“I didn’t say it was a mistake.” He chokes back a tear, and the hurt in his downturned gaze saddens me.
I reach for his hand. “I’m damaged and broken and have a lot to work through, Steve. But you’re not responsible for my baggage.”
“What sort of baggage?”
I think about how I’m going to tell him about my past without scaring or losing him or sending him off into another man’s arms. “My father was a violent alcoholic. He used to beat me with a belt and humiliate me by calling me names. I was worthless to him.”
“Nobody should have to go through that.”
“I’ve struggled with low self-esteem for many years,” I say. “I’m still surprised that I’m in this profession, and that I’ve made it this far.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I drank a lot to get through most of my adult life, to escape my father, and his hatred for me. I wasn’t even sure I’d survive being a police officer. I had so many fears that other officers would torment me for being gay like my father did growing up.”
He interlocks his fingers in mine.
“Whenever I have to deal with intimacy or show emotions, I don’t know how to do it. So I drink. It takes the edge off, and drowns all of my fears until I’m numb.”
Steve grips my hand tighter. When he looks at me, his eyes are damp and swimming in tears. “All of this just for being gay?”
I nod. “I’m a sad case.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not you who should be apologizing.”
“I don’t want to force you into something you’re not ready for.”
“I can make my own decisions. And I want to be with you.”
“I’m sorry for being so hard on you this morning,” he says.
“I’m glad I’ve got somebody to keep me in line. Growing up, I never had the freedom I do now as an adult. I had to suppress a lot of my feelings because of my father. I was attracted to other guys but I couldn’t act on those feelings. I was punished.”
Steve’s mascara is a squiggling mess of lines running down his face as he dabs at the makeup with a napkin.
“This confession doesn’t excuse my stupid behavior toward you,” I say, gripping his hand.
He smiles and inhales and exhales, nodding.
“What’s so funny?”
“Something that happened at the club last night.”
“I can’t remember much from last night.”
He laughs.
“What did I say?” I ask, feeling my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“It’s not what you said.”
“Uh oh. That doesn’t sound good.” I pull up straighter in my seat. “What did I do?”
“You stuck your tongue in my ear and kissed me.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
“Is that all I did?”
He takes a drink of lemonade, and winces. “You were feisty,” he says, watching me, waiting for a response. “Touchy. Clingy.”
“It was the alcohol. I was probably terrified.” I shrug. “Getting close to somebody scares the shit out of me.”
“I figured you were scared, but I didn’t know about the booze as a defense mechanism until now.”
The coffee is making me feel more human.
Lou serves my eggs.
“They smell and look amazing,” I say.
“Lot of elbow grease went into making them look fluffy,” Lou says, proudly.
I look up at Lou’s face, satisfied and beaming. “Elbow grease doesn’t make them sound appetizing, Lou.”
“Lot of love, then?”
I smile. “I appreciate it.”
He turns to Steve. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”
“I’ve got a delicate digestion at this early hour.”
Lou smirks, shakes his head, and trundles off.
I fork a heaping amount of the buttery eggs into my mouth. After I swallow, I say, “If it wasn’t for meeting you at the club, I don’t know how long I’d go on living this lie and suppressing all of these feelings.”
He takes a drink, swallows, and meets my gaze. “How do you deal with your co-workers? Are you open about your sexuality? Do they know?”
“It’s true what they say about the police force. Like I said earlier, it’s a close-minded, testosterone driven, macho profession. It’s hard to deal with the other guys sometimes, so I don’t talk about it.”
“Do they know you’re gay?”
I shrug. “I guess. But I don’t talk about it. I hang out with other officers. We go for beers after work, but that’s the extent of our social circle.”
I think of my partner Officer Ryan, tall, dark, and handsome. But I shake off the rankling feeling of dismissal when he asked me to join him for a beer. His hard, troubled stare burrows deep into the back of my subconscious.
“How do you handle harassment?” Steve asks, signaling Lou for a refill.
“There’s always somebody cracking jokes. Nothing personal, but it’s difficult not to feel that way sometimes.”
Lou comes over with a pitcher of lemonade. He fills Steve’s glass half way, ice chips clinking against the edge of the glass.
“How’re the eggs?” he asks me.
I slide the empty plate to the end of the table.
“That good?” he says. “Get anything else for you?”
I hold up a hand. “I’m full.”
He takes my plate back to the kitchen, and I pull out a ten-dollar bill.
“I can pay for my own lemonade,” Steve says.
“It’s on me.”
Steve sits back and stares at me. “Why the sudden interest in meeting right now?”
I fold my wallet into my back pocket and reach for my coffee cup to empty it. I take a drink, biding time, and slide the mug to the edge for Lou to pick up.
We sit in awkward silence, and I notice Steve waiting for me to respond. I stare out the window at a burgeoning orange light peeking over the tops of the downtown lakeside monument and St. Francis Church’s stone steeple.
