by Kate Gable
"Oh, what kind of tattoo?"
“Not sure. He had a few, he got a few crappy ones when he was in the Marines, but she did a big one for him. I can't remember."
"Who is your fiancée?"
"Eve Navarro. She works on Melrose."
"She's a tattoo artist?"
"Yep. She’s been doing it for about five years now. She was working there for a couple when she moved out from Oklahoma."
"Oh, wow. Okay. Can you write me her phone number and the address here?" I hand him my pen.
After he hands me back the notebook, he says, "You know, I was hitting on you earlier, but I don't want you to think that I'm some sort of cheating ass or something."
"Yeah, of course not," I say sarcastically.
"You know what I mean."
"So why did you flirt if you have a fiancée?" I say, getting up and heading toward the door.
"We both like to party. It's an open relationship."
"You both date people on the side?"
"No, we date people at the same time and you're just her type."
I walk out of the interview feeling a little bit less steady on my feet. It's not that I've never been hit on by someone I questioned before; it's just that Danny Usoro definitely has a way with words.
It helps that he's quite easy on the eyes with his caramel skin and all of those nicely placed tattoos add to the overall aura of the type of persona that he wants to project.
Before heading back to the office, I realize I forgot my iPad at home and stop by to grab it.
The interview went a little bit smoother and faster than I thought it would so I have some time to spare, a good forty-five minutes that I can take off from work.
I decide that if I'm going to be home and I'm going to relax, I'm going to do it all the way. When I get home, I strip off my work clothes, including the tight bra that pinches right underneath my breasts, change into a loose fitting flannel shirt and my favorite pair of oversized pjs. I make myself a cup of coffee, put my hair up in a loose ponytail, and savor the moment.
I don't have much time off in this job and I've learned to take advantage of every few minutes that I can. Taking off the bra and changing into comfortable clothes is just part of that process.
It takes very little time, but it goes a long way to putting me into that deep state of relaxation. I go to Prime video and start an old episode of Disappeared on the Investigative Network.
I've seen a number of these and they usually profile people who have gone missing under suspicious circumstances. Bodies have never been found, and in some cases, it's not even clear whether they're gone at all or maybe left on their own volition.
There are a number of seasons of this show and I've never watched it much until one night when I was feeling frustrated and completely alone, trying to process what happened to Violet.
The show brought me a little bit of peace.
It made me realize that I'm not the only one going through all of this. Sometimes it's good to have company when you're in misery.
You forget that you're not the only one in the world going through something hard and that makes it better, in some sick perverse way. Since the show has been on the air for quite some time, I always make it a point to check at the end of the episode whether the person is still missing or not.
Most of the time they are still missing. On occasion, however, a body is found years later, and a few times, the person was found alive, living a new life in another part of the world.
The scratching of keys in the door break my concentration.
When I turn around, I see Sydney.
18
"Hey, what are you doing here?" we ask each other almost simultaneously and then laugh.
"I had some time before I had to get back," I say, "so I wanted to have some breakfast and just relax. You?"
"Just stopping by to get something."
She's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with her hair pulled up in a high braid, tied with a ribbon.
Her makeup is flawless, but I notice that there's a little bit too much concealer under her eyes and she always tries to look a little bit more put-together when things are particularly tough.
"How's everything? How are you doing? Sorry I haven't been around."
"No worries." She grabs a glass, pours some water in, and plops down on the couch next to me.
The sun is streaming in through the open window, creating a halo-like effect around her head.
We chitchat about nothing in particular. She dances around asking about Violet and I avoid asking about her breakup.
It's hard to figure out when someone wants to talk about it, when you should be there for them, and when it's best to draw their attention elsewhere to provide some comic relief.
Eventually, I catch her up on what happened in Big Bear.
"They're going to find her," Sydney promises me, but she has the same expression on her face that we all do when we make those promises to the families.
There's no way that she can know that and that means that it's really something of an empty promise, but I appreciate it anyway.
"What's going on with Patrick? Have you officially broken up?"
"Well, that's kind of the thing," she says, hesitating.
I wait for her to continue. She licks her lips and looks down at her nails that are filed into sharp points and painted a muted color of forest green.
"I think we're going to get back together."
My mouth nearly drops open.
I turn my body to face her, leaning over, but before I can say anything, she says, "Listen, I know that it's stupid, but I have to give him another chance."
"Why?"
"He said he was sorry."
"Please don't tell me that you love him."
"I do love him."
"I know that you do. Otherwise, you wouldn't even be thinking this insane thing."
"It's not insane. We have a really good connection."
"What about what he did? What about all of that stuff that you found on his phone? Is that okay with you? If he's going to do that to you now, what's he going to do after you've been together for a few years or a few decades?"
"Listen, I didn't come here to have you judge me."
