by Rob Hart
The show ends. I swallow the last swig of my coffee. Bombay asks, “Plans for today?”
“Nap,” Lunette says, stretching.
“Could use some furniture,” I tell him.
“Could use a job too, bro,” he says. “Get your own coffee.”
“I’m going to be temping for that PI three days a week.”
He smiles at me. Raises his hand to give me a high five. We slap them together.
“Good job,” he says. “You still going to need me on the computer stuff though?”
“Actually, I’d like you to start teaching me.”
“You gonna pay me?”
“No longer having to do it for me should be payment enough.”
He puts the coffee down. “I know a place. Not too far from here. They sell furniture. I think they deliver, too. Want to roll up there?”
“Sure. We can visit my mom after. See how’s she’s doing. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you, too.” I turn to Lunette. “You want to come for a ride?”
“Nah, I have some stuff to do. You boys have fun.”
My phone buzzes. Phone call from a number that’s not programmed in. I consider sending it to voicemail but then figure, hey, live dangerously.
“Ash?”
“That’s me.”
“This is Emily Chan. We met the other day. At your friend’s house?”
“Right, right. Sorry. I should have called but things have been a little… hectic.”
“Well, I have your friend. I’m actually down at the One-Two-Oh precinct today. Want to meet me there and you can pick him up?”
“Yeah, I’m right up the block. See you in a few minutes.”
I click off the call. Bombay and Lunette look at me funny. I ask Bombay, “You down to run a few errands before we hit the furniture store?”
He shrugs. “Got nothing to do today.”
Best to get moving. As I’m crossing the apartment to put my empty mug in the sink Bombay calls, “Hey.”
I turn.
“This is good,” he says.
Lunette smiles. “Yeah. This is good.”
I smile back at them and for the first time in a long time, feel like I’ve earned that.
The wind whips my clothes against me, skin tight from the cold. Bombay huffs into his hands. Our old high school sits before us, already empty on account of Christmas break. I tighten my grip on the ceramic urn. It’s painted to look like blue marble, but it feels cheap, like if I drop it, it’s going to break.
Used to be there was a break in the fence behind the football field, back where the track kids threw shot-put. Now it’s gone. This is the closest we’re going to get without trespassing.
“Why here?” Bombay asks.
“Remember that day in art class?”
“Mr. Reitz?”
“Yeah, with Mr. Reitz. He had scavenged a bunch of shit from the bio lab. And there was a static sphere?”
“I don’t think I was there for that.”
“He got this static sphere thing. It was like a big metal ball. And it was broken, and you remember Mr. Reitz, he really didn’t care if we fucked around. So me and Timmy got to playing with it, trying to fix it. And we did.” I laugh a little at the memory. “So we decided it would be funny to rig it up to the doorknob. To shock the next person to come in. The art lab was all the way down in the corner of the building, so we figured it was going to be another student.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. “So we found this flexible metal tubing, but we couldn’t fasten it to the sphere, so Timmy is standing there with his fucking shoes on his hands, so he won’t get shocked. And we turned it on and stood there waiting for someone to touch the knob. It was like ten minutes before someone showed up. Of course it turned out to be the a vice-principal.”
Bombay laughs, slaps me on the shoulder. “I remember that. You got in so much trouble.”
“Yeah. It was kind of worth it. It was Mr. Kazepis who got shocked. He was a dick.”
“He was. But you still haven’t answered my questions. Why here?”
I look out over the field behind the school, covered in pristine snow.
“We were happy here,” I tell him.
I kneel down, pull up the corner of the fence, wave Bombay down with me. He grabs it with both hands and pulls up, giving me enough room to stick the urn through and upend it, dumping the gray ash into the snow. I pat the urn a few times to make sure it’s empty and we put the fence back.
The ash collects in piles. Gray at the peaks, black down by the base where it gets wet. It sits there, soaking into the snow.
“We good?” Bombay asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “We’re good.”
We’re turning onto Victory Boulevard, traffic snarled on roadways cut narrow by massive piles of snow gleaming white in the sunlight, when my phone rings. My mom. Speaking of. There’s a cop car parked by the side of the road so I pass the phone to Bombay, let him answer.
“Hello Mrs. McKenna. No, we’ve been through this, I’m not calling you by your first name. My parents raised me better than that. Yeah. Okay. I’ll tell him.”
