying breath and smiling at her reflection in the mirror, she grabbed her room key and headed across town.

  On the drive over, she thought again of how beautiful Amy was and shook her head. That’s not why she was here. Nevertheless she figured it wouldn’t do too much harm to admire a beautiful girl in town during such a dreadful time. She would remain professional and do her job, not letting hormonal impulses get the best of her. But she would give credit where credit was due, and Amy certainly deserved credit for those eyes and those long, gorgeous dark locks of hair.

  Glancing down at her GPS, she took the final right turn as directed and pulled up outside of a tiny, blue house with an immaculate yard. It appeared that, in addition to making coffee, Amy had quite the green thumb as well. She pulled into the driveway and white knuckled the steering wheel for a second. This should be nothing out of the ordinary. She did this often in LGBT crisis situations. She loosened her grip to look at her sweaty palms, chalking this anxiety up to the simplicity of Amy being her first taker in Knell.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, the light from the cab of the vehicle somehow making her eyes look even darker than they were. Staring at her reflection, she exhaled and quickly cast her eyes away. What did it matter how she looked? None of that mattered as long as she was here to do her job.

  Before she could give herself another futile pep talk or second guess taking this call, she got out of the vehicle and shut the door behind her, striding up to the house with false confidence. She reached up to knock on the door, but it opened before her hand struck the wood.

  “Hi,” Amy said, gulping and offering a weak smile.

  “Hi, Amy,” Dominique replied. “I’m glad you agreed to meet with me.”

  “Me, too,” Amy said too quickly. She shoved her right hand behind her back but not before Dominique saw the large bandage wrapped around it with fresh blood soaking through. “I think it might help. At least I hope it does.”

  “I do, too.” Dominique waited, still standing out on the front porch. She looked past Amy into the living room, taking note of its homey country chic décor. She caught sight of a bloodstain on the carpet and cringed inwardly, careful to keep her face neutral. As if that wasn’t symbolic of this whole situation.

  “Oh, sorry,” Amy said, stepping to the side and throwing the door open. “Please come in.”

  “Thanks,” Dominique said. “Where would you like to chat?”

  Amy’s eyes darted around the room. “Anywhere.” Pointing to the couch, she shrugged and looked to Dominique for approval.

  Dominique nodded and took a seat. Amy paced in front of her, wearing down the carpet. Cueing on the tools of the trade she had learned in her counseling days, Dominique waited for Amy to fill the silence.

  In the meantime, she took in Amy’s scattered demeanor. She paced only to stop and stare at Dominique and then took off pacing again. She pulled her left hand out of the pocket of her jeans in a gesture that signified she was about to speak, and then stuffed it right back in and turned to face the wall, careful to keep her right hand out of sight. Finally, she sighed and took a seat next to Dominique, unveiling the bandaged hand and shaking her head as she set it on her lap.

  “I don’t know why I invited you here,” she said. “I just wanted a safe place to talk and nowhere else around town feels safe. Everywhere there are curious eyes and ears, just as there are memories around every bend. I can’t take it and I don’t know where else to go or who else to talk to. I certainly never dreamed I would be sitting on my own couch talking to a stranger about my problems…” She took a deep breath. “But here I am,” she added in a whisper.

  She looked off to the distance and Dominique leaned closer. “It’s okay to have a lot of feelings, even feelings you don’t quite understand yet,” she said gently. “Situations that are tragic and shocking like this often have a huge emotional fallout. I’m just grateful you’re trying to feel what you need to in order to heal.”

  “I don’t want to feel it anymore.” Amy shook her head vigorously. “I’m tired of fucking feeling.”

  Dominique nodded, urging her to go on. But when she looked off again, Dominique filled the silence. “How did you know Chloe?”

  “It’s a small town,” Amy said, her words clipped and precise—too precise. “Everyone knows everyone. It’s bound to hurt when we lose someone who’s one of us in a town like this.”

  Dominique leaned back, relaxing onto the pillows around the couch arm in an effort to look as unthreatening as possible.

