A Family Secret

by Cross, Kennedy

  “No…” Ethan murmurs. He crouches at my side. “No. No, Claire. I’m so—”

  “Get away,” I seethe. I’m overcome with a sudden fury.

  Overwhelming fury. Instead, Ethan extends his arm around me. My shoulders pinch behind my neck and I bounce to my feet. “Don’t touch me, get the fuck away from me.” My eyelids are stiff. My fury is centered in my temples, momentarily stopping my tears. “You’re cheating on me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re cheating, you liar!”

  “Claire?”

  “Don’t talk. I don’t want to hear it.” I spin around.

  “Claire!” Ethan follows me up the stairs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I only trudge forward. I’m crushing his lies under my foot with every step. “I’m leaving,” I say as I pass under the bedroom doorframe.

  “What?” Ethan’s voice is weak with disbelief. “Claire, stop! Talk to me.”

  I whirl around so fast that he almost collides into me. “My dad is dead. I’m packing a bag, and I’m not coming back.”

  “Claire! You can’t!”

  I step back, away from his extended arm. “If you try and touch me one more time, I’m going to file a police report.” My eyes are swollen and puffy, but I stare at him with pointed determination.

  “Baby, let me help!”

  I scoff. “I can’t believe you.”

  I turn toward my closet, reaching for a suitcase off the top shelf. Ethan rambles on behind me as I stuff clothes into the bag. There’s a desperation in his voice like I’ve never heard before. Not from him. But I can’t make out one word from the others. They blur together. I’ve gone so numb that all I feel is rage.

  “Anna Amazing?” I stop from throwing clothes into my suitcase to turn back and glare up at him. “I bet you two had a great trip together. She looks like a fucking peach.”

  Ethan shakes his head. “What are you talking about? Who’s Anna Amazing?” The way he pronounces her name like it’s a foreign language makes my stomach coil in disgust. I turn around, zip the bag shut, and reach for another suitcase. I stuff it with everything I can gather. Whatever I can’t, I’m not coming back for.

  “Claire, slow down for a second.” I can feel Ethan moving behind me, perhaps reaching for my shoulder before thinking better of it. “Will you talk to me for one second?” he asks.

  I throw the suitcase on the bed, zip it shut, and turn to face him.

  “I’m leaving.” I step past him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “This is your home!”

  That prompts me to stop in place. “This is not my home.”

  “What?”

  “This is NOT my home. It never was.” I drop my bag and point at the ground beneath me. “This is an artificial cage where you kept me distracted while you went around chasing skirts. Telling me lies. All those business trips were lies and I know that. I saw the pictures of your mistress.”

  That stuns him into silence. I grab my bag and rush down the stairs.

  “Claire, wait!” he protests, but I continue on. “Claire!” This time his voice has so much panicked desperation that I stop and turn around. I’m an arm’s reach from the front door.

  He’s breathing heavy. “Don’t do this, baby, please. Just sit down for a minute, let me explain!”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  I pluck my car keys off the hanger on the wall, then throw open the door.

  “Claire, stop!” The same words, but no more desperation. His tone has become tense with authority. “You are in no condition to drive. Come back inside, let’s talk this out.”

  I open the door and slide in behind the wheel. But he’s not completely wrong. I’ve chased perpetrators at 100+ MPH, I’ve driven while being shot at, I’ve responded to scenes while counting the seconds and praying that I’ll make it in time. None of those compare to this.

  But this is my car, and he can’t stop me. I close the door.

  I’ve started the ignition—and locked the doors—by the time Ethan reaches the car. He pounds the window with a closed fist.

  “Claire! Stop! Claire!” His words sound muffled from inside the car.

  I throw the gear in reverse, push my foot into the gas without a second’s consideration that Ethan’s foot may be in the track of the tires. Though I make the turn without issue.

  He’s given up yelling when I look in the review window. Defeat has sunk thoroughly into every inch of his face. I pull my eyes away from the mirror and dial Alison.