Bombay puts the phone against his chest.
“She says there’s someone at the house. Wants to see you. Says it’s important.”
My stomach wrenches.
Fuck.
No.
Ginny wouldn’t do that. I know we basically declared war on each other last night but she wouldn’t stoop so low as to go after family.
Samson though. He might.
And he was pretty pissed when I left him.
Or at least, he was going to be when he woke up.
I slam the pedal to the floor, find a narrow space between cars, and duck down a side street. The car fishtails a little in a patch of snow and then we rocket up the block.
“Whoa, what the fuck?” Bombay says.
“Me and Ginny got into it last night,” I tell him. “Could be trouble. I’ll drop you at the bottom of the block.”
“Fuck that, bro. It’s your mom. We go in together and we go in hard.”
I reach across and smack him on the chest.
“I love you, brother,” I tell him.
“Love you, too.”
Playing the side streets, we make short time to the house. Under four minutes, and miraculously don’t end up wrapped around a telephone pole. I pull the car in front of the house, onto a bank of snow, scraping the chassis so hard I feel it in my spine, but I don’t care. We dive out of the car and run toward the house.
The front door is unlocked.
I crash into the living room, Bombay right behind me.
And I stop.
Sitting in the center of the living room floor is Rose.
I breathe out hard. My knees weaken, buckle.
Last time I saw Rose was somewhere in Oregon, in the back of a car on a dark country road. I read her a story and she fell asleep. I kissed her mother goodbye and watched their car disappear, my heart shattered, pieces of it clinking onto the roadway. They were off someplace to be safe. Someplace away from me. Because at that point I figured it was the only way to protect them.
Rose looks up at me and smiles. She looks different. Her hair is longer. Her face is a little more grown up.
“Hi Ash,” she says.
I try to say something but I can’t. It’s all I can do to breathe.
It gets even harder when Crystal comes into the living room, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Her hair is different. The last time I saw her, one side of her head was shaved to stubble, the other side draped like a curtain, going down to the small of her back. Now it’s a pixie cut, black highlighted with purple.
But those blue-green tempered glass eyes are exactly the same.
And they light up when they see me.
“Howdy stranger,” she says.
My mom follows behind Crystal, beaming. “Well that was fast.”
“Yeah, Ma, sometimes it’s helpful to clarify, you know, who ex
actly is here.”
Through truthfully, if I knew it was Crystal, I might have made it faster.
We all stand there in cautious silence. Finally my mom throws her hands up in the air. “Bombay, this is Crystal. Why don’t you help me in the kitchen. And Rose, I think I might have some cookies in the cupboard. If that’s all right with you, mom?”
Crystal glances back and nods.
My mom smiles. “Let’s give these two a second to talk.”
Rose runs after the promise of cookies and Bombay follows, probably also interested in the cookies, making a quick introduction to Crystal along the way, and then it’s the two of us in the living room.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask.
She laughs. “It’s nice to see you, too.” Takes a few steps toward me. “Been meaning to visit New York for years. Thought it would be nice to see it at Christmas. And as long as I was here… I looked you up. Wasn’t sure where you were. But I found your mom. Friended her on Facebook. And when she started posting how happy she was that her son was home…”
“I looked for you on Facebook.”
“I’m using a different last name.”
I take a step toward her. The distance between us closing. My vision goes blurry.
Tears sneak up on Crystal’s eyes, too. “I had to see you. I’m sorry if this is a little presumptuous, to show up like this…”
Everything this past year has been such a fucking nightmare. I’ve been running so long and so hard. I was so tired. And finally, finally, it feels like I reached my destination.
This is it.
We close the distance. I take her hand.
“I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.” I glance toward the kitchen, hear Rose laughing. “I missed you both.”
“Good,” she says.
She leans in for a kiss, presses her lips to mine, and it tastes like all I could have ever wanted in this entire world.
The sun peeks through the blinds, gold bands falling across the bed. It’s getting warm, even with the air conditioner humming softly on the far end of the room. I roll over, tangled in blankets. Crystal is on her stomach, breathing softly. I unwrap from the blanket slowly, careful not to wake her. She doesn’t stir. I stand up, pull my charging cord out of my phone. Check the time. Four minutes until my alarm is set to go off. Been doing that a lot lately. Waking up like an actual adult.
