by Heidi Lowe
“You bet your ass it is. This is you all over, doing things for the shock value.” He mumbled something else under his breath, then said, “I'm going to take care of this.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I'm going to take care of it. The less you know about it the better. Plausible deniability and all that.”
“And you'll keep her out of this?”
“Let me make one thing very clear,” he said, with the kind of severe expression typical to a prison warden. “I'm not doing this so that you can live out some sordid fantasy with that scumbag. I'm doing this so that you still have a career left when you come to your senses and realize how ridiculous you've been. Now get out of my sight. I can't even look at you.”
Despite everything that she'd seen him do, with all the women, despite her age, nothing hurt more than the look of disappointment from her father. She left hurriedly and had to fight back the tears as she returned to her desk. She wanted someone to hold her, to assure her that everything would be okay. Basically, she needed someone to lie to her, give her a false sense of security. She needed Willa.
Her father used to say, “People are like root canals. If you ever get to a point where you need any, you can be certain that you screwed up royally.” Maurice di Blasio was a man who had built his business pretty much single-handedly, starting off as a poor kid from a rough neighborhood, and transforming himself into one of the most feared men in America, with a portfolio to match his ambition. He'd never needed anyone, he claimed, and that was the secret to his success. Having heard it regularly growing up, Willa had internalized it so much that she'd constructed her life around the ethos, building a foundation around herself that was self-supporting. That came to a head ten years ago, and she'd had to start again, this time around making herself even stronger.
But no amount of independence could have prepared her for Layke Owen's entrance into her life. That knocked her for six. No longer something Willa wanted, but something she needed in order to feel whole. That another person was capable of making her feel this way frightened her. Most importantly, it highlighted how flawed her father's rationale was. People needed other people, that was how the world operated. Pretending otherwise had led to her breakdown a decade ago. She wouldn't make the same mistake with Layke. There was something real here; if she continued to live by her father's wisdom, she would end up alone.
She would tell her. Whether or not Layke already knew was immaterial. Sometimes people liked to hear a thing said out loud so that they knew where they stood. So she would tell her that she needed her. It was easier than saying the other thing, in any case.
Two days had gone by since they'd seen each other, following the interrogation. Despite Layke's promise to call, Willa still had her doubts. Only when Layke's face showed up on the video entry system did she allow herself to relax again. But the calm feeling didn't last long.
“I didn't think you would come,” Willa said. Her smile was big and bright when she opened the door. She wasted no time snaking an arm around Layke's waist and stealing a kiss from her. It felt foreign; different, as though it lacked soul. When Willa stepped back, she regarded Layke quizzically. Something was wrong. “You know kissing isn't a one-way street, don't you?” she joked. Layke didn't even crack a smile.
“I wasn't going to come,” she said, stepping past Willa, wringing her hands. “I thought long and hard about it. Then I decided that I had to know the truth, one way or another.”
“What truth?”
“The truth about Ambrisi's murder.”
“Layke–”
“Don't!” She pointed a trembling finger at Willa. “Don't lie, don't even think about lying. Because I may have tried to deceive myself into believing it wasn't you on that tape, that it couldn't have been you because you were with me the whole night, but reason won over in the end.”
Willa's blood turned to ice. “What tape?”
“The one with you sitting in the passenger's seat wearing a baseball cap, only a few minutes away from Ambrisi's house, on the night he was killed. That tape.” The venom in Layke's eyes, her voice, was all-consuming, and caused goosebumps to run along Willa's flesh. “It was you, wasn't it?”
Right then, Willa could have given Layke a run for her money in the pale department. The blood drained from her face, her throat felt like sandpaper. Caught red-handed with no place to run or hide.
“Answer the goddamn question!”
“Yes! All right, it was me. I went back to Miami, I went to see Ambrisi...” Everything her father had ever told her about confessions went out the window. She could no longer lie; and honestly, she was tired of lying to Layke. Every time she did it she felt a little piece of her soul crumbling away.
Layke covered her mouth with both hands, looking as though she would throw up. “Oh my God,” she mumbled, over and over. Then, as if a thought came into her head, her gaze drifted back to Willa, a look of horror in them. “Wait, how would you have known I wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night and find you gone?” Her tone was accusatory, as though she already knew the answer.
Willa's silence spoke where she was unwilling or unable to.
“That was the night I slept for eleven hours...” She brought her hands to her mouth again, tears clinging to her lashes as the realization hit her. “Oh my God, did you... did you drug me?” The words got choked in her throat.
“Layke, please–” Willa tried to reach out, touch her, but was thrust away violently.
“Don't touch me,” she bellowed. “You're insane. I knew it. I knew you were lying. I vouched for you. I told my father about us because I believed in you and didn't want them to arrest you when I saw the video. But you're just a murderer like your father.”
“I lied about where I was, but I didn't lie about killing Ambrisi. He was already dead when I got there.” She tried to embrace her, to touch her, to get some kind of contact, but Layke moved away, again and again.
“I don't believe a word you say anymore. You're a compulsive liar. Everything that comes out of your mouth is fabricated. Are you even capable of telling the truth?”
