French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  I walked slowly into the carports. It was dark. Only one of the four lights worked.

  Note to self: Check again about more lighting in parking area and fill out maintenance request for back carport lights.

  Crap.

  Note to self: Find maintenance man.

  Crap.

  Note to self: Make sure I don't find him attractive.

  All the parking stalls were filled with cars except for Vincent's assigned space, which was empty. The cement was stained with oil, and the wall looked to have been hit by a bumper on more than one occasion.

  "Tom?" I called out. The air took on an eerie vibe, causing every hair on my arms to stand up. "Hello? Tom? Hello?"

  "Hello," came a familiar voice from behind.

  My heart leapt so far out of my chest, it was sailing over San Francisco about to cross the Oregon border by the time I realized what was happening.

  Without a heart to keep me vertical, I collapsed to the ground and…died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  RIP

  Or so it felt.

  Clutching my chest, I gasped for air, beckoning my heart to return. Tom wrapped his long arms around my trembling frame. "I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized, holding me tighter.

  I clutched his arm, digging my nails into his triceps.

  "Shh," Tom whispered, stroking the back of my head as if petting a dog. "It's OK. It's just me. You're fine."

  Slowly my heart returned to my chest cavity and began beating at a normal rhythm. The feeling returned to my legs and the air to my lungs.

  "You OK?" asked Tom.

  "No," I snapped. "Stop asking me that." I inhaled a long breath through my nose and released it through my mouth. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In, out, in, out…

  Calm down, Cambria. Calm down.

  Stabilized, I turned and gave Tom a fierce stare down.

  "I've got your phone," he said, holding it up.

  "Forgiven." I snatched it out of his hand and unlocked the screen. Eighteen missed calls, a full voicemail box, and seven text messages (one from Amy, five from Tom, and one from AT&T letting me know I was nearing the end of my data usage). All but one of the missed calls were from the emergency line. Residents calling to complain about their apartment manager being arrested, or so I figured. One was from Patrick.

  "Cambria, let's go back now," Tom said. But I was too absorbed in my phone.

  "Cambria!" Tom sounded annoyed.

  "What are you mad about now…" I looked up, and that's when I caught the shadowed figure coming toward us. Crap.

  Tom saw it too. "Let's go." He didn't have to tell me twice! Er, well, actually he did.

  We'd nearly made it out of the parking stall when the shadow revealed its familiar face.

  Alice or, actually, Wysteria.

  My skin prickled in goose bumps. "Hey there," I said, trying to sound casual. "What's up?"

  Wysteria was wringing her hands. She had on the same outfit as earlier, sweatshirt and jeans. Under the glow of the one working light, the bruises on her neck and melasma on her face were faint but still there.

  "I totally just came back, and everyone is gone, and there's a huge mess in the apartment." Her voice cracked.

  I eyed Tom. He wasn't buying it. Neither was I.

  "Sorry about that," Tom said to her. Then he turned to me. "I think I left the car running. Why don't you check on that for me?" His eyes screamed get out now!

  "No!" Wysteria yelped. "I'm glad you're here, Cambria. You were right all along. Vincent and Rev trapped me. They were abusive and mixed up in the wrong crowd. You could see it. You know I had nothing to do with Kenneth Fisk. I'm desperate." She dropped her head into her hands and unleashed a tearless cry. It was a performance worthy of a 1990s made-for-television movie.

  She could be crazy, and according to my theory, she could also be a hormonal criminal. So I humored her. "You're right, Wysteria. I know you didn't have anything to do with all of this. We're not here to get you in trouble. I only wanted my phone."

  She smiled. "I knew you'd understand. I just don't have anywhere to go. I'm, like, totally broke. If only I had some way to get away from Vincent before he makes bail and comes after me."

  She was beginning to tug on my heartstrings. Could I have had this wrong all along? Could she have been trapped? Was she just an innocent bystander?

  "Cambria," Tom quickly jumped in. "Cambria, go back to the office and see if there's any deposit left for Wysteria." His voice was steady, his arms casually at his side. If it weren't for the use of my full name, I'd believe he was being serious.

  He knew something. Something bad.

