by Lamar Giles
She pulled a chair from a nearby desk and sat. “Detective Burrows told me your father fought his attacker. They found skin under his nails. That may be helpful, but initial testing isn’t coming up with hits in the state’s database. They’re going to check nationwide, because there are a lot of transient people in the city. They might get lucky.”
“What if they don’t get lucky? What if there are no hits?”
Her eyes flitted to the printer room again.
“Mom?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, I’m interviewing lawyers who may help push the police a bit, make sure they don’t forget about Nathan. Us.”
“Not Dan Harris?”
“Not Dan Harris.”
“Why? He knows us, right?”
“Unfortunately, he does.” She stood as if we were done, taking the box with her.
“Why are you keeping so many secrets from me?”
“Because I love you. Because telling you every little thing in my head and heart won’t help you sleep better, or do well in school, or live the way a child should.”
“Thank you.” I meant it. I wasn’t mad. I only needed the confirmation.
“I’m going to be in my office. Get out of here, go do something fun.”
“I’m almost done.”
“Good. Want to get lunch with me?”
“Can’t. I’ve got plans.”
“With Molly?”
A grin and shrug sold it without me verbalizing a lie.
“Some other time, then.” She left the office, content and none the wiser.
The Xerox machine ran on.
Molly sent several dozen text messages throughout the day while I worked in Dad’s room. My slow response time made her desperate enough to actually call. I answered to stop the harassment and brushed her off by first claiming exhaustion, then lying about dinner with Mom. I wasn’t ready to talk about what happened at the party. She’d have to deal.
On Monday morning, I still wasn’t ready.
Me: mom’s taking me to school early to talk with principal about days i missed. see you in class.
I had a valet drive me to school and never looked at her response.
Forty-five minutes before homeroom and the halls of Vista Rojo were desolate. In the solitude, I repeatedly dialed the mysterious caller on Dad’s fully charged phone. As with the fifty other times I’d called, no answer.
Knowing Molly’s routine, I stuck to alternate routes and corridors as the halls filled, making it all the way through first bell without colliding with her. From there it was a steady string of teacher condolences and awkwardness as everyone tried pretending they weren’t giving me side-eye either for my family tragedy or for what they’d heard about my party meltdown.
I crossed paths with Davis between third and fourth periods. A familiar, yet intensified heat rushing over me. He saw me and didn’t run away, so that was something. Angling away from the flow of hall traffic, we met against a bank of lockers.
“How are you?” he said.
“I’d be better if you’ve got some info for me. Anything on our dads?”
“Right to it, then. No. Not yet. My dad’s been in Atlantic City on business.”
“You haven’t talked to him at all?” Impatience tinged my words.
He frowned. “Yes. This didn’t seem like a phone thing, though.”
Tension crackled between us. It was my fault. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so pushy.”
His head bounced a half nod, like he wanted to agree but couldn’t quite get there. “He’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll talk to him face-to-face.”
“Thank you.” Warning bell rung. “See you in chem.”
I didn’t wait for a good-bye.
I dodged Molly at lunch by striking up a conversation with my guidance counselor about the pros and cons of attending an out-of-state university. Molly passed us on the way to the cafeteria, eyebrows arched high, silently questioning. It was a short reprieve, since she was in chemistry, too. I expected her to be bolder, force my neighbor from his desk. She kept her usual seat, only sent a single text.
Molly: why are you avoiding me?
Me: i’m not. you’re imagining things.
I powered my phone down, packed up my books two minutes before the class bell rang, then hustled into the hall and melted into the crowd. It was simply postponing the inevitable. There was a place where there’d be no hiding and no outrunning my best friend. A place where she was queen, and defying her was an act of treason.
The soccer field.
After final bell, I hit the locker room at a sprint, dressed for practice, and was on the field thirty minutes early. Coach Riley was already there, jotting notes on a clipboard. When she spotted me, she placed her clipboard on the bench and wrapped both arms around me like her prodigal daughter. “Glad to have you back, Tate.”
“Thanks,” I managed, despite having the air squeezed from my lungs.
Coach Riley backed off. “Since you’re the early bird, give me ten laps. You been away too long. Gotta get your motor going again.”
Laps? I’d thanked her too soon.
The first few laps were rough, but I hit my stride on the fourth and it hardly felt like I’d been away at all. There was comfort in the way my cleats gnawed the turf, the way my legs and lungs burned with low heat. Another runner appeared beside me, matching my pace and erasing the comfort.
“Dude,” Molly said.
I exaggerated a gasp. “Been running … a while. Hard to … talk.”
“Are you mad at me for something?”
“No.” That was absolutely true.
“Well, I’m starting to get real pissed at you. We need to talk about Saturday.”
I sped up slightly. “Practice is about to start.”
Molly pulled a Flash, sprinting way ahead in effortless strides, then stopping on a dime directly in front of me, forcing me to a skidding halt. “Fine,” she replied. “Let’s practice. You’re on B squad today.”
“What?”
B squad. Second string. Team captain could assign select starters to B squad if she felt it beneficial for certain scenarios. Traditionally, the move was less strategy, more demoralizing. A demotion ensuring everyone knew you’d fallen from grace. Since making captain at the start of this season, Molly had never exercised the symbolic smackdown. Until now.
