Violet 24

by Baigh Queen

  “Okay. Hook me up.” He frowns at me so I add, “Please.”

  After a couple of signatures and one printer mishap, I have my library card and Mr. Williams has no problem letting me into the library. It’s odd being around someone so quiet, but I’m glad he’s not asking questions. I’m glad that he isn’t talking about yesterday because if he did I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from ranting. Of course, that’s what I’m here for.

  It takes minutes for the computer to start up and let me online. Each web page takes just a little longer to load, but once I’m on my blog I let loose. I let my fingers fly across the keyboard and do all the talking for me. But this isn’t for me, this isn’t me complaining about the lack of investigation into the explosion, and it isn’t me bitching to strangers online about how Bane is the most useless Sergeant the world has ever seen.

  No, this is me reporting on a serious crime that I just so happened to be involved in. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I type. It’s only when I’m about to hit the big orange PUBLISH button that I begin to have my doubts. The repercussions to an article like this could cause a lot of pain and trouble, or it could go completely unnoticed by the world like most of my other posts. I wet my lips, biting down hard on my bottom one.

  With my eyes squeezed shut I press hard on the left mouse button and when I find the courage to open my eyes the post is up. It’s live and out there for the internet to read. My stomach is doing flips again and I almost want to take the post down.

  But then I remember Anna and how she could go to the Olympics one day. It’s a weird thought to suddenly have, but I’m thinking about how she could go there and win a gold medal and if I hadn’t been walking by the park that would have never happened. All those kids would never have had the chance to send out college applications, to experience their first love, to learn to drive a car or all those other cliché things people do in their youth. None of it. They wouldn’t even hit double digits.

  I quickly log out and shut the computer down. There’s no way I’m taking that article down. If Bane won’t investigate the Roundabout Bomber then someone has to, and maybe I’ll get more information if people know I’m looking for it.

  I grab my crutches and head for the door when I see the headline of the newspaper. Mr. Williams is holding it up in that classic old man way; I almost expect him to fold it down and have a pipe in his mouth. But I stall as I read the front page.

  “Fireworks Cause Propane Tank Explosion in Park?” I read aloud. My jaw tenses.

  Mr. Williams lowers the paper and looks at me. I say, “Thanks for the library card.” There’s no kindness behind it, no small town love. I hobble my way out the front doors and down the steps, next destination in mind.

  Chapter Five

  Brett must know that I’ve figured out why he took my newspaper, because as soon as he sees me enter the Starbucks, barely using my crutches anymore, he turns around to make a drink. There’s nobody in the store except a few retirees, and all of them have their orders already. I step up to the counter and a perky girl with streaks of purple in her hair asks what I would like.

  “I would like that jackass over there to come over here,” I tell her. Her flawless smile never falters.

  “Brett,” she calls, still looking at me, “you have a customer.”

  Brett freezes and I see his shoulders slump. The purple haired girl, whose name tag reads Jazz, walks off and starts to wipe down the drinks counter while Brett stays in place.

  “I can see you,” I say, “you aren’t invisible and you know I have nowhere to be.”

  His head falls back and he finally turns. “I thought it would take you a little longer to get here with that sprain.”

  “Anger fuels me,” I reply. I rest the crutches on the counter and cross my arms. “What was the point of stealing my paper? I was going to find out eventually.”

  “I thought you could use the rest.” Brett folds his arms on top of the computer, resting his chin on his forearms. “You had a concussion; I thought—”

  “Well stop thinking for me,” I cut him off. “I appreciate that you were trying to do a good deed and all, but I don’t need the charity. I can look after myself. I don’t need some tattooed Adonis protecting me.”

  I pause. Wait, that sounded like a compliment. I furrow my brow, unsure of where those words came from as Brett’s lips curve into a smile.

  Panicking, I say, “Get me a damn coffee.”

  “Only if you don’t throw it on my Adonis face.”

  “No promises.”

  Brett laughs and turns around, quickly getting my usual order. He nods his head towards the single table against the wall I always use and adds, “Go sit down, I know how you take it Miss Ten Sugars.”

  “I told you I’m fine on my own,” I huff out. I reach my hand out but Brett doesn’t hand it over.

  Instead he says, “And how are you going to limp your way from here to the condiments and then to your table with your crutches?”

  “It’s only a sprain, I don’t even need these to walk.”

  Brett just gives me a pointed look and I cave. I pick up my crutches but don’t use them as I walk to the table, wincing each time I put my injured foot down. I’m more grateful than ever that my back is to Brett in that moment.

  As soon as I sit down Brett’s placing my coffee in front of me. Large dark roast with four sugars and soy milk. Its aroma is better than anything I could make at home but before I take my first sip I have to ask, “It’s not actually ten sugars, right?”

  “It might as well be nothing but sugar in my opinion.”

  “Yeah, well, studies have shown that people that drink their coffee black are more likely to be sociopaths, so…” I take a sip of coffee and sigh. “But I guess I can live with that if you keep bringing me coffee...for free?” I peek at him.

  “Yes, since I guess it was kind of...dumb of me to, well, you know.”

