Things You Won't Say

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “Do you think she enjoyed doing it?”

  Lou had frowned. “It’s hard to say.” She’d realized she was squirming and she tried to be still. The therapist was waiting for her to elaborate, so she might as well.

  “I actually don’t have a lot of memories of my mother,” she’d said. “She died when I was twelve, so . . .”

  The therapist had looked up suddenly. “What do you remember?” she’d asked.

  “Almost nothing,” Lou had said. The therapist had waited. “Nothing, really.”

  The therapist had just nodded and written something else in her pad.

  “Is that strange?” Lou had asked. That was the thing about therapy; it made you curious about yourself. Which led to more sessions and more money for the therapists. Sneaky, that therapy.

  “I wouldn’t say strange,” the shrink had said. “Sometimes we block out memories that can cause us pain. It’s the mind’s way of protecting ourselves.”

  “Like selective amnesia?” Lou had asked.

  “In a way,” the therapist had said. She seemed to have a Ph.D. in vague answers.

  “Anyway, most of my memories are of Jamie,” Lou had said. “I have lots of them.”

  “Your sister sounds special to you,” the therapist had said.

  “Yeah,” Lou had said. “She is.”

  They’d talked awhile longer, and the therapist had suggested Lou come back next week, and Lou had nodded politely and canceled the appointment the following day. And that was that for her flirtation with therapy.

  Tabby climbed out of the pool and came over to stand near Lou, her muscular trunk stretching through the fence. Lou reached out and stroked it. An elephant’s trunk was magical—strong enough to uproot a small tree, and dexterous enough to pluck a single blade of grass. Lou thought Tabby might resume pacing, but instead, she stayed by Lou.

  Lou looked into the beautiful creature’s eyes, which seemed endlessly wise, and she kept a hand on Tabby’s soft, rough trunk.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” Lou promised, hoping with her whole heart it would be true.

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  * * *

  CHRISTIE WONDERED IF A tiny piece of her had loved Mike all along. Years ago, she’d been having dinner with a friend who was divorced, and her friend had confessed she hated seeing parts of her ex in their children—she cringed when they talked about going to his alma mater for college, and she let her son grow his hair long, because her ex had always worn his in a military cut. But Christie had never minded seeing Mike’s expressions cross Henry’s face or watching his hair darken until it perfectly matched his father’s. Had that been a clue her feelings for Mike had always been murkier than she’d believed? Sure, they’d had their share of arguments through the years, but those differences had tapered away until they’d stopped altogether a couple of years ago. Christie couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a disagreement with Mike.

  Early on, of course, there had been many. Immediately after Henry was born, when Christie was still aching and dazed, Mike had infuriated her by asking if she’d breast-feed (his timing so exquisitely bad). When she’d said no, he’d tucked a pro-breast-feeding pamphlet into Henry’s diaper bag with a Post-it that said, “Read me, please.” Christie had torn the pamphlet in two and returned it to the diaper bag, and it had eventually disappeared. But Christie had conceded to some of Mike’s wishes. She’d let Mike have Henry baptized, and she’d gone to the ceremony, even though she typically never set foot in churches except for weddings, and even then she sometimes skipped the ceremony and headed straight to the reception. The service was the first time she’d met Mike’s parents and siblings, and she’d breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to sit around with them at holiday meals—his mother was a ninny, the brothers talked over one another in a nonstop game of one-upmanship, and the whole group seemed loud and larger than life, except for the father, who kept sneaking out to his car to turn on the radio and listen to, inexplicably, weather updates.

  Christie glanced at the kitchen clock. She’d texted Mike that morning to let him know Henry had gotten safely off to sleepaway camp and to confirm the meeting with Elroy. Mike had responded immediately, saying he’d be at the spot of the shooting at the appointed time.