  "Go, Cambria," he pressed again. I wasn't about to leave him alone. He had no idea she was pregnant. He'd end up dead. Heaven knows I nearly killed him a few times when I was pregnant with Lilly.

  "I need you to come with me to help," I said.

  "Cambria, please don't go. I need to explain to you what happened. Like, I had nothing to do with any of it." She was nervous. I could tell by the way she glanced around and wrung her hands.

  So I humored her.

  "I know the backpack was yours," I said. "You were backed into a corner, tangled in with the wrong people, forced to do things you weren't comfortable with." I paused to clear my throat and find my nerves. "Then you found out you were pregnant, took the car to get away, Vincent found you, and you were stuck. I understand. From one mother to another, let me help you get out of this mess." My goal was to tug on Wysteria's heartstrings, get her to relax enough to trust me and confess.

  My plan failed.

  Click.

  Wysteria held up a black revolver. Much like the one I'd found in the dumpster.

  "You're looking at two to four years right now, and if you pull that trigger, it's life," Tom stated, as if this were a helpful tidbit of information to give to a woman pointing a gun at your face. Men.

  "Shut up and put your hands up, both of you," Wysteria ordered, now holding the gun with both hands. Her feet were spread wide, her eyes focused. Tom held up his palms, and I followed suit.

  "Who told you that the backpack was mine?" Wysteria demanded. "Was it Vincent or Rev?"

  "Neither," I said in a panic. "I put two and two together. That's all."

  Her eyes flickered from Tom to me and back again, as if deciphering if she could trust us. "I wasn't trying to escape from Vincent. I love my Boo. He'd never hurt me. It's all Rev. Do you understand me? It's all Rev!"

  "Rev. Got it," said Tom. "Why don't you put the gun down now."

  "Why? So you can run off and call the police? It wasn't me!" she cried out. "Everything was great until Vincent got mixed up with Rev. He's the one who killed that man. He's the one who put him in the dumpster. I had no idea he was there!"

  I thought back to the conversation between her and Vincent, when she insisted she didn't know. At the time, I had no idea what she was referencing. Now I knew what she didn't know.

  She didn't know Kenneth's body was in the dumpster when she threw her backpack in.

  This explained why Kenneth was covered and the backpack wasn't.

  "You really didn't have any idea," I thought out loud with my hands still high up in the air. The debt, I remembered, and it suddenly all made sense. "Vincent got mixed up with Rev to settle a debt. Is that why you stole the wallets? To help pay?"

  "Shut up!" yelled Wysteria.

  "And Vincent said he would be in prison if it weren't for Rev. Kenneth Fisk witnessed Vincent and Rev dealing, called Joyce to tell her, and Rev killed him before he could?" I was still thinking out loud, forgetting for a moment that a gun was pointed at me.

  "Shut up!" she yelled again.

  "And when you found out Rev killed Kenneth Fisk, you tried to get away because your DNA was all over the backpack. But Vincent found you, worried you'd tell the cops what happened, and brought you ba—"

  "Listen to her and shut up!" Tom cut me off. He looked at Wysteria. "Why don't you put t
he gun down, and we'll forget about it."

  Wysteria stared at Tom as if he were wearing a unicorn costume. "Like you're going to forget about it. I mean, like, your girlfriend here climbed onto our patio. Who does that? You, like, think I didn't see you, Cambria? You think, like, you didn't set this whole thing in motion yourself? Seriously? You think, like, what, I didn't know you were eavesdropping? I saw your reflection in the slider window and gave you Malone's location so this whole thing could be over." She laughed a vile laugh. "You think I'm gonna let you go, like you'd actually forget about this? Like you're not going to call the police and tell them where I am."

  "Think about your baby!" I blurted out. "You don't want to have your baby in prison."

  "I am thinking of my baby. That's the reason I'm here. That's the reason I've done everything I can to get away from Rev." She smiled, raised the gun, and pointed it at my chest. "And I wouldn't want to have my baby in jail. You're right on that one."