  3

  Liam

  It’s Thursday night, and The Drunk Pinkie is dead. Dead except for the regulars.

  It says something that I’ve only been working here for three months and already have a pretty distinguished collection of regular patrons committed to memory. Mostly nice people, though. And they sure make slow nights like this pass a lot quicker.

  I get a little more satisfaction out of remembering their drink orders. I already have Jim Garthow’s whiskey and water ready for him before he sits down. Two ice cubes. Light on the first, strong on the second. Jim’s one of my favorites.

  He plops down on a barstool beside Mabel Mathews, who’s already buried in her third martini. Sweet lady, mostly kindhearted, but that woman will hustle a wallet’s worth of cash out of any unsuspecting victim willing to gamble that a frail divorcee isn’t actually the slickest pool player in town. I’ve seen it happen more than a few times.

  But those contests are reserved for Friday and weekend nights when the bar is lively and sloppy in perfect marriage. Weekday nights, nights like this, she’ll go silent for hours unless prodded into conversation. Which is exactly what I do.

  I have a soft spot for the lonely.

  “Astro’s been cookin’ lately, yeah?” I ask, wiping smeared liquor off the counter with a towel. Her life reads like a comedy turned tragic memoir, but if I know one thing, it’s that she grew up in Houston and she loves her baseball.

  Mabel drags her arm carelessly through the air. “I haven’t seen a game in years.”

  “Liar. I throw ‘em on the TV every time you’re here.”

  “I ain’t seen one myself, I mean,” she says. “It’s not the same watching on a box.” She came in around ten tonight but it’s almost midnight, and she’s toasted.

  I let Mabel spend the night in one of our booths one time, almost lost my job for it. Before moving to Fort Martin, I thought it was only in Hollywood that people drunkenly slept in bars. Nope. And I get it, theoretically, she could pillage the whole bar and obliterate our inventory, but Mabel hadn’t moved a muscle between 2:00 AM when I locked up and opening the next day when I came back to check on her.

  But word got around, and the newbie who let a drunk spend the night in a bar he’d only been working at for a month got a very uncensored talkin’ to. One month in and I immediately lost any potential of gaining friends in middle management, but I did win a friend in Mabel.

  She waves a feeble finger in the air. “I been thinkin’ bout going back, though.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  A long, delirious nod. “Nothin’ left for me here.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ left in general,” Jim adds.

  “You a married man, Jim,” she shouts. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

  Jim cocks his head at me as if to say, she’s not wrong. What neither of us say is that Jim’s marriage has never sounded much like a particularly grounding force, to say the least.

  “All that’s keeping me here is the damn post office, but I’ll tell ya, I’m ready to quit.” Mabel raises her glass without taking a drink. “I wanna go somewhere where they ain’t even got those.”

  “I’ve got a son living in west Texas.” Jim brings his glass to his lips but lowers it to add, “If they got a post office out there, I wouldn’t know it. Boy ain’t send a damn card or letter or nothin’ in years.”

  Mabel’s lips flatten sympathetically into her chin. S
he fixes Jim in her gaze, holding the expression for a moment. For her, that’s as good as a formal condolence.

  “But, what are you gonna do?” He shrugs, and now the glass does meet his lips. He takes a drink that exhausts half his whiskey and water, leaving beads of liquor on his upper lip.

  A husky man with a square face and a military haircut leans over the bar a few feet down. Not a regular, but I’ve seen him a few times. Often enough to know he always comes in wearing a collared button down, sleeves rolled up, but not enough to know his name. Or care.

  “A round of Budweiser.”

  I look over his shoulder at his two friends playing pool. “You got it.”

  He slides onto a stool to wait. “I sure been seeing you a lot here recently.”

  I shrug, letting excess foam spill over the rim of a glass. Our Budweiser on tap is shit.

  “I’m the new guy on the block,” I say as I set the drinks in front of him.