  “Hide the newspaper when I have a television and basic cable?” I take another sip of coffee, raising my eyebrows at him.

  His face falls. “I didn't think our generation watched the news.”

  “We do, when we have no phone or computer.”

  “I suppose I can't bribe you to not confront the Sergeant, can I?” There's a serious tone in his voice, no more jokes. I set my cup on the table, wrapping my fingers around it as I debate telling him what I’ve just done at the library.

  “I'm not going to bother with Bane,” I say, “at least not about the case. I will have to get my computer back though; I can't afford another one.”

  “Why don't you wait an hour and I'll go with you? You know, to make sure you aren't arrested and he isn't murdered.”

  I want to say no, since this is just Brett trying to protect me again, but I find myself saying, “Sure.”

  He has a point anyway; with him there I have a better chance of getting my things back, and maybe he can stop me from saying something stupid again. Of course, when I see Bane there's no telling what might happen.

  Brett nods at me and taps a knuckle on the table before heading back around the counter. Now I'm sitting at my table, about as bored as I usually am but with no silly cat videos to distract me. It’s weird being up so early, I feel as if I should be heading somewhere important, or at least working on something. It usually takes two alarms just to wake me up, yet here I am already onto my third coffee and another article done for the blog, and it isn’t even noon.

  I turn and watch Brett work for a moment, noticing his sleeves have been rolled up to reveal part of his koi tattoo. He’s never mentioned what the fish means, but I know there’s two of them hidden up there. Then again, I’ve never asked. I quickly turn back around before he can notice me staring and turn my attention to the people outside.

  Well, person. There’s someone standing across the street at the bus stop playing on their phone.

  “Lucky,” I mutter behind my cup. I hasn’t even been half an hour since I left the l
ibrary and I want to know if my post has gotten any hits. There’s a slim chance, since my other posts only average about fifty if I’m lucky, but this one involves something more than speculation from a distance. I was in this one. Front and center.

  The doorbell over the front door rings and in walks Lily. She’s dressed in her paramedic uniform and looking a little worse for wear. There are large bags under her eyes and the normally tight ponytail she keeps is falling loose. In an almost zombie-like state she shuffles past me and gets a large latte from Brent. I watch her the entire time and only say, “Morning Lily,” as she tries to shuffle past me again.

  She pauses and looks at me, her eyes distant. She blinks once, then twice, and then shakes her head. “Oh, hey! How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I reply. “How are you feeling?”

  “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “It shows.” I take a drink as Lily lets that process. Her eyes fall to the empty chair across from me before turning back to me. She shifts her weight from one foot and then the other, standing awkwardly until I ask, “Did you wanna join me?”

  Lily sits immediately, all but falling into the wooden chair. “I was looking up that guy.”

  “That guy?”

  “The Roundabout guy you told me about,” she said, her voice hushed. She’s leaning close to the table now, and I do the same as if we’re sharing juicy gossip over cocktails. “I looked up everything.”

  “You’re not working today, are you?”

  “No, I’m off. Why?” Her head tilts to the left.

  “You’re in your uniform.” My eyes flash to her black shirt and the EMS badge on her sleeve.

  “Right, because I was looking up that guy,” she confirms. “I get sort of obsessed when I start reading stuff. I did the same thing when I was training to be a paramedic. He’s like, a really scary dude.”

  “He did set off a bunch of bombs,” I say.

  “Not because of that, because he taunted people first,” she says. She looks down at her latte, a wrinkle forming between her perfectly filled in eyebrows. “He wrote those notes to attract people to the hat, to attract kids. Then the song plays and…” Her voice trails off and she brings her cup to her lips but she doesn’t drink.

  “I know.” Maximum terror.

  Lily bites on the inside of her cheeks as she leans back. Her eyes meet mine before she pushes them back down to her cup. “The reports say it was an accident.”

  “I know,” I repeat.

  “Some kids playing with fireworks and the propane tank went up.”

  “Yup.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  I have to blink at her until those words register in my head. “What?”

  “It takes a lot of heat to blow up a propane tank,” she says, “and I get that whole think horses not zebras when you hear hooves but that? It just doesn’t make sense to me. Not when you’re saying what you are.”

  “Some people might say I hit my head too hard,” I remind her.

  She huffs and gives me a hard look. “You didn’t hit your head that hard.”

  “Yeah, but who are you gonna believe? Me or the Sergeant?”

  “Me, the person who treated you.”

  I let out a small chuckle. “Would you go on record with that?”

  “Absolutely.” There’s no hesitation in her answer, no doubt. I’m taken aback by how quickly she answers; nobody ever answers that quickly if it means they’re ass is on the line. Especially if it’s on the line for me.

  I have no words. My mouth is hanging open and I’m starting to think it may stay that way for the rest of my life. People are being too unpredictable lately, maybe because a bomb went off. At least that’s what I attest it to.

  Lily watches me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m wondering just how hard I hit my head,” I admit. I shake my head as I take a drink of coffee.

  “Not hard, it was more the shock of the event that got you, I think,” Lily say. I nod, unable to do anything else. I’m holding down the words that admit what I’ve done on my blog; they’re like a little rock in my stomach and my body is trying to push them out.