“I'm telling the truth about this. I was there, I admit that. But I didn't kill him, I swear.” The desperation and urgency in her own voice sounded alien to her. Di Blasios weren't known for their tendency to plead (only to make others plead). Drastic times. Even if Layke despised her now, she had to get her to believe. A liar you could, in time, forgive; a murderer you stayed away from.
Layke threw up her arms. “I don't even care. You were there and now you've made me look like, not only a fool, but a dirty cop who's willing to cover up her girlfriend's crimes.” She started to the door.
“Layke, wait, don't.”
“I need you to stay away from me from now on. Don't call me, don't show up at my apartment. Just leave me alone.” It came off so level that she seemed unfazed.
“Don't say that. Layke,” Willa screamed after her, stopping the door before Layke could slam it behind herself. She followed her into the hallway. “You don't want to do this, Layke.”
She didn't turn around, simply carried on down the hall, moving hastily without breaking into a run. “Clever move, threatening me. That's really going to work in your favor.”
“I'm sorry, all right, I'm sorry.” Her anxious words fell on deaf ears – Layke was already gone.
Willa kicked the front door shut, screamed in frustration then proceeded to toss and shove everything out of her way, and even those things that were not in her way received the full force of her wrath.
At the back of her food cupboard she found an unopened bottle of fifty-year-old scotch. Maurice di Blasio's favorite poison; this particular bottle he'd kept stashed in the garage. She'd discovered it when they were clearing out his things. Being the only other person in the family who had a taste for the stuff, there had been no objection to her taking it.
As she popped open the bottle, filling her glass with an amount that would make her
forget, she recalled her first encounter with scotch. It was the day her father was released from jail, the day the case against him collapsed. She found him in his study, the bottle open, his glass in his hand.
“Don't be fooled by sweet-tasting poison, Willa. No matter how good it tastes, at the end of the day it's still poison.”
The words rang through her head as she downed the orange-colored liquid. She could barely taste the stuff, though felt the burn as it slid down her throat. It took ten minutes for the self-pity to kick in. This was the only time she ever allowed herself the privilege.
She took the party to her bedroom, collapsing on her bed with the glass still clutched in her hand. “Screw you, Detective Layke Owen!” she shouted into the air. She couldn't help but feel a grave injustice was taking place here. She almost wished she had killed Ambrisi, seeing as she was being punished for it anyway. Telling the truth had done her no favors. “You won't do me the courtesy of letting me explain, so I won't do you the courtesy of crying over you.” Sadly, that was out of her control. As soon as she allowed one tear to fall, the floodgates opened. Seeing the tears fall only made her more vexed, feel more weak, more resentful.
She'd been prepared to do whatever it took to bring retribution for Little Johnny's death; she'd been prepared to kill Ambrisi, once he'd confessed to his involvement in it. But hearing Layke call her a murderer had crushed her in a way she never imagined possible. That repulsion sparkling in Layke's eyes, she never wanted to be looked at like that again.
Well, she didn't need Layke Owen now anyway. No siree. She had scotch, and scotch would be her best friend and lover. Scotch would numb the pain of loss, the feeling that everything was slowly slipping out of her control.
She fell asleep sprawled out on her bed, glass turned over, its contents having seeped into the bedsheets. Fell asleep having experienced, for the second time in her life, the type of heartache her father had tried to protect her from with his words of wisdom. In this, he had known better.
TWENTY-ONE
Seeing the good in everyone meant going against the grain, where being a cop was concerned. Looking past the exterior, seeking a person's potential to be good, that had always been one of Layke's shortcomings. It meant she routinely excused other people's shortcomings, justified their bad behavior. Oh, he's that way because of his tough upbringing. Or, Everyone writes her off because of past mistakes. Or, He did it out of necessity. Any number of reasons to defend someone's actions. However, there came a time when one ran out of excuses, or when the action was simply unjustifiable, where you realized that some people were just pieces of crap.
Layke couldn't bring herself to defend being drugged by someone she thought cared about her. Well, in truth, she didn't even attempt to defend it. Her anger had gotten the better of her, had clouded every pleasant memory she ever had of her short time with Willa. It made it easier to forget what Willa meant to her.
Easier, but certainly not easy.
Unfortunately, it didn't expel thoughts of her from her mind. No, dwelling on what had happened kept her up at night. The lying, the drugging, the conniving. Was I just a means to an end to her? she wondered over and over. Was any of it real? Did she invite me to the motel, spend four days with me, just so I would be her alibi? It was actually a good plan, one she would have secretly commended had someone else been on the receiving end. But since it had happened to her, she felt used and useless. Betrayed.
She hadn't been home from work five minutes when she heard a knock at her front door. Only the middle-aged man living next door who'd made a habit of borrowing salt and sugar from her ever knocked at this time. A worrying thought occurred to her as she went to answer it: she hadn't heard from Willa in a week – what if it was her? The Willa she knew, or thought she knew, didn't let a little thing like permission stop her from doing something. Hesitantly, Layke called out, “Who is it?”
“It's me,” came a familiar voice.
She released her breath feeling relieved, before pulling the door open. A displeased-looking Dustin greeted her, expression one of pure dislike upon seeing her.