  In a slow-moving blur of motion, Tom leaped from my side and knocked Wysteria to the ground. A shot fired. Then another. A horrifying scream echoed around us. It took me a second to realize the shrieks were coming from my own mouth. Involuntarily rocketing from my core—screams of pure horror. I fell to my knees and stared down at the blood. My hands shaking uncontrollably. So much blood. So much…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  In the event of a life-threatening medical emergency, Tenant is encouraged to call 9-1-1 immediately, not the after-hours emergency line.

  Detective Spray was back, except on my turf now. "I know this is difficult for you," she said, forced compassion lacing her words. "Did she mention how long Vincent had been involved with Malone?" I was sitting in the back of an ambulance, my feet propped up on the bumper. I pulled the blanket the paramedic had draped over my shoulders tighter. My body shook as if I were sitting on an ice cap, not in seventy-five-degree October temperatures. The paramedic told me I was coming down from the shock and encouraged me to lie down on the gurney, but I refused. They didn't need to spend time on me. The blood soaking my shirt was not my own.

  Silvia stepped in front of the detective and handed me a glass of water. "Here, drink this." I took it appreciatively, trying not to spill as I brought it to my chapped lips. Silvia readjusted her robe, pulling it around her tiny waist. It was the first time I'd seen her without Harold. "It helps with shock," she explained, sounding as if she spoke from experience. If she could move her face, I think she would have a sympathetic expression.

  She was the first of the residents to pour out of their apartments after the gun went off, the one to call 9-1-1, and the one who wiped away the blood splattered on me.

  "Cambria," the detective said. "Did she mention anything else about Malone?"

  I shook my head.

  "Did she say where she was planning to go?" She pressed, desperate to coax whatever information she could out of me. Unlike the other police officers who had frequented the property, Detective Spray wasn't taking down copious notes on a small pad of paper. Rather, she intently studied my face with her hands settled on her hips. This was hard for her, I thought, trying to drag information out of an emotional witness.

  I brought the water to my lips and took another sip. The cool liquid slid down my scratchy throat, settling my stomach. "Do you know if Chase was released?" I asked her. I told myself I only wanted to know for safety reasons. Not because I cared what happened to him. Nope. Not at all.

  "She gave you nothing else on Malone?" Spray asked again.

  It was clear the detective only cared about Malone. How many times was she going to ask?

  "No more mentions of Malone?"

  At least once more apparently.

  I shook my head again. "She mostly talked about getting away from Rev."

  "OK, that's enough for now, I guess. I may need to ask you more questions later."

  A lump formed at the base of my throat. "I'll have to check with my attorney first," I said, turning around. Tom was strewn across the gurney inside the ambulance.

  When the gun had fired, I'd fallen to the ground with a bloodcurdling scream. Then I'd gone to Tom.

  He had rolled off Wysteria, clutching his arm. Blood had spread across his shirt and all over Wysteria, who lay in an unnatural position, comatose. I'd grabbed the gun and swooshed it across the cement, under the row of cars.

  "Tom," I had sobbed, carefully placing his head in my lap. "You're such an idiot. What is wrong with you?" I'd ripped his shirt open to find the source of the bleeding. "Where does it hurt?" I'd asked, not seeing any blood.

  "My arm," he'd groaned.

  "Arm?" I had pulled his sleeve over his shoulder and found the half-inch opening where a bullet had grazed. "Oh, it's just a graze. What is wrong with you? You could have died." I had been so mad and so relieved.

  Concerned voices had begun gathering around us. I had paid no attention. Instead, I'd looked at Wysteria. Pools of blood had formed underneath her, spreading across the cement. Her lower abdomen had been drenched in crimson. Tom had rolled to his side and sat up with my assistance. "What can we do?" I'd asked.

  He'd winced as he rose to his knees. "Take this off me," he'd ordered, nodding toward his shirt. I'd immediately done as told (for once) and yanked the shirt off, forgetting about the wound on his arm.

  "Dammit, Cam. Careful."

  "I'm so sorry. You OK?" He'd given me a look. "I mean, aside from the gun wound thing?"

  He'd shaken his head and used his uninjured hand to point to the shirt. "Apply that to her abdomen."

  I'd done as instructed and applied pressure to the wound on her stomach, soaking Tom's shirt. He'd scooted closer, cradling his arm, and leaned down. "Can you hear us?" he'd asked Wysteria.