  Now only an hour remained until she’d see him again. She felt a tingle in her lower belly and she went to get dressed in the outfit she’d chosen after some deliberation—her most flattering jeans and a simple pink cotton top. She didn’t go overboard with her makeup, either. She wanted to connect with Mike honestly. If he was having serious issues with Jamie, as she suspected, she’d be a friend for him. And, someday, maybe more. She wondered how Mike felt about her now. Maybe that was why Jamie had been so awful to her; maybe she felt threatened. Christie felt the ire rise inside her as she thought again about how Jamie had degraded her.

  From now on, she was going to interact with Mike directly. That’s how it should have been all along. How had Jamie managed to worm her way between them, with her tight-lipped, superior smiles?

  Christie looked in the mirror as she applied a clear lip gloss. There definitely were lines around her eyes, spreading outward like cracks in a mirror, and her lips seemed a little thinner, too. Aging was like climbing aboard a train—it started gradually, the scenery outside your window changing so slowly you weren’t sure if everything else around you was shifting or if it was you that was moving, then it accelerated suddenly, catching you off guard. Maybe that was part of the reason most of the things she’d wanted a decade ago had lost their luster. Trips to Vegas and Cancún were expensive, partying even more than two nights a week left her exhausted and haggard, and living in a crummy apartment no longer seemed as if it was a stepping-stone to something better; it was pathetic. The truth was, she’d been scarred by Simon and Jim, and by the guys before them, too, like the one she’d married who’d had a dozen texts from other women on his iPhone when she scrolled through it a week after their wedding. Then there were the guys who’d had sex with her, given a satisfied grunt, rolled over, and gone to sleep without a word. Their faces blended together, all of the men who’d taken her for granted or used or mistreated her.

  She applied a single squirt of Bobbi Brown’s Beach perfume to the hollow of her throat and went downstairs to wait for Elroy in the lobby. He pulled up a few minutes later in his ancient Volvo, and she got in the passenger’s side, brushing fast-food wrappers off the seat and hoping there weren’t any lingering ketchup smears before sitting down.

  “Mike meeting us there?” he asked.

  Christie nodded.

  “I got that Mace you wanted,” Elroy said. He gestured to the glove compartment, and Christie opened it. Inside was a small canister with a nozzle. Christie took off the cap, and Elroy nearly drove off the road. “Mind not aiming that thing at me? I got you industrial strength.”

  “Sorry,” Christie said, replacing the cap.

  It would be intensely satisfying to wait in the darkness outside Jim’s house, biding her time until he took out the trash. Bam! She’d squirt the entire canister into his face. She pictured him in his boxers and bare feet—they were probably stark white and hairy—writhing helplessly on the ground, tears streaming from his eyes. She’d never asked Elroy what happened to the video, but she hoped Jim’s wife had seen it, and had run far away from him.

  “Got a few new cases,” Elroy said. “Up for starting again tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Christie said. She ran her fingers over the cool metal of the can. It would never be out of her reach.

  Elroy cut down a side street, then took a sharp right, following a path to downtown that Christie had never before taken. “Is this a shortcut?” she asked.

  Elroy nodded. “At this time of day, with traffic, it’s usually the quickest. If it wasn’t rush hour, I’d take the bridge.”

 
“Are you one of those people who can drive anywhere if you’ve been there once?” Christie asked, thinking of Lou.

  “Guess you could say that,” Elroy said.

  Christie pulled down the passenger’s-side visor to check herself in the mirror, suddenly feeling nervous about seeing Mike again, which was equal parts silly and thrilling. A picture of a woman was clipped to the visor. She had curly blond hair and a big smile.

  “Who’s this?” Christie asked.

  Elroy kept his eyes on the road. “My wife,” he said.

  “You’re married?” Christie asked. Somehow it surprised her; would a married guy drive a car full of fast-food wrappers and dress like that?

  “Ex-wife,” Elroy mumbled.

  “Sorry,” Christie said. Something clicked into place; she thought she knew why Elroy had taken on this job. “Did she cheat on you?” Christie blurted.

  “No.” He shook his head.