My hands are sweaty but I reach into my front pants pocket. I pull out the crinkled piece of paper, unfold it, and slip it across the table to Steve.
I watch as he picks it up between his fingers, and stares at it for what feels like hours.
He looks up at me, then down at the note.
I wait for a verbal response, a headshake, or nod.
Nothing.
Shit!
Sweat drips under my arms, and I wipe my damp palms across my pants.
When he looks up at me again, his expression is unreadable.
I swallow the acidic burn of bile rising in the back of my throat.
“I miss you, too,” he says, “but what’s this?”
I stare at him, speechless, my mouth dropping open slightly. “You didn’t write it?”
He hands me the piece of paper, shaking his head.
Fuck!
“Where’d you get it?” He sounds hurt, as if I’ve somehow cheated him.
I reach for the paper and close my eyes. I feel foolish and can’t look at him. Heat burns my face, my fingertips prickling.
I crumble the piece of paper in my sweaty hand and stare out the window at streets speckled with sunlight lacerating the early dusk.
“Jack?”
I can’t bear to face him.
“Jack.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and I have the urge to scream, my hands turning into fists across the table.
It doesn’t take me long to realize that I might have ruined the best thing in my life. I open my eyes and stare sideways at Steve. From the blurry corners of my vision, he gazes at me, but it all feels like a dream.
He looks at me, unblinking.
Doesn’t speak.
So I say, “It’s not what you think.”
Which sounds ominous when I hear the words come out of my mouth.
“You don’t have to explain your
self,” he says.
“But it’s not what you think.”
“What am I thinking?”
“That there’s another guy.”
“I wasn’t aware we were together,” he says.
I am floored.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
I move my lips, trying to find the right words to create a cohesive sentence.
Excruciating silence fills the next thirty seconds, and we sit staring out at the dawning of a new day.
Golden light spills across the plate glass windows enveloping the diner.
Then my stomach heaves when I glimpse the familiar face of my ex-boyfriend Sheridan standing across the street, leaning against the side of the federal bank building, smoking.
Plumes of smoke billows around his head in a halo of toxic fumes.
“Fuck me,” I say, and Steve asks, “What is it?”
I look at him as I slide out of the booth and head for the front door. “My past.”
He calls out my name but I am already out the door and running across the street without looking behind me for early morning drivers coming down the one-way block.
“What are you doing?” I yell, staring fixedly at Sheridan, heading straight for him.
“He’s cute,” Sheridan says, nodding in the direction of the diner and at Steve as he sucks hard on his cigarette.
I raise my hand to him. “What are you doing here, Sheridan?”
He pushes off the brick building, blows out a stream of smoke in my face, and grinds the butt under his boot. “It’s a free country, Jack. I can go anywhere I want.”
“Stop following me.”
He is cool, calculating. “I wasn’t aware I was following you.”
“It’s almost five o’clock in the goddamn morning.”
“I’m aware of the time, Jack.”
“And what do you think you’re doing?”
“Going for a walk.”
“Why are you still in town?”
“I don’t need your permission to be here.”
I inhale, steadying my voice, and calming my nerves.
“You look like you’re having fun,” he says.
“Don’t come near me again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal. By the way, you can do much better.”
“You mean I can do better than you?”
His Joker smile is unnerving.
“Leave me alone, Sheridan.”
“You came out here after me.”
“To tell you to leave me alone! Stop stalking me.”
“Stalking you? Is that what I’m doing?”
I swallow and take a deep breath.
Anger feels like hammering spikes behind my eyes as I dig out the piece of paper from my pocket and show him the note. “Did you write this?”
He backs up and squints to read it. “What the hell is it?”
“Did you write it?”
He laughs. “I didn’t write anything.”
“Liar!”
The tone in his voice is serious. “You need help, Jack.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” My voice is rising and getting louder.
“You’re cute when you’re angry.”
“What the fuck do you want, Sheridan?”
“You never could control your temper.”
“Why are you following me?” I notice the unwavering hate in his hard stare.
“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to go anywhere.”
I am shaking. “Where were you when that young girl was murdered?”
“What girl? Who are you talking about?”
“You were at the scene of the crime watching me early this morning, weren’t you?”
His lopsided smirk digs deep under my skin, unnerving me. “You’ve lost your mind, Jack.”
“Stop dodging the question.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s no coincidence that you’ve been stalking me.” It’s my turn to smile. “You’re the one who needs help.”
He steps closer to me and forces me to step off the curb. He is a towering giant. “It was always about you, Jack. Wasn’t it? You controlled everything for eight months of our lives. And now you’ll do and say anything to turn it around and blame me.”
“I’m not the reason for us breaking up,” I say, my voice quivering. “And stop changing the subject.”
“Your temper was the main reason for the end of our relationship.”
“Is that why you came back? To tell me I ruined our relationship? Is it? That I was a controlling, hot-tempered asshole?”