  Her eyes had fluttered open, and she'd gasped for air, looking panicked. "Don't move," I'd told her. She'd coughed and lurched around, moaning. "Stay still."

  A man in flannel pajamas had come to her side, claiming to be a podiatrist and a friend of a resident—which one, I'd forgotten the moment he'd told me. I'd only kept screaming that her feet were fine.

  The firemen and the police had arrived shortly after, along with several EMTs, who'd replaced my bloody hand with their gloved ones. "We've got it," one of the EMTs had reassured me.

  "Wait," Wysteria had moaned. "I really didn't touch Kenneth," she'd told me in a barely audible whisper, and I believed her.

  I hadn't known what to say to that, so I'd said nothing. Scooting backward on my butt, I'd leaned against the wall. My legs and arms and hands and feet had been shaking uncontrollably as I'd watched the scene unfold, feeling as if I had been looking through someone else's eyes. The paramedics had worked on Wysteria, one holding her head still, talking to her in a calm yet firm voice. The other two had been inspecting the wound, pulling instruments out of their medic bag. Around the corner had come another man in uniform with the gurney. The wheels had rolled over the blood. A police officer had been trying to talk to me, but his words weren't making sense. Then the ill-fitted gray suit detective had walked up, and she too had been trying to talk to me. One of the fireman had been tending to Tom, whose blood-soaked shirt was at my feet.

  It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse.

  The sun rose, bathing the dark sky in blue and yellow hues and the ground in glistening dew. The police cars pulled out of the parking lot, one by one. The ambulance had long since left with Wysteria. I turned to Tom, who was lying in the back of the ambulance. He had a butterfly bandage over his brow while the paramedic wrapped his arm in gauze. "She wants to ask more questions later," I told him.

  He gave a thumbs-up.

  "I guess that'll be fine," I turned and told the detective. "Only, one more thing I forgot to mention." She looked at me, hopeful. "Rev did kill Kenneth Fisk. Wysteria told me before they rushed her to the hospital."

  The corners of her mouth turned downward. "I know. I'll be in touch." It sounded more like a warning than a farewell.

  Sh
e strolled off to her unmarked black sedan, removing the flashing red and blue light from the dashboard.

  I know?

  Then why the hell did she accuse me of it?

  The blanket slipped off my shoulder as the chills subsided. The boyish-faced officer who had escorted me through the police station was standing near the entrance to Apartment 39, talking to Larry and Silvia. Larry had his arms folded over his Van Halen shirt, wide stance, and rocked slightly from side to side. Silvia had her hand spread over her chest.

  "Excuse me!" I called. The boyish officer held a finger up to Silvia and Larry before dashing to my side.

  "What's wrong?" he asked. I swore he wasn't a day over twelve, fifteen at most. He did look rather agile and eager though, which was exactly what I needed.

  "It's my phone," I said. It was still on my mind. Pathetic, yes. "It's somewhere in the carports, and I need to call my babysitter to let her know why we are so late picking up our daughter. Could you find it for me?"

  He quickly obliged. A few minutes later, I was reunited with my phone. The screen had a few cracks on the bottom but still worked. I unlocked the home screen and sent a quick text to Mrs. Nguyen.

  Next, it was time to call Patrick.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Upon move-out, Landlord or Landlord's Agent will inspect Premises to determine the amount of deposit applied in order to return Premises to a re-rentable state.

  "What's this for?" Patrick asked, nudging the plastic thimble-looking thingy with the end of his pen. There were several scattered across the bathroom counter of Vincent's apartment. I shrugged, not having a clue, and continued to snap pictures with my phone.

  Patrick stalked down the hall, his yellow notepad tucked under his arm, already filled with three pages of notes. He tapped a box with his toe, shaking his head and making another note.

  When I had called Patrick the morning of The Incident, as Tom and I called it, he'd answered with the voice of a man who had reached his very last straw. He'd nearly fired me on the spot before I greeted him with a pleasant salutation of, "I'm sitting in an ambulance and was just held at gunpoint and as a hostage for the second time tonight."