Violet 24

by Baigh Queen

  Bane wets his lips and shifts his shoulders. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Really?” I question. “Even after you declared the explosion an accident?”

  “Oh no,” Brett mutters. “Swanson, you getting back here anytime soon?” He looks around Bane, but nobody is there.

  Bane scoffs. “I knew you were gonna do something.”

  “Oh yeah, I did something all right, I—”

  “Haven’t gotten your stuff yet,” Brett interrupts. His tone is so tense it makes my spine rigid.

  But the damage is done and somehow Bane manages to stand even taller than he already is. I resist an audible gulp, letting the saliva pool in my mouth before Deputy Swanson scoots around the corner with my backpack. It’s dirty and beat up, but I can see the weight of my laptop in it.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as Swanson passes it to me, trying not to hug it to my chest. But the relief of not having to spend a grand I don’t have on new one is too much and I grip it tightly.

  “Well thanks Sergeant,” Brett says for me, “but I think we should head out.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” Bane replies. He watches as Brett tries to pull my backpack out of my hands but fails. I keep it to my chest, breathing in the smoky-dirt scent it’s picked up, and let him usher me out the doors. Lily follows, a little less mindlessly now. There’s a hardness to her step that I can’t figure out, but I really don’t care.

  My moment of elation is cut short when we’re outside and Brett is giving me a stare-down. I ignore it as best I can but after everything that’s happened, and how nice he’s being, I find it’s seeping past my hardened outer layer.

  “What?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “You know what,” he replies.

  I shrug, still holding my backpack. I unzip the top and peek through it, making sure everything is there. My laptop seems in good condition, but I crack it open to make sure the screen didn’t break; it didn’t. When I realize my phone isn’t inside I frown.

  “Something missing?” Lily asks.

  “Phone,” I reply. “It was in my pocket.” I look at the building, knowing I wasn’t going to get a second chance today. “You know what? Screw it. I’ll just buy a new one; my contract was pretty much up anyway.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Brett agreed.

  “Hmmm,” Lily hums.

  Brett and I turn to her. She’s squinting at the ground, hands holding her cheeks.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” She looks up at us with wide eyes. “Oh, I can’t remember where I parked the ambulance.”

  I exchange a worried glance with Brett before he suggests, “Why don’t I help you find that?”

  At least he’s not trying to help me anymore, I think. Finding the perfect escape I say, “And I’ll head home. Thanks for your help today, Brett. And Lily...I hope you find the ambulance.”

  Lily nods at me but Brett just purses his lips. I put my backpack on my shoulders and take my crutches from him, placing them under my arms. I give them a quick, “See ya!” and hurry off. After all, finding a lost ambulance seems more important than making sure I walk the four blocks to my house.

  I hear Brett sigh and I’m sure if I turn around I’ll see him struggling not to follow me. Why I’m sure that’s what I’ll see I don’t know, but lately that’s just what Brett’s been doing. I try not to think about it, because knowing he’s struggling makes my chest tight. Only when I’m around the block do I start to feel a little more like myself.

  Though my foot has a slight throbbing in it from landing so hard in the station, my pace is quick. I’m eager to get home and check on my article. There’s a flutter of wings in my stomach telling me that there’s good news waiting for me when I open my laptop.

  Of course, by the time I make it home there’s nothing. It takes ten minutes for my computer to power on and get online, and once I check my article I find I only have five new views on it. I sit on the couch for a while before shutting the top to let it charge more, and falling over onto the bright green pillows my mother bought to “offset the violet” of the walls.

  The flutter in my body is gone, replaced once again with a heavy, solid rock.

  Chapter Seven

  I awake to a pounding on my front door, heavy and solid. It takes my brain a moment to realize what’s going on as I lift off the couch only to fall back down with a pain in my foot. It’s not as bad as yesterday, and I won’t need crutches to get around but it’s still annoying. When I don’t answer the door right away the pounding persists. I rub my face, blinking at the bright light coming through the curtains; so much for getting up early again.

  Limping my way to the door the knocking never stops. I shout, “Okay, okay! God, I’m coming. Can’t wait five seconds?” I swing the door open to find a red faced Bane on the porch.

  I flinch back not from the fury so clearly written in his pinpoint pupils but by his lack of uniform. I can’t remember the last time I saw him out of the beige suit, but now he stands before me in dark blue basketball shorts and a very revealing white tank top. There’s dark patches of sweat stains and his forehead is slick, his breathing laboured.

  “Uh, nobody’s home,” I say and quickly try to shut the door. He sticks his foot in, the sleek black Nike blocking my door from closing.

  “Have you finally lost what was left of your mind?” he shouts. I flinch back, finding the decibel level hurting my ears so early. “I get that you’re always out in left field but what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I thought I was sleeping,” I mutter. I’m still putting pressure on the door in hopes that he’ll move his foot but of course he doesn’t. Instead he shoves a hand against the wood and I stumble back, grabbing onto the stairway railing for support. Bane steps inside, tall and menacing and I’m honestly a little afraid. I’ve never seen him like this before; nobody has ever yelled at me like this before.