“Just for today,” Molly stressed. “Because I know you can’t resist a bet.”
Where was she going with this?
She said, “Anytime it’s you and me one-on-one, if I can shake you, I get to ask you one question—no dodging—after practice.”
“That’s a crap bet! You know how good you are.”
“Fine. When it’s you and me, I’ll only dribble with my left foot.”
Okay. That was a decent handicap. “What do I get for good defense, or if I shake you?”
“I’ll deal at your card games for free. Anytime you stop or juke me, it’s another freebie.”
“Screw that! Too easy.” Also, I didn’t know if there’d be more card games. They hurt.
“What, then?”
“If I get you—even once—I get a demand. A no-strings freebie. You must comply.” She’d hate that. Good bets were anything that made you uncomfortable.
Molly’s hubris didn’t allow for hesitation. She thrust her hand forward. I shook. Deal.
Coach blew the whistle, and everyone hit the grass for burpees and stretches. Then the war began.
My leading B squad on my first day back triggered concerned murmurs from the team (Coach included), but the whistle was god on the field, and soon we were into agility and endurance drills. Intense wasn’t even the right word for how those went. Everyone knew what to do, but Molly barked orders at her group like they were marines on their first day of boot camp. I followed suit, and B squad feared me.
Through the sweat and burn, anticipation drove them because they knew what drill was coming.
Cone goals.
&
nbsp; It’s a drill meant to sharpen offensive and defensive skills. Essentially, it’s one-on-one soccer. Attack and defend. Me vs. You.
Or in this case, Me vs. All-State, top college recruit, undisputed sports killer Molly.
A few B-squad members scrambled the cones in place, forming an approximate rectangle, ten yards by four yards. The four-yard gaps represented the goals Molly and I would take turns defending. The ten yards between those goals, our personal battlefield.
Molly stepped into the perimeter, softened her knees, and shifted her weight toward her toes. “Ball!”
An A-squad member passed the ball into the coned area, and Molly received it on the run, keeping her word by dribbling left-foot only. I rushed to Molly’s right hip, forcing her off balance, hoping she’d cough up the ball. A mistake.
Molly countered with her own hip bump, then lifted her foot over the ball so the outside edge of her cleat controlled it. The way Molly was positioned, I couldn’t even see the ball.
When A-squad cheered and Coach blew the whistle, I knew Molly had scored. One of my B-squad girls chased it down so we could go again.
“That’s one,” Molly said, not mean.
The chaser returned and tossed the ball into me. I dribbled to Molly’s left, keeping the ball to my right. If Molly blocked, I’d stop, spin around her, and shoot from a distance. It was a great plan that I never executed because Molly was a freaking ninja. She swept in, stole the ball, and dribbled directly into my goal.
“That’s two.”
We went again. Molly dribbled, I dropped my shoulder and rammed into her sternum, riling up A squad and knocking the ball loose. I sprinted after it, shot a split second before Molly blocked. Score. Barely.
Molly sneered, and I took pride in rattling her.
On the next possession, she got fancy, popping the ball up with her heel and sending it through my goal with a bounce off her head.
“Three.”
A squad cheered, and I knew Coach stopped this drill whenever someone scored five. On offense now, I had no plans of going down easy. As Molly took her defensive position, I sped up, channeled everything—numbness, rage, grief, isolation. Molly never saw it coming. I mowed her down full force and kept going, one of my cleats catching something meaty, not turf. Molly screamed. I didn’t look back as the whistle blew.
“What are you thinking, Tate?” Coach yelled.
I kicked the ball through Molly’s goal. Turned and saw my friend clutching her injured forearm, blood oozing between her fingers. Accusatory glances assaulted me.
Coach kneeled by Molly, examined her puncture wounds. “They aren’t deep,” she said, uncharacteristically soothing. “Get to the nurse’s office, okay?”
On her feet, Coach stomped to me, pointing her whistle like a weapon. “You’re running for the rest of practice. Only break to throw up. You hear me?”
I processed it but didn’t react.
“Tate! Are you deaf?”
“No.”
“Then run.
I repeated myself. “No.”
“Excuse me?”
I should have felt something. But I didn’t. The next part was easy.
“I quit.”
Walking the perimeter of the school with duffel and book bags, I heard the whistle and bouncing balls as practice resumed. The team would be fine without me. Better without me. My head was elsewhere.
Powering up my phone revealed a missed text.
Mom: What did you print? All the toner from the office machine is gone.
Ignoring it, I called Mr. Héctor at the valet stand. Thirty minutes later, I was in the backseat of a town car heading home. Once there, I went straight to Dad’s room, got back to work on what mattered.
The room became home base. I had taken a few minutes yesterday flagging it in our booking software so no incoming guests would get it. As far as the check-in desk and housekeeping were concerned, my father’s room no longer existed.
Hours sailed by, with a timer going off every fifteen minutes, for another call to F.S. Him not answering was expected but didn’t change my new routine. The quick (perhaps pointless) calls gave me a chance to rest my tired hand. All that writing.