That's when I know.
When she uses that word ‘judge,’ that's when I know that her mind is made up.
She's not going to back away from this and if I keep pushing her harder or if I keep trying to make her agree with me, then we might not be friends after all.
After all, it's not my place to say who she is supposed to be with. It's for her to decide.
"Listen, I'm sorry about that. I didn't want to come off being so judgmental or anything like that. I'm just worried about you."
"Yeah, I know and I'm worried about it, too, but I have to give it a chance."
"Why?" The word slips out before I can stop myself.
"We're going to have a baby."
I sit here, stunned and staring at her.
Sydney is going to have a baby.
My Sydney.
My friend.
It's something that happens all the time to people everywhere, because if it didn't, we wouldn't have much of a species.
Still, it feels so odd, foreign, and almost unnatural for Sydney Sutka to be pregnant.
"Congratulations," I say, forcing myself to smile and to give her a hug.
"I wasn't happy at first. I mean, things are so complicated with Patrick, but we were already engaged and I do love him. He promised that he would never do that again."
I nod.
Hasn't this story played out a million times before to millions and millions of other women?
How does it work out?
Not that well, but we keep trying anyway.
I'm not saying that it's a certainty that Patrick would cheat. It's not.
Every person is unique, different.
But if this is what he will do when you are just dating and are supposed to be in yo
ur honeymoon period, what’s going to happen when there are actual pressures of children, work, etc?
How's he going to cope with a wife that asks him to stop spending every weekend on the golf course?
I don't know.
Maybe Patrick Flannery will be that one beacon of hope.
I'm sure that there were others that have made mistakes and then never cheated again, but all I have is his past behavior to judge him on.
"I know that you're mad at him. I know that you're angry for what he did, but please don't be," Sydney says.
A rogue tear breaks free and rolls down her cheek.
I exhale slowly and I look up at her. I try to think of something nice to say, something encouraging.
"I always thought that you two made a good couple," I say.
This isn't a lie.
"But?" she asks.
"There is no ‘but.’”
"So, you think this is okay?"
"No." I shake my head.
"Kaitlyn, come on."
"I'm going to be here for you, your child, and your husband because I want to be your friend, but... "
"But what?"
I would never do that to myself.
I would run away from him.
I would raise a child on my own.
I would have visitation, but I wouldn't let that man back into my personal life.
"We all make different decisions," I finally say, keeping the rest of it to myself.
She leans over and gives me a hug. I wrap my hands tightly around her shoulders and tell her that it's going to be okay.
She begins to cry and I hold her as she sobs.
"I don't want anyone to know about what he did," she whispers over and over again.
I promise her that I won't tell a soul and I feel sorry for the fact that I think I might be in this position, consoling her over what her spouse did for many years to come.
When Sydney finally pulls away, I decide not to push her any further.
I'm going to support her. I don't want to ruin my friendship over this because I've lost friendships to not liking boyfriends before.
Who she dates and marries is not my call. It's hers.
It's my job to just be there, no matter how much I disagree.
"Will you come to my OBGYN appointment tomorrow?" Sydney asks, wiping the last of her tears off her cheeks.
"Me?" I ask, surprised.
"Patrick can't make it. He's working a long shift.”
I promise to be there.
19
After getting dressed and putting everything back into my satchel bag, I drive over to Eve Navarro's tattoo shop.
Online it said that it opens at eleven a.m.. and I'm here a little bit after. The elderly gentleman with tattoos going up his neck and face tells me that she's in the back and calls her over. I stand up front looking through the big binder of tattoo designs.
Just as I lose myself in an intricate back tattoo of an underwater scene that looks like it could be the real thing, a pretty girl with large, dark eyes, a blank tank top, black jeans, and boots comes out to shake my hand.
She has a flannel shirt tied around her waist and a few geometric style black and white tattoos on her upper arms.
I introduce myself and she seems to know everything that I have to say.
"I've been kind of expecting you," she says. "Danny told me that you'd be stopping by. I just wasn't sure when or that you would look like this."
"Like what?" I ask.
"I don't know. Like you're my age and a detective. That's pretty impressive."
"Yeah, I guess." I shrug. "I'm not an artist like you though."
She gives me a smile out of the corner of her lips.
"Can we talk somewhere private?" I ask.
She nods and takes me in the back. The room isn't exactly private in that it has a door, but it's secluded enough and the gentleman whom I’ve met earlier is nowhere around.
Eve Navarro has long blonde hair, no doubt extensions, thick fake lashes, lips filled with filler and looks like she walked out of a magazine.
Dressed in a push-up bra that makes her breasts look like they're practically touching her chin, she knows exactly how to move her body to look both seductive and approachable.
"Do you have any tattoos?" she asks. "Detective Carr?"