  “Where you from?” He hands over a Mastercard.

  “South of here, Miami area.” I hold it between two fingers. “Open tab?”

  “Keep it closed. And settle in, you’ll like it better here.”

  I bob my head.

  After he returns to the pool tables in the back, I nod at Mabel and use my pinkie to point. “Could be husband number four? Give ya something to stick around for.”

  Mabel’s eyes lazily wander the room before finally stumbling onto him. She laughs, her head swaying. “He’d be done with me before we even got started,” she drawls.

  Jim taps his empty glass and I nod at him. Time for the strong one.

  “Ya know… Earl peeled over the other day,” Mabel slurs.

  “What?”

  “Earl went—” She uses her hand to swipe across her neck.

  “Goddam. I’m sorry.” Jim shakes his head. He raises his new whiskey and water like a toast.

  Mabel blows air through her lips. “Don’t be.” Her eyebrows crease and send wrinkles up her forehead. “Earl was a cheating prick.”

  “What was he? Number two?” I ask.

  She throws up three fingers. Her head sways to the side and rests on her shoulder.

  “Ohh, the recent one.”

  “The last one,” she corrects.

  “How’d he go?” Jim asks.

  “Someone put a gun to his head,” Mabel says without an ounce of remorse, answering as if she was simply giving directions.

  “Jesus.”

  “Who did it?” Jim asks. His concern has kept him from sipping from his new whiskey and water.

  She throws open her palms in a theatrical shrug.

  “What, they didn’t catch ‘em?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You have any suspicions?” I ask.

  “Probably some prostitute,” Mabel scoffs. “Always liked them a lot more than me.”

  “Goddam.” Jim cocks his head. “You think a self-defense kind of thing?”

  Mabel shuts an eye, squinting through the other. She really is toasted tonight. “No, I can only wish for it,” she slurs. “That man owed money to everyone in the state of Florida, I swear it.”

  My dad’s face comes to mind before I can push it away. I blow out a breath. “I hear ya.”

  After another half hour, Mabel is unable to continue conversing about dead ex’s or anything else, passed out with her head on the bar. I considered moving her over to one of the numerous empty booths, and I would’ve if there were more people. But Jim also retires for the night a short time later. He was even more reserved than usual tonight. It’s not uncommon for him to pack a good four or five drinks in. But tonight, he settled on just the two.

  Left with no more company at the bar, I decide to go ahead and clean up a little early while occasionally watching the husky fellow and his two friends until even they wander out.

  And now it’s only Mabel and me with just under forty minutes until closing.

  It’d be nice to get out of here right at 2:00 AM, and because the bar’s gone completely dead, it looks like I’ll be able to do exactly that. I have the floor mopped, the bar scrubbed, and everything stowed for the night at ten till two. Which is when I call an Uber for Mabel.

  I roust her, with surprising ease, after the app has selected a driver. She sits up in the booth like a corpse rising from a coffin.

  “I called an Uber for ya. You all right?”

  “I’m good, I’ll walk.”

  “Nooo, you won’t,” I say. “It’s five minutes away. Just hang out for a sec.”

  “I need some air.” She pushes herself up from the table, and I step aside.

  “Stay by the door, though.” I point. “That’s where they’ll pick you up.”

  Mabel stands and steadies herself and I shadow her all the way to the door. She steps out while I stay inside, keeping my eye on her through the smudged window of the door. She takes a seat on the outside bench and lights a cigarette.

  I lean against the wall and draw my phone from my pocket. There’s a missed call and two texts displayed on the screen.

  Hey man, we got picked up for this Saturday!

  The text is from Damon who generally manages our group. At least in terms of bookings. Incredible piano player too, good voice, and an overall nice guy. He was the one who invited me to join The Spider Crabs shortly after I moved in. Since then, we’ve done two weddings, a fundraiser, and a corporate happy hour at another tavern down the street. And now, evidently, an event this Saturday.