  Christie frowned; she would’ve bet money that she was right. They drove another mile, with Elroy expertly weaving in and out of traffic, then he broke the silence.

  “I cheated on her,” Elroy said. He cleared his throat. “And I lost her.”

  Christie sensed the pain contained in those simple words, and she reached out and touched his hand. Sweet Elroy, with his courtly manners and cowboy hat, had probably messed up the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  “Anyway,” Elroy said, his voice businesslike now, “this week we’ve got a wife who found a pair of panties in her husband’s car. He tried to blame it on the parking lot attendant at his office, said he must’ve been having a little fun during his break, but she knows. He’s in a bowling league on Thursday nights, so you can catch him there.”

  “Is she sure he really bowls?” Christie asked.

  Elroy nodded. “She followed him once. She did as much as she could on her own before calling us. Then we’ve got a bride-to-be who’s worried about what went on at the bachelor party. The wedding’s in six days, so we need to move fast. In this case we’ll need you to try to get the story out of the groom if he doesn’t come on to you.”

  “I’m ready,” Christie said. She closed the visor, sealing away the photo of Elroy’s ex-wife. She wondered if he regretted telling her.

  They rode in silence until they reached the scene of the shooting and she saw Mike. Elroy pulled into the parking lot and turned off the ignition. Mike didn’t seem to notice their arrival; he was standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, at a memorial of dying flowers, a teddy bear, and a spray-painted RIP JOSE across the pavement.

  Christie opened the car door and hurried toward him. “Hi,” she said. She turned around and waited for Elroy to approach. “This is Elroy. Elroy, this is Mike, my—” She paused. In the past, she’d introduced Mike as “my son’s father.” But today, something made her say “my good friend.”

  She saw Mike smile at her, as if he understood the shift in the relationship.

  “Thanks for coming,” Mike said. He reached out and shook Elroy’s hand.

  Elroy nodded. “Can you walk me through what happened?” he said. “Then maybe we can go talk.”

  Mike nodded. “Sure,” he said, although Christie saw a white line form around his lips, vivid against his tan skin. She hadn’t thought about how difficult this would be for him. She wondered whether Mike had returned to this spot since the shooting.

  “We, ah, entered from this angle,” Mike said. He took a few steps away from them and twisted to the right. “Jay was ahead of me.” Mike pointed. “And the, ah, the teenager was over there. When it happened, I mean. About where the flowers are.”

  “Okay,” Elroy said. “Just take me through it, nice and slow, from the beginning.” He didn’t write anything down or video­tape it, but Christie saw how carefully he was watching. He was motionless, his eyes fixed on Mike.

  “We got the call and pulled in. We left the cruiser there.” Mike gestured to a spot near Elroy’s battered Volvo. “Jay, the guy I was partnered with, he started running,” Mike said. “He pulled out his pepper spray and held it up.” Mike’s hand went to his belt and he demonstrated. Mike seemed almost in a trance now, his words a soft monotone. “That’s about when I got hit. I spun around. When I turned back, Jay was ahead of me. He’s yelling for the guy to freeze, then I see the motion to grab a weapon. I see the gun come up and I draw and shoot.”

  Elroy nodded. Christie held her breath. Mike was staring straight ahead, to where Jose had fallen. She watched as Mike slowly approached that spot, then got down on his knees and touched a finger to one of the dying red roses. Christie thought she saw his lips move.

  Elroy gave him a moment. “Let’s go through it again,” he said. “Christie, can you take Jay’s spot?”

  Elroy went over and stood next to the memorial. He looked around, and Christie saw him taking in the parked cars nearby, the building behind them, the road running parallel. Elroy was odd, but something in his expression told Christie he was brilliant.

  While Christie walked over to where Jay had been standing, an old car that needed a new muffler slowed down as it cruised by the parking lot. The young guy at the wheel wore reflective sunglasses, but Christie thought he was staring at them. When she looked back, though, the car turned the corner and disappeared.