  I go over the pros and cons of telling Lily, but then I remember what my dad would say. “You just want validation. It wouldn’t be a meaningful part of the conversation.”

  Yeah, my dad’s a psychologist. And he liked to analyze the crap out of me. So instead of telling Lily anything I just revel in the fact that someone believes me and sip at my coffee. We each stay in the silence, and I know I’m enjoying her presence a lot more than she’s enjoying mine. Every so often her mouth opens slightly and then closes, and no words come out. Maybe she has a rock in her stomach, too.

  I want to comfort her but that’s a skill I don’t have. Of all the psychology my dad taught me comforting someone in their time of need was not part of it. And honestly I never needed much comforting myself--my life was pretty cushy. Now that I’m watching Lily nearly break from something I told her, I almost wish I hadn’t said a thing to her. Almost.

  “You should go home,” I tell her quietly. “Get some sleep.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I won’t sleep anyway.”

  “Well, I’m going with Brett to try and get my stuff from Bane.” I scratch the back of my neck and try not to look behind me at Brett. If I do I feel like I might stare again. “Did you wanna join us?”

  There’s a pause that I’m sure isn’t intentional as she looks up at me. Then the corner of her mouth quirks into a tired smile. “Sure, if only to watch you yell at him again.”

  I purse my lips, wondering if that’s all I’m known for.

  Chapter Six

  The police station isn’t as small town as the hospital; but it’s not exactly big city either. It was built in the 1800’s and still has that old timey feel to it, with the dark bricks and stone roof that has Goderich Police Station etched into it. It looks pristine, and I’m not quite sure why the town works so hard to keep it that way; it’s not like we have crime.

  Well, we didn’t.

  Brett’s no longer wearing his apron, and he’s changed into a navy blue long sleeve tee-shirt. He looks annoyingly awake for having such an early shift, but then again as I catch my reflection in the front windows so do I. Lily is the only one that looks, and even kind of sounds, like a zombie. Every so often she’ll moan or grunt as we walk, the sole indication that she’s still with the living.

  I stand beside Brett with my crutches under my arms, hoping to whoever is watching over me from above that I’ll be able to keep my cool.

  “Do you want me to go in?” he asks. “It might be easier.” His eyes fall to my crutches and I can see him imagining me smacking Bane over the head with them. I have to smile at the image, but my smile falls at the thought of being arrested. A concussion will only let me get away with so much.

  “No, I want to get my stuff.”

  “I’m just saying maybe--”

  “And I’m just saying I’m doing it.” To prove my point I drop my crutches and limp forward, forcing as little weight on my injured foot as I can. The crutches land on the concrete with a clatter. Brett and Lily hadn’t even tried to catch them.

  “So we’re just leaving these here?” Brett calls. I don’t turn around but I watch his reflection bend over to pick up the wooden devices as I open the front door.

  The first thing I’m hit with as I walk inside is the scent of lavender, the second is a full bottle of water to my forehead. I shout and stumble, falling hard on my injured foot which makes my knees buckle, and I crumble to the floor.

  “Shit,” I hear someone mutter. I’m rubbing my new wound with eyes shut as I hear a thud, and then there are two very strong hands pulling me up. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, “I think. Thank—” I open my eyes to find Bane towering over me.

  He arches his eyebrows. “Go on, finish the sentence.”

  I squint. “Maybe later.”

  Behind hi
m a deputy scrambles to get handcuffs on Ethan Wayson, town drunk. I lean on my left foot, resting an elbow on the nearby counter as I watch them haul him away, saying, “Back to the drunk tank, Wayson.”

  “You have good timing,” Bane says, drawing my attention back to him. The door behind me opens, and Brett walks in followed by Lily. She’s a little more awake now, and she shoves Brett out of the way to put her hand on my face. She yanks my chin towards her, lowering me to her level and eyeing my forehead.

  I pull away. “Relax, it was a water bottle, not a bomb.”

  “Please tell me you aren’t here—” Bane begins but I cut him off.

  “I’m here for my stuff, that’s it.”

  Bane glances at Brett and Lily. “Right.” He looks over his shoulder and calls, “Swanson, grab Weaver’s stuff from the back.”

  A skinny cop, almost a teenager, darts from behind the counter and around the corner. I turn my attention back to Bane, in his too tight to be real law enforcement shirt, and his wide stance that’s probably meant to intimidate me. I ask, “What’s the catch?”

  Brett leans in close, letting out a breath along my ear. “Maybe don’t ask that.”

  I swat him away and lean as casually as possible on the counter, trying to achieve a look that says “I totally didn’t just fall after getting clocked with a bottle and my foot totally isn’t killing me right now”. I’m not sure if it works, but Bane doesn’t grin at me so that’s a good sign.

  “Catch?” he echoes. “What catch?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She means you two hate each other and you’re more likely to keep her things in evidence rather than give them back.” The answer, oddly enough, doesn’t come from Brett. It sounds a little like something he would say, but it’s Lily’s mouth the words come from. We all turn to her, her bloodshot eyes distant as she stares at Bane.