“You needed to hear it, Jack. And your behavior right now proves it. I needed to say it to your face once and for all.”
I step up on the curb, chest bumping him to make my point. “You don’t intimidate me.”
“It’s not about intimidation. It’s about validation.”
“Do you want me to arrest you?”
He laughs. “On what grounds?”
“Harassment. Stalking.”
“Stalking?” His laugh is a sonic boom. He rolls his eyes. “Here we go again.” A chuckle. “You’re pathetic. Look who’s harassing who? You’re accusing me of murder. Remember? Maybe I should report you to your department.”
“I don’t want to see you again, Sheridan. Do you hear me? Do not call me. Do not stop by my apartment. If you do, I’ll make your life miserable.”
“Your threats are meaningless.”
“Don’t test me.”
“I’m doing no such thing.”
“Then why are you still here?”
He shoves his large hands into his jean’s pockets. “To absolve my sins.”
I smirk. “Absolve? Do you even know what it means?”
“Fuck you, Jack.”
I turn and struggle back toward the diner.
He yells, “You were my worst mistake!”
Without turning around, I raise my middle finger over my shoulder and keep walking.
Chapter 6
Steve is not in our booth when I return to the diner.
Lou tells me he is in the restroom.
A sense of relief relaxes the knot in my tight shoulders. I take a seat at the counter and Lou stands off to the side, watching me over the top of the register. “I wish I could help,” he says, “but I don’t understand relationships. Since my wife Dorothy’s death ten years ago, I’ve never dated again. It’s different today. Not like in the old days.”
I sit hunched over on the leather stool. “Relationships are still complicated,” I say. “Doesn’t matter the day.”
“True. But people are different,” he says.
I look up at the sound of a door opening and closing in the back room and Steve’s shadow sliding across the linoleum floor.
I whirl around to meet Steve’s gaze. He is dressed, wrapped from head to foot in his coat and scarf.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, tapping me on the leg as he passes me.
I jump off the stool. “Wait.”
He stops.
Lou grumbles behind me as he wipes the counter, watching us.
I stare at the back of Steve’s head.
He turns and says, “I’ll call you.”
An incoming call on my cell phone interrupts us.
I hold up a finger as if to say Hold on.
I dig my iPhone out of my back pocket and stare at the screen: It’s Chief Barton.
I look up at Steve. “I’ve got to get this.”
Steve nods, and turns to go, leaving me standing alone in the diner with Lou.
“Hello?” I say.
“We’ve got another body.”
Chapter 7
It feels like déjà vu when I return to the scene of the crime at Firewood Road ten minutes later. Looker-loos post like statutes on their front stoops, and I hear them whispering in the light of morning as a shimmering swirl of red and blue light from three police cruisers illuminate the street. An ambulance is par
ked in the driveway.
I cuss under my breath as I walk up the gravel driveway to the apartment building.
The police chief is waiting for me at the front door. He looks brooding and grumpy, his arms crossed over his muscular chest. Sweat stains darken the underarms of his uniform. His face is damp with perspiration.
He looks tired.
I climb the stairs and catch his wary gaze.
He is pale and withdrawn under the porch light. I ask, “You feeling all right, sir? Looks like you’re going to throw up.”
He stares at me and says, “It’s bad.”
“Who is it?” I ask, heading through the foyer to the stairs, and am about to climb them to the second floor.
“This way,” he says, gesturing down the hall to a closed door manned by Hawkins.
“Déjà vu, huh?” I say to my fellow officer.
Hawkins doesn’t twitch.
The chief opens the door leading to the bowels of the basement and waves me to go first.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Laundry room,” he says.
“Two bodies in one day. What the devil is going on?”
“I’ll show you.” His voice hardens.
The ceiling lights flicker, and a cold draft of air blowing up from the shadowy basement below sets me on edge.
I grip the metal railing as I descend the concrete staircase, the sound of my boots echoing down the corridor. As I step off the bottom stairs and stop abruptly, Barton bumps into me, mumbling for me to pay attention.
“Where’s Ryan?” I ask, moving out of the chief’s way. “He should be here.”
Something in the chief’s grave tone intimates an end-of-the-world conspiracy. “He’s not answering his phone.”
I let him pass and pick up speed to catch up to him. He is a man on a mission.
When I reach him at the end of the hospital green corridor, he lingers at the edge of the laundry room.
“It’s a disgusting sight,” he says as I come up beside him and stare around the corner into the room.
He tells me it is Ms. Findings, the elderly woman whom Ryan and I interviewed earlier about the first victim, the young woman living across the hall from her.
Ms. Findings lies face first on the floor, blood oozing from around her dyed brown hair. She is dressed in a white bathrobe, both of her arms tucked beneath her.
I turn to the chief, my forehead rutted in deep lines.
I shiver. “Why?” I ask, thinking, Who would do this to a nice old lady?
Past Sins Page 5