  Fidgeting in her seat, Amy bit her lip and sighed. “I knew her well. She was a friend of mine. I was at her house often and we hung out. And now I don’t know how to look at a world that doesn’t have her in it. She was a big part of my life.” Dominique watched as Amy furrowed her brow
and tears slid down her cheeks. “We laughed together, we talked, we shared music tastes, and I tried out new recipes on her.” She gulped and tapped her foot quickly. “She was a friend, you know?” Her voice rose an octave, and she offered a plastic smile. Dominique nodded but waited in silence.

  “She was someone I could count on, and I had grown really accustomed to the time we spent together, even if it wasn’t all that exciting to someone else. She was my person, the one I texted when I had good or bad news, the one who helped me relax after a bad day.” She paused and took a deep breath, glancing down at the floor. “She was my first.” The sentence was barely audible but Dominique felt its weight.

  She reached across the couch and put a steadying hand on Amy’s shoulder, as Amy broke into a sob. “I’ve never told anyone else that before,” she said. “Please don’t say anything to anyone.”

  “This is a safe space,” Dominique reassured her. “Everything you say stays with me.” Her heart broke for the woman, as she watched her eyes flit back and forth across the room, clearly in fear of coming out—even to a perfect stranger.

  “I cared deeply for her. She was the biggest part of my life for the past few months and even in the flirtatious months before we even crossed that bridge. She was the part that remained the same every day. And now she’s gone. Worse yet, I didn’t even have the courage to be near her in any way, shape, or form when other people were around, so there’s no way I could have protected her. I didn’t even know it had happened until after the entire town knew. I was the last to find out, even though I was the one she was…dating.” Amy paused and frowned. “That sounds like such a foreign way to explain what we were doing. I don’t even know what it was.” She looked at the ground, then reached for a tissue and slipped her feet up under her knees. “I’m sorry for talking so much. It’s something I do when I’m uncomfortable.” She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Actually, it’s something I do when I’m nervous, when I’m feeling awkward, all the time. I ramble a lot.” She buried her face in her hands and shook her head.

  “It’s okay,” Dominique said, patting her on the shoulder. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. You’re finding healing in your own way, on your own time. Talking only helps us to realize what’s going on inside.”

  Amy looked up at her, nodded, and gulped. “The thing is, in addition to all I’m feeling, I’m very unsettled. Throughout my life, I’ve known I wasn’t like everyone else. I’ve also been taught repeatedly that being gay isn’t acceptable. It’s wrong and dirty and sinful and what have you. I never even considered acting on the truths I’ve known about myself until I got too close. I’ve always been drawn to Chloe, like a moth to a flame. She was this creature of sheer beauty, flitting through life at her own pace, in her own way. I kept my distance as much as this town allows, running with my own circle and starting my business. For years, I was careful and admired her from afar. She must have known somehow, because she started frequenting the shop daily. That led to her stopping by with booze to spike my coffee drinks so we could enjoy a nightcap together, and that led to the rest. Now I know just how much I cared for her. I know everything I felt for her. I know she opened my eyes. And I know she wasn’t afraid to be who she was…” She cast her eyes downward and her breathing quickened. “But look where she ended up. It’s not safe to be who I am, but I feel like I have to do something now. Like I have to say something, to stand up in Chloe’s honor, to live boldly like she always did.”

  Dominique wanted to speak, but she was at a loss for words. The silence grew between them as she nodded. Normally she would encourage someone to come out, to open the eyes of the world and to live a life of authenticity. In these circumstances, she was just as confused as Amy. Was it safe?

  She swallowed and locked eyes with Amy. “You’ve poured out your heart tonight, so I’ll do the same for you,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t have the answers for you. I could tell you the same thing I tell everyone when they’re ready to come out, but that advice would fall short here. Besides, I’m not here to tell you what to think or do. I’m just here to listen, offer counsel, and be a friend. It sounds like life is pretty lonely in Knell for our people, so if you’d like, I’d be happy to be your friend. What I will tell you is this…” She placed her hand on Amy’s knee for additional support. “Tragedy often brings us to a point of action. It makes us feel as though we must act with urgency. What I advise you most in this time is to think things through. Live boldly and authentically however you can. Do keep in mind the dangers your community has presented, but honor Chloe’s memory and the memory of many who have died for loving who they love by being you. Do that however you can, whenever you can. It may mean letting a small circle in on your identity and growing it with time. It may mean reaching out to Chloe’s family and letting them know who you were to her. The fact of the matter remains that the more of us who speak up means the LGBT community is more real, more personal to a wider group of people. Good things come from coming out, but this community has also shown that bad things happen. Bad things happen around the world to people just like me. People just like you. It’s horrific, and there is no way to make it hurt less. So do what you can in your own time. It may come in different forms. You’ll know what you need to do and, in the meantime, I’ll be around.”