  He must sense that because he takes a deep breath and doesn’t move forward anymore. I stay by the stairs, ready to bolt if he moves an inch in my direction. I hate to admit it, but I’m pretty sure I’m cowering, with shoulders hunched and lips almost quivering.

  Bane clasps his hands together and then brings them to touch his nose, his eyes falling to the hardwood floor. They move to my foot a moment, observing how I place my weight all on one side and he takes another breath.

  “Just take it down.”

  I can’t look at anything but him right now, strangely hypnotized by fear. The lullaby plays in my head and I have to pinch my hand to snap out of it. “What?”

  “I can’t arrest you, but you need to take it down before any more people see it,” he says. It’s not pleading, but about as close as Bane will ever get. I straighten my back as best I can, even though there’s no way I can appear confident now. The door is still open and I see a couple of neighbours across the street peering in at us and leaning close to each other to talk.

  “As always, Bane,” I say, controlling the shake in my voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Bane brings his lips towards his teeth, almost too wet them but instead he’s actually biting them. He rolls his shoulders and lowers his hands. “The article you put on your blog,” he replies, voice strained, “take it down.”

  I furrow my brow. “My blog? Wait, the article that I put up about the bombing?”

  There’s a small twitch in the corner of his left eye. “The article you have zero proof of, yes.”

  I cross my arms, doing everything I can to not shift my weight. It’s harder than it seems to stand on one foot for so long. “No.”

  Bane’s jaw clenches. I go on, “It’s exactly what I saw, that’s it. You can’t force me to take it down when I’m just telling my side of the event; besides, it’s not like it’s an open investigation or anything, right?”

  I swear I can hear his teeth cracking.

  I glance behind him to my neighbours, still watching us. I w
onder what they think is going on, because the Sergeant doesn't make house calls mid-workout for no reason. Bane notices and looks over his shoulder, only to shut the door a second later. It slams shut so hard part of the house shakes.

  “Geez, try not to break anything while you’re here,” I request. I’m playing as cool as I can but inside I’m kind of freaking out. The guy that was known for breaking bones on the football field is standing in my house, mad at me, and he just shut the door. My paranoid brain is working so fast there’s probably steam coming out my ears.

  “You need to take down that article,” he says, adding finger quotes, “before it gets more attention than it already has.”

  I squint in his general direction while analyzing what I could use to hit him over the head. Then, with the image of myself using a two foot tall unicorn to fend off the human brick wall, I shake my head. Maybe that concussion had some lingering effect. “It only has like ten views.”

  Now it’s Bane’s turn to be confused. When all he does is stare at me I look to my computer before walking over. I fall over the back of the couch and roll to a sitting position.

  When I open my laptop my hands are a little shaky and my heart is going crazy. Just how many views does Bane consider attention? Just how many views does it take to get his attention?

  I lick my lips and open the browser, finding my blog and logging in.

  My jaw drops.

  I scroll through the stats, taking in each number and getting a jolt of excitement with each one. It’s not just the views that are causing adrenaline to shoot through my veins, but the comments and shares. My head spins and I lean back to feel Bane’s breath on my hair.

  I’m sure in some universe that could be seen as sexy but right now it’s kind of like an angry bull preparing to charge.

  “That’s...a lot of attention,” I finally say.

  “That’s why you need to take it down.”

  I shift my eyes from side to side to find Bane’s hands on the back of the couch. I’m not sure if he’s standing closer to intimidate me or he’s attempting to grab my laptop but either way I quickly shut it. I turn to him. He stands up straight.

  “No.”

  “No?” he echoes.

  “No,” I say. “Just like what I said before--this is my version of events and you have no legal right to make me take it down. Freedom of speech--and protecting sources and all that.”

  “You’re your own source,” he argues, “that doesn’t count. You’ve already got hundreds of comments on it; I had to find out through my mother about it. You’re making us look like bumbling morons.”

  “Ah, there it is,” I say. “Always about appearances, right? Can’t have the football star look bad.”

  There’s a moment when Bane actually looks confused, but he quickly snaps out of it. “I don’t want the town to look bad—you make it sound like we aren’t capable of investigating a misdemeanour let alone something like...this.”

  I arch my eyebrows at him. “Something like this? You mean a propane explosion?”

  “Why don’t you read some of the comments on your blog and see what I mean,” he suggests. There’s a moment that hangs between us before he turns and stalks out the front door. It’s kind of like the moment when he first talked to me after the explosion, when there’s a gentleness to him that I can’t explain. Why he would say that sentence so nicely, so calmly, is beyond me. Especially when he slams the door again and shakes the windows. I flinch and stand in the living room, holding my hands across my stomach.

  I move to the front door and lock it, feeling just a smidge better. I’m pretty sure the ten dollar lock couldn’t hold back an explosive or Bane’s huge boots, but having it there gets rid of some of the pressure on my chest. I look at my computer, sleeping soundly on the coffee table and think of the numbers.

  Thousands upon thousands of views, hundreds of comments and even more shares. I can’t believe it. I hold my hand up and count five fingers, just to make sure I’m not dreaming. My hands are shaky and I know that I need to get reading on those comments but Bane’s words are bouncing around my skull. I shake my head; he just doesn’t want to look bad.