"No, I don't."
"Never wanted one?"
"Uh, I wouldn't say that, but..."
"But what?"
"I don't know. I sometimes think back to the tattoos that I would have gotten if I got one when I was twenty and I don't know if I'd want to have that on my body anymore."
"Yeah, I guess. We can't really think of it that way."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Well, yes, they're permanent but only in that they're drawing on your skin. But really, they're a representation of the person that you once were and that's not exactly a permanent thing. If it's done badly, I understand why people may not want it anymore. If it’s of an ex-boyfriend or an ex-husband, names are never a good idea."
She laughs, tossing her hair.
"If they are of objects and symbols of something that you used to love that maybe you don't anymore, well, that's just how life is, isn't it?” Eve continues. “Sometimes, you grow more mature. Your interests change, but that doesn't mean that the tattoo is no longer relevant. It's a mark of the passage of time."
"I like that," I say. "You have a beautiful way of thinking about it."
"Well, I do think about them for at least ten hours a day," she says, raising her eyebrow.
She crosses her hands across her chest, making her breasts even more pronounced and that's when I see a small minimalist style one of just a few lines, a perfect circle, and a couple of dots, splashed with watercolor right at the collarbone of her neck.
"Wow. That one's really good," I say, pointing it out.
"Watercolors have become my specialty. Small minimalist tattoos. Also, they require a lot of precision. The simpler the tattoo, the less places there is to hide your deficiencies as an artist."
"The circle is perfect," I say.
"I didn't do this one, but my colleague did. You can't go back over circles or you shouldn't more than once. The lines get too dark and in designs like this, they have to be just right."
I nod in agreement as if I know anything about the subject matter.
I'm about to sit down on the chair where the client sits to get the tattoo, but she pulls out another chair from behind the desk.
She sits on the swivel stool, dropping her arms to her sides.
"So, what can I help you with?"
I ask her about Nick. I need her to tell me anything and everything that she knows about him.
"I met him a few times when Danny had a party. I think I went to one of his parties as well. They were neighbors, but they weren't close. I had a beer with him and asked him about being in the Marines. He didn't want to talk about it. I got the sense that he killed a few people."
That statement comes out of nowhere and takes me by surprise. I actually haven't done much research into Nick's background besides the fact that he served in the military. It did occur to me that he could be suffering from PTSD from what happened while he was in the service.
"What did you guys talk about, specifically?" I ask, pulling out my notebook and jotting down a few notes.
"He said that he lost a close friend. He showed me his dog tags. He wore them around his neck."
"Wow. Just like that? He told you about him?"
"We had a few beers. I got the sense that he wanted to sleep with me even though he never really tried to ask me out. He knew I was Danny's girlfriend, but we were flirting and drinking a little bit too much,” Eve says, tossing her hair from one shoulder to the other.
“I asked him about what it was like. He said it was shitty,” she continues. “He said he was sick of it. He was sick of people dying and he was sick of killing people. He said that there has to be more to life than that."
She nervously spins on the stool, keeping her feet on the floor.
"Do you know what happened to his friend?” I ask. "Like his name?"
She puts her chin up in the air and crosses her arms, supporting her head with one palm. Rolling over to the desk, she grabs a fresh page in the sketch pad, and starts to draw something.
I get up to see and see an outline of a dog tag, followed by some shading and a name.
She pauses for a moment when she finishes the W on Matthew, then makes an A with a period after, and Hoag.
"That's right. Hoag," she says, racing her index finger in the air. "I couldn't remember and sketching what I saw helps a lot."
"Can I keep this?" I ask.
"Of course."
"Can you tell me what happened to Matthew Hoag?”
20
Eve props her head up with her hand, leaning over the table. I repeat my question and her eyes refuse to meet mine.
"He got blown up in a Humvee,” she finally says.
“What?” I lean closer.
“Nick was supposed to go and then he got called back for something and Matt went in his place. The car got blown up and everyone got really hurt, but Matt was killed on impact,” she says with a sigh. “When Nick told me about it, he said that it didn't feel like life was worth living after that, like he had gotten his friend killed, but he also couldn't kill himself because that would mean that his friend died for nothing. He said he was living in purgatory."
"Purgatory?" I repeat her word.
“Yes.” Eve nods. "He said that he was in a waiting room, just living life that he didn't want to live, waiting to die but not really. It was really deep and I felt really sorry for him. I asked him if maybe he should talk to someone."
"Like a therapist?" I ask.
“It can be really helpful. I go once a week and ever since I started, all of my relationships and everything have really improved. It helps me make sense of the world and it helps me process my feelings. We don't have enough opportunities of that in real life. Everyone is just judging us, you know?"
"Yeah," I say, realizing just how much I agree with her.
"Do you see a therapist?" Eve asks.