Eating was still a necessity I couldn’t forsake. The absolute best perk of living in a hotel: room service.
After placing my order, I had no reason to believe that the knock at the door was anything but my Cobb salad and Coca-Cola on a rolling cart with good silverware. With a pen behind my ear and the legal pad tucked under my arm, I answered the dainty knocks, instantly regretting it.
Molly, grass-stained, gauze-wrapped, and wearing a no-nonsense expression, said, “By my count, I get three questions. I’ll be asking them now.”
Andromeda’s Palace hotel rooms were designed with a short and narrow entryway giving a restricted view of the room. This allowed guests to open their doors a smidgen while still maintaining a degree of privacy. What happens in Vegas …
I didn’t open the door fully, taking advantage of the design choice. While Molly couldn’t see everything inside, I saw well into the hall and got queasy. She wasn’t alone.
Gavin, in his VR football sweats, face damp and flushed from his own practice, stood at her side. The two of them there, then, wasn’t necessarily a shock, though I had to ask. “How’d you know to find me here?”
“Your mom,” Molly said. “She’s worried.”
Mom knew I’d been spending time in Dad’s room? My paranoia cranked to an eleven. She hadn’t been in here since yesterday, or we would’ve had a sit-down, probably with suggestions of therapy. Could I keep her out of here now? Block her access through the key card system?
“We’re all worried.” Davis sidestepped Gavin, having been fully obscured by my ginormous friend, then wedged his way to the forefront of this, what? Confrontation? Intervention?
“You’re worried?” That familiar, unpredictable rage sizzled. “You don’t have your own problems to deal with?”
Davis flinched, and Gavin’s gaze shifted to the general direction of the elevator.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t go this way. You leave me no choice,” Molly said.
Before I could brace the door with my feet, Molly muscled her way into the room.
“No, don’t—” I grabbed her arm, but it was still practice sweaty. Slippery. Molly slid by easily enough. Caught a glimpse of what I’d done to Dad’s room and shuddered like someone who suddenly found herself in a lion’s cage. Panic and awe.
“Nikki, what the—”
My chest rose and fell too fast, a slight hyperventilation. No one else was supposed to see this. No one else was supposed to know.
Gavin entered, joining Molly. His head on a swivel, taking it all in.
Davis trailed but didn’t join the others. He stayed next to me, took my hand. “What’s wrong? I want to help.”
He hadn’t seen yet. When he did, he’d know his offer of help was laughable. I was way beyond that.
Molly turned her back on my project. “I think you know my first question.”
Davis stepped forward, dropping my hand. To his credit, his body language did not mirror the strangeness around him.
On each wall, on every available space, from the floor to the edge of my extended, tiptoe/stretched-arm reach, were photos. Each one printed on a standard sheet of paper. Hundreds of sheets. Overlapping, but neat. The last few were faded and grainy, the final products squeezed from Mom’s precious toner cartridges. They were the photos Dad took in his last days, arranged chronologically with tape, patience, and a tiny bit of insanity. I could admit that.
Silence and tension. Both thick enough to make the room feel stuffy despite the air-conditioner breeze flapping the photos’ loose edges.
Two hard knocks on the ajar door made everyone jump and spin.
“Room service.”
Molly, with her superior reflexes, jogged over, using her body to obscure the employee’s view into the room. “Thanks. Whatever this is, can you br
ing up three more? We’re going to be here a while.”
“I’ve been retracing his steps. He started taking pictures the night he got home.” I pointed to the wall closest to the entrance, swept my finger right, along the adjoining walls, nearly 360 degrees. “All the way until maybe hours before he died.”
The last picture I printed was taken in the early afternoon outside the Aria. “The police don’t think these pictures are important. I don’t see how they’re not.”
There were trays of half-eaten salads, crusty bread, and empty soda cans on various pieces of furniture throughout the room. They digested their food and my explanation of the CSI-style displays of evidence around them. All eyes bounced about, their reactions hidden. I never figured the best poker faces I’d ever seen would belong to my friends in that moment.
While Molly and Gavin jumped from wall to wall and photo to photo at random, Davis hovered around select sections. Particularly the photos from Dad’s first night. And his fourth, and his ninth. Those were the Nysos photos, Davis’s home. I spent a lot of time on those, too.
Molly interrupted me watching Davis. “Where are you with all this? Do you, like, know anything?”
In a split-second decision, I decided not to mention Dad’s apparent obsession with the Nysos, because awkward, and instead pointed to a grouping of other properties I’d tagged with small yellow Post-it notes. “He was really taken by properties with this sign. I’ve counted at least nine instances of it in different locations.”
The sign read: “Owned and Managed by the Poseidon Group.”
The words were done in a simple white Helvetica font with a golden trident watermark behind the lettering.
“Okay. What’s the Poseidon Group?” Molly asked.
I was embarrassed to answer. “I checked their website. They just seem like some development company. They specialize in small-scale properties. The pictures are taken at some liquor stores, a no-name coffee spot, a barber shop.”
“Why would your dad care about those?”
It’s the very question I’d been asking myself.
My phone buzzed softly on the bed, my timer going off again. The third time since they’d arrived.
