by Joe Clifford
“What would you like me to say?”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Alex held up the empty bottle, waving it for the waitress to bring another. “Like I said, it was stupid of me to stop by—”
“Did this college reporter say something to get you upset?”
“I’m not upset.”
“You look upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
Riley glanced around, fumbling for the answers she herself didn’t fully grasp. “I guess I don’t understand why you’d drive all this way for a college newspaper interview. Why put yourself through that? It was so long ago, Alex. Why would you want to revisit that time?”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t all bad, that after it was over, in a strange way, it might’ve been the happiest she’d ever felt. At least in the beginning. Denise briefly cleaned up her act, so glad to have her daughter back. Strangers treated her like she mattered. Everywhere Alex went she received celebrity treatment. And she had him. Which made the whole experience worth it. No, it wasn’t perfect. He was married. She was still seventeen, if barely. But their time together was real. What they shared was real.
Her arms goose-fleshed, the walls coming down, and she hated being so vulnerable. Hated that Riley could stay so cool, like they’d never been more than cop and vic.
The waitress brought her refill. Alex took a long, hard slug, waited for the buzz, a fleeting reprieve from the constant pressure. When it came, she set the bottle down hard enough to draw stares from the staff and customers.
Riley’s pinched expression twisted. “This isn’t about that bullshit Parsons had help? We’ve been over this. You’re safe. Kira was an isolated incident. Totally unrelated—”
“Then why are you trying to get the charges against Benny Brudzienski dropped?”
“Who told you that?”
“Noah Lee. The reporter. Is it true?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. But I promise you, it has nothing to do with you or your case.”
“What does it have to do with then?”
“I can’t discuss private police matters.”
“Oh, fuck that.”
“You can’t trust reporters. And everything you read in the papers isn’t true. At least not the whole truth. There was more to it than the media reported. Misinformation got out, the public ran with it. There were inconsistencies with the Brudzienski case, okay? Some of Kira’s friends—” Riley stopped himself. “I don’t want to talk about this. Let’s talk about you. What have you been up to? What are you doing for work down there? Fun?”
“Can you give me a ride back to my car? It’s getting late.”
“Alex, please—”
“Great. I’ll be outside.”
Alex smoked a cigarette underneath the awning while he waited inside for his takeout. A light rain started to fall. She pulled her hoodie, bunched her bomber she didn’t bother zipping up. Cars sped behind her, tires slick on the wet roadways, making sucking sounds. How could he still do this to her? After all this time, disarm her so readily? She resented him for how weak he could make her feel.
Ten minutes later, Riley met her beside the car, toting a greasy white sack. Good. Let him take it home to Meg and eat it cold.
Driving back to the precinct, Alex watched the naked trees, stripped of their cover, zipping past, bare and exposed. Some things had changed about their hometown, it was true. But in between the new Chili’s, Arby’s, and PF Chang’s was the same rundown crap she’d grown up with, the package stores and hole-in-wall bars, the impersonal behemoth stone churches, the bland, two-toned duplexes. Slapping on a new coat of paint didn’t conceal the blight or erase the ugly. A while back Alex, stumbled across clickbait on the web. The Ten Most Depressing Cities in America. No surprise, seven of them were located in Upstate New York. The only reason Reine didn’t make the cut was because it was too small, too insignificant to matter. There was a barren quality, an ache and emptiness germane to the region. Maybe it was the architecture, drab and uninspired, or the weather, stifling in the summer, bleak and gray the rest of the year. Most likely, it was the people, with their abysmal posture and sallow complexions, men and women who walked without purpose, resigned to their fate, knowing they’d never leave this place.
Back at the police department, they sat silent in the car, Riley waiting for her to get out, Alex trying to find the right moment to do so on her terms. She kept her gaze locked straight ahead, out the windshield. The precinct lights haloed through the raindrops.
“Why do you care what I think about Benny Brudzienski?” Riley said. “Did that reporter give you a list of questions to ask me or something?”