  “When are you going back to Austin?” Amy’s lip quivered and her eyes filled up with tears again. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding up her hand. In the light, Dominique again saw her bandaged hand.

  “What happened here?” Dominique asked, taking Amy’s hand in her own and examining it.

  “It’s embarrassing.” Amy pulled her hand back an inch before looking deeply into Dominique’s eyes and letting it rest where it was. “I smashed my mirror. Emotions have been high,” she added with a shrug.

  “I get it.” Dominique nodded. “Happens. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all acted in anger, passionate heartache, confusion, and more. I’d say you have enough of that brimming beneath the surface to smash every piece of glass in this house, although I wouldn’t recommend it. Do you need help cleaning it up and securing that bandage?”

  Amy cocked her head to the side, obviously considering the notion. Questions danced in her eyes but finally she nodded. “Please.” The request was a mere whisper—gentle and sincere. Never letting go of her hand, Dominique walked beside her as Amy gestured toward the kitchen.

  There was no doubt in Dominique’s mind that she couldn’t assuage this pain or make this situation any better. But she knew she was doing something good here, and that’s all that mattered in this moment. If she could provide some sort of comfort or solace for at least one person—and it seemed Amy was the one who might just need it the most—she was doing her job. She would continue to do it as long as she was needed.

  Chapter Seven

  “Yoo-hoo!” A high-pitched, pretentious squeal came from the front of the police station and Wes sighed, having already been interrupted four times during his daily routine. Whoever had interrupted this time felt the need to continually tap the bell by the front desk, which made his heart rate increase. He wished the receptionist hadn’t been out sick today. Knots of tension tightened his shoulders, and he shook his head. It was his to deal with.

  He secured the file he had been reading in a locked cabinet and slipped the key inside his pocket, patting it once to ensure its safekeeping. He started away from his desk, but stopped to down the already-cold coffee in his cup, needing a bit of a boost in the moment to stay sane. It didn’t matter that it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Since he had stopped sleeping at night, he required heavy amounts of caffeine to get through the day.

  “Hello,” he called out. “What can we do for you?”

  There was no answer. He gripped the Taser on his belt loop, just in case, and turned the corner. Rolling his eyes as covertly as possible, he relinquished his grip as he saw who was waiting. Clad in an impractical and ornate white silk dress, comple
te with gaudy gold jewelry and six-inch stilettos, stood Sylvia Westwick. Her hair was at least the sixth color he had seen it that year—bleach blond this time. Her skin was tanned, almost to a crisp, and her nails were perfectly manicured. She screamed of money and pretention in such a humble town.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Westwick,” he said, working to cover his irritation with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can let me see my boy,” she said, never smiling and narrowing her eyes more with each word. “You can let me in to see my son, and you can call off this nonsense investigation of yours. We all know Trent is innocent, and it’s damn time you all recognized that as well.”

  “Ma’am, we have protocol, and Trent will be locked up for a while.” He kept his tone even. He wanted to let her know that technically she wasn’t the boy’s blood family. She was his stepmom—of only two years. That meant she wasn’t permitted to see him under these circumstances. He bit his tongue.

  “He should at least have reasonable bail set. Besides, you and I both know he didn’t do this. You know that other boy—Ryan what’s-his-name, the dirty ranch hand who worked for Bill—is the one behind all of this.” She put her hands on her hips and glared in his direction. “You can’t use my son as a ploy in some elaborate game to balance the power around here.”

  “There are powers larger than both you and I,” he said, shrugging. “But he’s not even here. He’s at County by now. You can go over there and try to see him.”

  “I want to see him now, and I demand that you release him.” She stepped forward, her heels clicking and her body swaying side to side. Her head looked like it was on a roller—like one of those bobblehead dolls he had seen. This woman was crazy or drunk. Maybe she was both.

  “I’m afraid you didn’t understand me, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “He isn’t here. And I can’t help you with that.”

  “You can and you will!” She screeched at him.