  “Okay,” Elroy said. “Let’s do it.”

  He took them through the scene three more times, like they were actors preparing for a play.

  “Why isn’t he saying anything?” Mike asked Christie at one point while Elroy squatted down in the position Jose had held at the time of the shooting, shielding his eyes as he stared in the direction Mike and Jay had come from.

  “He’s busy thinking,” Christie said.

  Finally Elroy straightened up and came toward them, his gait in his old cowboy boots as unhurried as ever. “You guys know Jay worked in California before coming here, right?” Elroy asked.

  “No,” Mike said. “Actually I didn’t. I barely talked to the guy. He couldn’t shut up, so I always tried to tune him out.”

  “Well, it’s not like the prosecutor is going to volunteer any information to you,” Elroy said. “Anyway, he put in three years on the force. I talked to his old partner. He couldn’t say enough good about the man.”

  Christie stared at Elroy. By now she knew him well enough to know more was coming.

  “Then I talked to another guy on the force. Off the record, of course,” Elroy said. “He wasn’t so keen on Jay.”

  Mike’s expression transformed; his eyes turned bright and his face grew alert. “What’d he say? You’ve got something, don’t you?”

  “They pulled over a car once and Jay missed seeing a bag of coke on the passenger’s floor,” Elroy said. “Guy had a piece in the glove compartment, too. He didn’t reach for it, but they never would’ve found it if the other officer hadn’t spotted the coke. Thing was, Jay was standing on that side of the car. He was closer.”

  Christie felt a flush of excitement. “I’m telling you, there could be something wrong with his eyes!”

  Elroy quashed that hope. “He would’ve undergone a vision test regularly to be a cop.”

  “But he missed seeing something important,” Mike said.

  “That he did,” Elroy agreed.

  Mike closed his eyes for a second and swallowed hard. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

  “Hey, it’s not going to win you the case,” Elroy said. “There’s still the issue of the missing gun.”

  Christie caught motion out of the corner of her eye and saw the same old car driving past the parking lot again. She reached into her purse for her Mace and closed her fingers around the cool metal.

  “Maybe we should go somewhere else to talk?” she suggested.

  She saw Mike follow her eyes and take in the car. “Yeah,” he said. “Probably a good
idea.”

  “You want to follow us?” Elroy suggested.

  “Actually,” Mike said, “I took the Metro here. I, ah, had to turn in my cruiser a while ago.”

  “So hop in,” Elroy said. Christie felt as if she couldn’t get into Elroy’s Volvo quickly enough. The old car was still there, idling at the stop sign. There were three guys in it now. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought there had been only one previously.

  Maybe the guys had known Jose. Maybe they’d recognized Mike.

  She and Mike and Elroy all climbed into the car without another word, and Christie locked her door.

  “So where to?” Elroy asked, starting the engine and pulling out the exit that would put them farthest away from the idling car.

  “Why don’t we head back toward my place?” Christie said. “We can get a drink around there.”

  Mike kept twisting around to look out the back window, and Elroy’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror every minute or so. “Are they behind us?” Christie asked.

  “Nope,” Elroy said, and she released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  They were all quiet for the rest of the drive. They found a pub in Arlington and got a table for three. Elroy ordered a vanilla milk shake along with French fries—Christie didn’t want to think about his cholesterol—and Mike asked for a Coke.

  “No beer?” Christie asked. She’d imagined them having a cocktail together, then maybe moving on to dinner. The table was a disappointment, too; she’d been hoping for a booth.

  Mike shook his head. “I’m not drinking anymore.”

  “Since when?” Christie asked.

  “Since now,” he said. “I want my head to be clear.”

  He turned to Elroy. “So what happens next?” Mike asked. “And man, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I don’t know what your hourly rate is—”

  Elroy held up a hand. “You’re not paying me anything,” he said. “Truth is, I kind of like being back on a real case. So, the next step is I want you to write everything down. I know you’ve done it already, but you were probably defensive before, right?”