“This isn’t about a reporter or any questions. I have a right to know.”
“It’s an ongoing case, Alex.”
“So you do think Benny is innocent?”
“Like I said,” Riley reiterated extra slow. “I’m not allowed to talk about an open police investigation with civilians.”
“Civilians?” Alex grabbed the handle.
Riley reached for her but she was already outside.
She leaned in before closing the door.
“It was nice seeing you.”
Alex stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
“You sure you’re okay to drive? The city is a long haul. Maybe you want to come in, rest for a few.”
“It was two beers. Besides, I’m not driving back tonight. Going to see my family. What’s left of them.”
Riley thought a moment. “Your cousin Linda still up here?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you staying with her?”
“No. I’m renting a room.” She nodded through the tree line. “The Royal Motel. Next door to the Pig ’n’ Poke.” She’d seen it on the drive in. Even now she couldn’t abandon the urge. “I’ll be there all night. Alone.”
She slammed the door and walked away, wondering if he was watching her ass or if he’d come after her, grab her by the hand, turn back time. The driver’s side door opened and shut. She resisted temptation to turn around.
Then she heard footsteps beat a path in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER THREE
At the Royal Motel, Alex plunked down the fifty-four dollars and change, spelling her name nice and neat in the registry in case anyone wanted to find her. She requested a room on the second floor. Reine still possessed enough squirrely sections that you didn’t stay on the bottom one. The clerk passed along the key card, tucked into a little envelope with a long series of numbers stamped on back.
“What’s this for?”
“Wi-Fi code.”
“Why do I need it?”
“The internet?”
“I don’t have a computer.”
The clerk pointed behind her, at a tiny desktop cramped beside the empty pot of coffee and container of powdered creamer. “You can use that one. It’s complimentary for guests.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “But not now. The lobby is closed.”
“I don’t need to use the computer.” She nodded at her name next to the make and model of her car. “You can read that, right? Salerno. E r n o—”
“If you’re expecting company, you’ll need to put their name down.”
“What for?”
“Motel policy. We get a lot of college kids from Uniondale wanting to party up here.”
“Do I look like I’m in college?”
“No.”
The clerk hadn’t taken any time to think about the question before answering, which, even though the right response, still pissed her off.
In the room, Alex peeled her clothes, stepping in the shower. The hot water felt good against her skin and face. Alex hadn’t planned on spending the night and didn’t bring along any toiletries, let alone a change of clothes. She’d have to make do with the complimentary soap and shampoo. Sliding hands over her naked body, Alex reached the faint scars
on the undersides of her forearm and wrist. No one ever noticed them unless the light was just right. Usually the morning after. Tangled in sheets, bodies still entwined. Only a few guys pointed them out, and even then a shrug was enough to stop follow-up questions. She used to blame the scars on a fictitious car accident. Then she realized the one-night stands she picked up after her shift ended at the bar didn’t give a shit. There were a hundred conclusions to draw before self-mutilation. The scars had faded over the years, and it was hard to pick out the small white crosses beneath the tattoos she used to cover her past. But she knew they were there. To her they bore a permanent part, evidence of when she thought pain should be stamped like a badge and presented for the world to see.
The knock on the door coincided with her turning off the water. Of course a part of her was hoping he’d come, it’s why she’d told him where she was staying, but now that he was actually here that other part, the one not wanting complications, kicked in, causing her to panic.
She wished she’d had the chance to make herself look pretty, or at least brought the black panties she wore when she knew she was getting laid.
Alex whipped down a towel from the wire shelf and wrapped it around her long, lean body. The by-product of poverty. She didn’t have the disposable income to piss away on taxis or Uber. Parking in the city is a pain in the ass, so you end up walking everywhere. Keeps you hungry, fit.
The knock sounded again. More frantic, urgent, aggravated.