I tiptoe through the apartment because Rose will wake at the sound of an eyelash hitting the floor, but then I remember she’s having a slumber party at my mom’s house. It gave me and Crystal the opportunity for a little adult time: Thai takeout from down the block, some wine, Netflix, then passing out on the couch, her nudging me awake somewhere around three in the morning so we could trudge inside to bed.
The best kind of night there ever was.
I shower, sneak back into the bedroom and get dressed. Even though Turk hates me wearing shorts in the office it’s too hot for pants. I used to loathe days like this in Manhattan. The way the city holds the heat, radiating off the brick buildings. The way it amplifies the smell of the trash. The way it makes everyone want to kill each other.
But on Staten Island, it’s not so bad. Maybe it’s being surrounded by water, with fewer tall buildings to block the breeze. Maybe it’s that lack of heated brick and stone looming over you at all times. The heat here feels so much more bearable.
It’s early still so the roads are light. It takes me less than ten minutes to make it up Victory and then down Forest. I park in the shade under a tree so the interior of the car won’t get too hot, stop off at the Dunkin’ across the street, get some coffees and munchkins, make it to the office and open things up. The air is stiff so I turn on the central air, get things moving. Go to my little desk in the back and look at the pile of stuff Turk left me to do.
I sip on my iced coffee, tap the space bar on my keyboard to wake up my computer. The background is a selfie of me and Rose and Crystal on the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island. The phone in my outstretched hand, reflected in my sunglasses. Crystal’s hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Rose’s cheeks flushed red, the color of freshly-picked apples. I see the picture every day and every day it makes me smile.
The workload today looks light. Mostly filing. Things have been quiet. Even though I’m past the donkeywork stage, even though Turk has been letting me do stuff a little more in-depth—door knocking, stakeouts—I like doing the grunt work. There’s something calming about filing. About making sure everything is in its place.
Anyway, it’s not like there’s anyone else to do it. Turk’s daughter used to help with that stuff, but soon as I showed up, she went back to doing kid stuff. Which is exactly what she should be doing. Though sometimes if she sees me cleaning the office, she’ll give me a hand.
She’s a good kid. So is Rose. I like being surrounded by good kids. Gives me hope.
My phone buzzes.
Have to run an errand. Going to be a few minutes late. Hold down the fort.
I write back: 10-4, captain.
As I’m sorting the stack to make it easier to file, there’s a sound from the front of the office. The front door. I pick up my coffee and make my way down the carpeted hallway to the waiting room.
Standing in the middle of it is a woman. She’s young, maybe early-30s. Blonde hair. Pretty. White tank, jean shorts, sandals. Eyes rimmed in red. She’s been crying. She looks at me with that look people usually have on their face when they come in here. Like it’s their last option. That mix of fear and hope that jabs me right in the fucking heart every time I see it.
She starts to speak, but chokes on her words. Fighting back more tears.
Takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s my brother. He’s missing…”
I cross the room to her, take her hand, sit her down on a chair. Pull another chair over so I’m sitting across from her, our knees almost touching. I give her a small smile, press her hands together between mine. Her shoulders unknot a bit.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m here to help.”
Five books in three years. I nearly lost my mind, but I didn’t. And that’s thanks to a couple of people: My publisher, Jason, for believing in me, and this series, and letting me see it through to the end. My wife, Amanda, my best and most important reader. My mom, for all the work she’s done to promote these books. My daughter, for making me a better man—Ash starts in a dark place and grows toward the light, and that evolution was thanks to her influence. I could sit here for hours and name countless readers and writers who gave me words of kindness and encouragement, especially when I needed them, but that’d be a whole other book, and I almost hate to do this for fear of who’ll get left out, but a couple of folks deserve special thanks, including Todd, Nik, Alex, Renee, JDO, and the Malmons. Also, thanks to Danny for the hand, and Joey for the intel. I am endlessly thankful to the bookstores and reviewers who took a chance on me and promoted my work. Finally, most importantly, I am thankful for the readers who went on this journey, or just picked up this one book, but either way, forgave me the growing pains of a writer finding his way. Ash has grown a lot over the course of this story, and so have I.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Rob Hart
Cover and jacket design by 2Faced Design
Interior design and formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
ISBN: 978-1-947993-03-7
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First hardcover edition July 2018 by Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street, #211S
Hoboken, NJ 07030
www.PolisBooks.com
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