“Hi,” she said abashedly.
“I just came to get my things. Thought it more courteous to come while you were home as opposed to letting myself in while you were at work.” He stepped past her, giving her a resentful look. He fished something out of his jacket pocket. “And you probably want these back.” He handed over her keys. When he wandered into the living room, he looked around as though expecting to find someone there.
“I'm here alone,” Layke said, picking up on it.
“Your girlfriend isn't here, then?”
“If you're talking about Willa, no, and she's not my girlfriend.”
“What, have you already taken your relationship to the next level and become her fiancee? When's the wedding, five years from now?” He laughed cruelly.
Taking offense at his dig would have been selfish, Layke reasoned. He was hurting, and she was to blame. She didn't have the right to feel insulted. She even didn't mind that he'd parted his hair down the middle again, where just three months ago it would have annoyed her.
She averted her gaze, unable to look him in the eye. “There's no chance of that happening. It was never like that.”
His eyes were on her. “So it's over?” Was that a hopeful note in his tone, or had she imagined it?
She nodded slowly. “It never really started. How is something like that supposed to last?” She hoped her words made him feel better, because they only made her feel worse. Speaking about what she and Willa had shared as nothing more than a meaningless fling, it hurt her more than she realized. At the time, it had never felt like a fling, like a summer romance she would forget as soon as it was done. If Willa hadn't drugged her, hadn't left her in the middle of the night and driven back to Miami in order to execute someone, she highly suspected they would have been together right now. But thinking this way wasn't an option, if she stood any chance of moving on.
“It was as though I was watching somebody else's life unfold, not my own,” she went on. “Someone who had lost her morals, lost her sense of responsibility. Who could cheat on her fiance and not bat an eyelash.”
“That was you, Layke. All you.”
“I know, and I'm not proud of it. I'm sorry. I know I can never make it up to you, but I want to try.”
He looked at her dubiously. “How?”
She didn't know how. “We were together for over seven years; it seems such a shame to throw that all away because I messed up.”
“Are you saying you want us to try again?”
Was that what she was saying? Return to a life she'd never enjoyed, with a man she'd never been in love with, all because the person she did want had screwed her over? That went further than mere settling – that was cowardice.
“You're my best friend, Dustin. I don't want to lose you. I never meant to hurt you.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you just read all of that off a movie script, Layke? You certainly know the right things to say, but you don't mean a word of that. Tell me, who ended that nonsense you had with the di Blasio girl? You or her?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because...” She turned away. She knew exactly what he was asking, and why. He could see right through her front. Telling him why she'd ended it with Willa would have only confirmed what he suspected. “I did mean everything I just said. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Why did you break it off with her?” he demanded again. “You're avoiding the question.”
“You're right, I am.”
He snorted derisively. “Then we don't have anything left to talk about. It's obvious you're not over her. And I'm not going to play second fiddle to some delinquent whore who turned my girlfriend gay!” He shoved past her and went to collect his things.
“God, I heard you the first five times!” Willa screamed as the intercom buzzed and buzzed. She pulled on her dressing robe, dragged herself
out of bed, her feet accidentally kicking one of the two empty bottles of wine on the floor.
Guy gave her an appraising look when he stepped inside a couple of minutes later, taking in her disheveled appearance; the crumpled T-shirt and the off-color shorts, plus her untidy bedhead. “All right, who's this bum and what has she done with my little sister?”
She rolled her eyes. “Who's this flamboyant gay guy, and what has he done with my annoying brother?”
Guy laughed, swished his wrist in as camp a fashion as he could manage. “Don't you mean fabulous?” he joked.
She didn't even extend a polite smile to him.
“Did you have a party and not invite me?” He looked around the apartment. Empty take-out boxes and ice cream tubs littered the living space; and when he padded into the kitchen, he found it in a similarly untidy condition – unwashed plates and cups piled in the sink, crumbs and sauce stains on the counters. “Or have a bunch of homeless guys been crashing here the past week?” He made a face at the mess, then turned to his sister for an explanation.
“I didn't feel like cleaning,” she shrugged.
He picked up an empty bottle of rum, held it up, eyebrow raised, and waited for her to explain this, too. When she rolled her eyes again and said nothing, he disappeared into the kitchen once more.
“What do you want?” she asked. “I'm not really in the mood for company today.” She heard him ruffling around in the kitchen, heard cupboards slamming. Her head was throbbing from yet another one of her benders. She could have done without the invasion.
“You haven't contacted any of us in over a week. We've been calling your cell but it's been switched off. Mom's worried.” When he emerged from the kitchen, he had a black bag in his hand, and proceeded to fill it with junk.
“Mom's always worried. I'm fine. And I didn't ask you to do that.” She sighed, but started helping him clean up.
“We're all worried.”
“I'm fine,” she said again.
“Except you're not.” He dropped the bag, and for the first time in a long time his happy-go-lucky countenance dissipated. Willa noted how different his whole face looked when he wasn't being his cheerful, cheeky self. “You're living in squalor, you look like hell, and nobody's been able to reach you. So if this is fine then I would hate to see you when you've fallen apart.”