In front of the mirror Alex combed back damp hair with fingers, swiveled the towel lower. For as mixed up as she was feeling right now, as vicious as the conflict warring inside, she knew when she opened that door everything would be okay. She wasn’t asking for longer than tonight. Just a little relief, a break from the norm. Like a drug, she needed the reprieve from reality.
She pulled open the door. It wasn’t Riley.
Another man, much bigger, more gruff-looking, stood on the landing in plaid flannel, rolled-up sleeves and sun-bleached trucker’s cap, heavy-duty work boots caked in mud. He leered at the free view. Alex said hold on, slammed the door, and pulled on her jeans and tee. She slid the dead bolt before opening this time. The man had pulled the cap lower, making his eyes tough to read, but the smirk lingered.
“What do you want?”
The man gestured over the railing, at Alex’s old Civic in the parking lot. “That your car?”
Alex didn’t answer. There were no other cars down there, at least none in the immediate vicinity.
“Your headlights’re on.”
“No there’re not.” Alex saw they weren’t, the whole lot blanketed in darkness. Not a glimmer from the Pig ’n’ Poke, lights unable to penetrate the dense forest.
“They were,” the man said. “I turned them off for you.” He looked back at the car. “In case you saw me opening your car door. I was turning off the lights. That’s what I was doing. Locked the doors for you too.”
“Thanks.” Alex didn’t know what else to say but the man remained, so she added a second thank you.
He touched the brim of his hat, like a Southern gentleman, tipping his head sideways so he could steal a better look as she shut the door.
Alex waited until he was gone and slipped on her sneakers, heading down to the parking lot. She unlocked her car and turned over the motor. Coughed to life, no problem. She did a quick search of the floors and console, popping the glove compartment, nothing missing, nothing worth stealing. Entire car wasn’t worth three hundred in parts. She killed the engine, shut the door, and inserted the key to lock up—which was the only way to lock the door. Wasn’t any other way…
A gentle breeze hushed through the bare birch orchard that led downslope to the highway. Alex strained through the chain-link, panning the grounds. Inhaling the rotting compost of dead leaves, she couldn’t see a thing.
The bedside clock read a little after midnight and Alex hadn’t been able to fall asleep. There was nothing on the motel’s limited cable. By now she’d accepted Riley wasn’t stopping by. She tried to convince herself she was relieved but mostly she felt like a fool.
She scrolled through her contacts, surprised to find her cousin, Linda, had made the cut after so many lost and stolen phones.
“Alex? Alex? That you?” Raucous barroom chatter bled over the line. “Alex? Is everything okay?”
She walked to the front door, pulling her Parliaments, ignoring the No Smoking sign by the keyhole. She poked her head outside. The light in the lobby was off and rain slicked the rail. She closed the door and slid the deadbolt, grabbing the empty Diet Coke can for an ashtray. What were they going to do? Charge her credit card? Good luck. There wasn’t fifty bucks left to cover a cleaning fee.
“Alex?” Linda hollered, plugging an ear, mouth-breathing.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. I’m here.”
“Here?”
“Reine.”
There was a long pause while her cousin mulled over what that meant. Linda wasn’t the swiftest boat sober. And at this time of night, that dinghy had drifted way past the breakers.
“Where?”
“Royal Motel.”
“On Cutting?”
“By the Pig ’n’ Poke.”
Another long, uneasy pause.
“I’m leaving soon,” Alex said.
“Oh, next time call me earlier. I would’ve loved to see—”
“Want to grab a drink?”
The Fireside Pub spilled over with Uniondale students, who outnumbered the locals three to one. Everyone was playing nice. Back in the day it would be a cold day in hell before you caught the two groups mixing, like Greasers and Socs. But here they were, sharing pitchers of beer, racking games of nine ball, laughing, talking sports, and getting shitfaced together.