  I steal another glance at Mabel, who’s migrated to the bench across the street, before reading the second text that Damon sent in pair.

  Celebration of life service. Sinatra cover songs, should be fun. Rehearsing Friday morning in the community center. Gig Saturday. See you then

  A celebration of life service, huh? That’ll be new. Coincidentally, I played a lot of Sinatra covers with the last group I was with. I’m typing a reply when the vicious screech of tires yanks my eyes up from my phone.

  Through the window I can make out two SUVs stopped in the street. Three bodies hop out from the doors. One cups a hand around Mabel’s mouth, another pulls her hands behind her back. The third figure puts a pistol to her head, and fires right as I bound out the door. There’s a loud pop from the silencer at the end of the barrel, and Mabel falls to the ground.

  All three figures jump back into the open doors of the SUV’s. The two vans are skirting away before I’ve even made it across the street.

  I fall to my knees beside her body.

  “Mabel! Mabel?” I grasp her shoulder and shake, but she won’t move. Her sandy-blond hair is clotted with thick blood on one side of her head. It leaks, it pours, into a dark pool on the sidewalk.

  “MABEL!”

  Still nothing.

  I draw my phone again, quickly punch 9-1-1.

  “Marvel County 911, what’s your emergency?”

  “I just witnessed a murder!” I’m shouting the words into the stiff, humid air and I look up, but the street is still with dark patches of night pinched between street lights.

  “What’s your location?”

  My eyes dart to the street sign, though I know it already. “By the intersection of Kirby and 12th. She was shot in the street!”

  “Is she breathing?”

  I shake Mabel again as if I might awaken the last flutter of life left in her frame. But I don’t.

  “No! No, I don’t think so. Maybe. Hurry!”

  “I’m dispatching an ambulance while I ask you some questions, okay? Are you alone?”

  “Yes. But hurry, please!”

  “Did you see who shot her?”

  “It was three men!”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “No. No, they were wearing black.”

  “Is there anyone with you right now?”

  “No, just me.” My voice is starting to stick in my throat. The operator continues into something about the responding officers, but the voice is turning into fuzz in my ear.
/>   “Mabel! Come on! Please!” I shake her shoulder. My phone slips through my fingers and falls to the sidewalk.

  It’s already too late. She’s dead.

  4

  Liam

  I lift my stare from the floor. The clock on the wall of the Fort Martin PD conference room reads 3:47 AM. I was told thirty-six minutes ago to take a seat, help yourself to any coffee and water, an officer will be here to speak with you in just a moment.

  Thirty-seven, now.

  The conference room has three walls of windows, each with a view of a different angle of the department. It’s like the building is caught in a troubled sleep. The lights are flicked off in several rooms but there are a few officers occasionally bustling back and forth in the halls, even a phone ringing off and on. There’s a cheap hum to the lights above me. The air is stiff and stale.

  I’ve already given a statement to the officers and the EMTs that responded outside the bar, but they asked that I come back to the station. Not that I mind, in fact I can’t imagine going home right now. Not after watching Mabel's murder.

  Like the building, I’m in a weird in-between where my body is asking for sleep but too alive with adrenaline and terror to even consider it. None of this feels real. Though every time I think that, I’m revisited by the sight of Mabel’s body collapsing in the street like a puppet cut from its strings. No, this is very real. I’ll never talk to her again, never serve her another drink.

  That poor woman.

  The door opens and I’m so delirious that it half-startles me. The officer remains stationary in the doorway for a second before tipping his head at me. He’s not the same one who took down my statement outside the bar, dressed in a crisp white shirt with a tie the color of spinach. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing hairy forearms and a gold watch.

  “Mr. Carter,” he says by way of introduction. “My name is Detective Mantra. I appreciate you waiting in here.”

  “Of course.” I stand up. He shakes my hand before taking a seat across from me on the other side of the long table.