  I practically skip over to my computer and open it, relishing in the numbers on the page. The fluttering in my stomach doesn’t stop, even as a strange guilt begins to smack the butterflies down.

  I’m about to click on the comments and start reading and replying, but...I freeze. Most comments on my blog have been from people I’ve chatted online with for a few years—friends. I’ve never met them in person but I know them better than anyone in my town.

  My heart skips a beat in panic as I open my messages and find the Crime Reporters group chat. There’s around fifty missed messages since last night from the five people I trusted with my phone number. All of them are asking about me.

  Hey guys, I type. I’m okay.

  There’s a moment as I sit on the couch, biting my fingernails and watching the three dots pop up from ManhattanMomma, a thirty-something woman who needed a new hobby once her kids started school. I thought it was funny that she ended up on cold cases, but...she’s actually really serious about it. Her real name is Steph, but we just ended up calling her Manhattan, on her request; something about it makes her feel very high class. It sounds better than my own nickname in the chat, Girlie. GoderichGirl was my username online since I got hold of my mother’s computer when I was eleven, and I met everyone through my blog so it just stuck. My blog is also named Goderich Girl Reports, so I can’t find the nerve to give it up just yet, no matter how old I get.

  WHY DID YOU NOT TELL US FIRST?!?! She types. I would assume she’s yelling, but sometimes she just leaves the caps lock on my accident.

  My things were in evidence, I reply, tilting my head as if they can see just how sorry I look.

  WELL I’M GLAD YOU’RE OKAY, Manhattan replies. AND THAT POST WAS CRAZY. Oh sorry caps.

  I snort out a laugh.

  You got some balls there, Girlie, WestTexMess adds. I roll my eyes. The skinny soon to be high school graduate, and soon to be “swole dreamboat” (his words not mine), is a self-proclaimed disaster turned saved individual. It’s actually a pretty inspiring story, if he could stop bragging about how many girls are so into him now.

  You’ve always known that, Tex, I tell him.

  True, he replies. But outing the cop as an idiot is pretty ballsy.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard in an attempt to deny it but they won’t actually touch the keys. There is was again, right in front of me in a little grey bubble.

  That wasn’t what I was doing, I deny.

  It’s kinda what you did, Tex says.

  I don’t type anything, waiting for Manhattan to add in her two cents. But no little dots come up telling me that they’re saying anything at all, and the heavy truth that maybe, just maybe, I went a little too hard on Goderich PD hangs around me. Until I remember that Bane was more upset about how he looked than getting the truth out. Because he doesn’t believe the truth.

  They don’t believe an eye witness, I write, what was I supposed to do? Let it go?

  Of course not, Manhattan says, if they aren’t willing to do anything then you should.

  I nod at my computer. She’s right; if the police aren’t willing to do the work then someone should. Of course, should that someone be me? Investigative reporters look into things all the time, but...well let’s just say I don’t have the best of friends in this town.

  After discussing options with Manhattan and Tex I sign off, shutting my laptop before the temptation to read the comments is too much to handle. There are other things I have to do today, none of which involve deleting that post.

  And now I know exactly where to start if I want to look into the Roundabout bombings.

  Chapter Eight

  The downside to living in a small town was you knew just about everyone, and everyone knew you. They also knew all about your family, the weird secrets that came with family, as well as every
embarrassing thing you ever did as a child. Of course, with all the bad things came some good; like noticing a weird vehicle circling the block as you limped your way downtown.

  A black SUV passed me three times before it finally parked in front of the cheese shop on King Street. And I’m pretty sure it only parked there because I turned onto the street with my pink and black backpack in tow. The windows are too dark to see inside, but I feel like I’m being watched. As I move towards the Starbucks, an unplanned stop along my journey, I notice that there are a few pairs of eyes on me from inside the other shops.

  Mrs. Delveau, a tall woman with a stocky build is fluttering a hand fan in front of her face from within her dress shop. She’s leaning towards her daughter, and her eyes never leave me. No shame in staring, it seems. I purse my lips and try to move a little faster despite the pain in my ankle.

  The SUV is on the other side of the street, and nobody has gotten out yet. I move past it, keeping my eyes forward but watching it as best I can with my peripheral vision. There’s a twinge in the back of my head that says something is going on; shiny black SUV’s don’t roll into town much. Or ever, actually.

  I duck into the Starbucks, only looking back at the car when the door is shut. I scratch the back of my head, the twinge still there. It’s nice to no longer have the crutches to draw even more attention to myself.

  I slide onto my usual seat and pull my laptop from my bag, opening it up even though I’m not planning on using it. I’m trying to be sly as I watch the SUV, but it’s hard; every time my eyes dart up to check on its occupants I feel like an arrow made of neon lights pops up over my head, pointing directly at me. I’m not even doing anything on my computer, just wiggling the pointer to the left and right.

  “Are you going to order something or just take up space?” a voice asks. I’m expecting it to be Brett but when I look up I see the manager of the store staring down at me, hands on his hips. When all I do is arch my eyebrows at him he adds, “You can’t just use the Wi-Fi without ordering.”