Alex spotted Linda and her longtime boyfriend, Tommy, sitting in a booth by the pool table, their regular spot. The two of them had been coming to the Fireside since graduation, probably had their names carved inside a heart somewhere. Hard to miss them. Had to be carrying five hundred pounds between them. Alex always had a soft spot for Tommy. Good guy, big heart, giant teddy bear. After Alex and Linda fell off, Tommy was left navigating the worst fights, those drunken brawls where they really went at it, viciousness that kept escalating until Alex finally split town. Time apart had repaired some of the damage. Pretending nothing was wrong took care of the rest.
A couple other guys sat with them. One of them wasn’t bad looking, almost cute, in that lost puppy dog sort of way. A cross between a young John Cusack and Izzy Stradlin.
Alex dragged a chair to the edge of the table, the queen’s seat as her mother called it, a thought that made Alex laugh out loud and everyone else stare. Tommy took her order, which translated to another pitcher of beer and round of shots for the table. When Tommy got up, he left behind his permanent indentation in the cushions. Alex glanced around the bar, not relishing fond memories.
She couldn’t understand how Linda still stomached the place. The cousins had grown up at the Fireside, back when their mothers, Denise and Diane, worked the room, letting strangers buy them drinks, kick down pills and powders for the privilege of playing Daddy for a week or two. Sometimes that experiment lasted a month, once or twice six, but never longer than that. The money always ran out, the party always ended, then the sisters were back on the hunt for new meal tickets. Why no one called the cops on a couple kids hanging around a bar at all hours, Alex had no idea. Then again, it was a different world in those days. Alex could still see the cigarette smoke ribboning through the sea of old timers with huge schnozzes, gin blossoms, livers on last legs, ballooned, swollen organs so jam-packed with waste and poison they hung over belts like colostomy bags, fierce testaments to self-destruction and the pursuit of darker causes. No one smoked inside the bar these days, the air clear as mountain skies. Frat packers in maroon and gold jackets clasped the backs of factory boys still dressed in their issued grays. If anyone was dealing coke
, it was on the sly. Two different ball games played on flat-screen televisions mounted above the bar, tables stacked with baskets of deep-fried pickles and jalapeño popper combos. The Fireside, once a bastion of degeneracy, had turned into a goddamn sports bar.
“Why you up here again?” Linda had always been a big girl but she’d put on considerable weight since Alex had last seen her cousin, face ruddier, puffy bags under her eyes. She had that crocked, inbred look everyone around here gets if they’re pissed enough.
“Work,” Alex said.
Linda didn’t know enough about what Alex did or didn’t do to risk embarrassment by asking what exactly.
“What’s your name?” one of the boys, the not-cute one, asked.
“What’s yours?”
“Mikey.”
His buddy glowered at her. “I’m Nick,” he offered without provocation. “Nick Graves,” the last name punctuated like an accusation.
“Good for you, Nick Graves.”
Linda licked the rim of her shot glass. “How’s that detective boyfriend of yours? Still married?”
Alex ignored the dig, turning around to see Tommy standing behind her with a pitcher and five more shots. He must’ve cast Linda a look because her cousin clamped up after that.
Nick Graves continued to leer. Maybe Alex misunderstood and he was trying to hit on her and doing a lousy job of it. Women like Alex didn’t often come into the Fireside. Sure, some of the girls from Uniondale were as pretty, but those university girls kept to their own kind. Shooting pool was one thing but they weren’t going home with boys like Nick Graves.
“When you headed back?” Linda asked.
“You’re Alex Salerno!” Mikey said, beaming, like he’d found a clue in the picture book. “I know you!”
Nick Graves backhanded his chest. “Shut up, Mikey.”
“Remember? The girl. The one that got away? Shit. That was like, what, ten years ago?” He poured another beer, suds slopping over, slipping down the side. “Always wondered what happened to you. Such a fucked-up case. They caught the perverts who did it, right? We went to different schools but how could anyone forget that? How you been?” Mikey looked to Linda. “I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”
