Still Here

by Amy Stuart

  “Her?” he asks the bartender.

  The bartender points at Clare. Yes. Her. Germain approaches, and the bar quiets again. This time people lift their phones to film whatever might come next. Clare can barely draw in a breath. She meets Germain’s eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low.

  “Give me your gun,” he says. “And do it nicely.”

  For a moment Clare considers her options. She turns and lifts her shirt to allow Germain to withdraw the weapon from her belt. Then she spins to face him.

  “You’re the beat cop on duty tonight, detective?” she asks.

  “Charlotte called me about twenty minutes ago. Asked me to swing this way and check in on Kavita. On my way over I get a radio call about a woman pulling a gun. Just so happened I was already on my way.”

  “Bullshit,” Clare says. “You were following me.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Germain removes the handcuffs from his holster.

  “Can we just walk out?” Clare says to him, pleading. “Please? A scene would be bad for me.”

  “You know I have to arrest you.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “He was an off-duty cop,” Germain says.

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Don’t fight me on this,” Germain says, closing in. “Don’t make this worse than it needs to be.”

  Germain tries to get behind her, but Clare turns so her back is to the crowd. She won’t give anyone the pleasure of her expression as this unfolds. Germain takes hold of her arms and pinches her wrists behind her back. Clare doesn’t fight. He locks handcuffs but leaves them loose enough that Clare knows she could wriggle out. He leans forward until she can feel his breath on her ear.

  “We’ll go out the back door,” he says.

  “He was going to hurt her,” Clare says through clenched teeth.

  “Maybe. But you can’t pull a gun in a bar. You’re not a cop.”

  “He was going to hurt her,” Clare repeats.

  Germain is reading Clare her rights loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear.

  “Lock her up,” one of the man’s friends says. He lifts his beer in cheers when Clare looks his way.

  Germain leads Clare to the back door to a chorus of boos. When they emerge into the alley Clare rips herself from his grasp, stumbling forward with the effort. But she is able to right herself before she falls. She turns to face Germain, her jaw pulsing with rage.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she says.

  Germain scoffs. “What do you think this is? The wild west? You’re in Lune Bay. You don’t have free rein. Not here. We won’t tolerate it.”

  “Take the cuffs off,” Clare says. “Now.”

  “I can’t do that,” Germain says. “You’re under arrest.”

  THURSDAY

  The cell door slams, jolting Clare awake. She sits up on the bench, squinting against the sharp fluorescent lights, rubbing her eyes. Her mouth is gritty with thirst. The guard fiddles with the key to lock the holding cell behind him. The newest arrival to the cell, a young woman, stumbles crying to the bench across from Clare and plops down. Her T-shirt reads BRIDE2BE. A ripped and dirty veil hangs from her knotted ponytail.

  There are seven women in here now. An hour might have passed since Clare phoned Somers, her voice mail picking up right away, her phone off. The guard had allowed Clare a second call only because Germain said so. She left a message for Douglas Bentley. She could think of no one else.

  “Where is Germain?” Clare asks the guard.

  “Who knows?”

  “Can you call him for me? He said he’d be right back.”

  “I don’t call detectives at three a.m.,” the guard answers.

  The wall clock over the officer’s desk is frozen at midnight, the time Clare assumed it was when Germain led her to this holding cell at the back of the detachment. An older woman sits in the middle of the far bench, flanked by four younger cell mates. Clare and the drunk bride-to-be are the only two who sit alone.

  “Don’t stare,” the older woman says to Clare. “Stop staring. We don’t stare in here.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  The woman’s command is more teacherly than threatening. There are infinite reasons these women might be here. One has a black eye and scratches up and down her arms. They all look disheveled. Clare is sure she does too. The only other time Clare was in a holding cell was when she was much younger, strung out in her hometown. She’d sat alone in that cell, the young guard an acquaintance who’d finished high school a few years ahead of her. That night Clare was so certain of her release, of her father’s sway, that it never occurred to her to be scared. What a difference it might have made in my life, Clare thinks now, if I had been scared. If someone had scared some sense into me then.

  In the corner, the bride huddles with her knees to her chest, her tears marked by black streaks of mascara down her cheeks. She rips the veil from her hair and begins dry heaving, her body lurching forward with the effort. Clare crosses the cell and sits next to her.

  “Those dumb bitches left me there,” she says between heaves. “Throwing the rock through her window was their idea. Then they ran when the cops showed up.”

  “That sucks,” Clare says. She must bite her tongue. Nobody hurt. No one dead. No one vanished. The ridiculous simplicity of a bachelorette party gone haywire.

  “Relax,” the older woman says, crossing to sit next to Clare. “Your fiancé’s gonna come get you.”

  “No. He’s going to die of shame. He’s a lawyer. Do you know how bad this looks?” She pauses and pats at her outfit. “Those fucker cops took my phone!”

  “Seriously,” another woman says. “Can you shut up? They’ll give you one call. You know? Like in the movies? You’ll get to make a call.”

  The bride looks up earnestly. “Can I ask for one text instead? My fiancé never answers his phone.”

  Every woman in the cell laughs, sending the bride into a deeper fit of tears. The older woman reaches for Clare’s hair. She tugs gently on one of the curls and allows it to bounce back.

  “What beautiful hair,” she says. “You’re very pretty.”

  “Not in this light,” Clare says.

  “You look familiar,” another woman says.

  This statement always jolts Clare. “I get that a lot. One of those faces.”

  “Are you famous?”

  “No. Maybe I look like someone famous?”

  “No, wait.” The bride wipes her nose with her sleeve. “I saw a video of you getting arrested. One of my friends got a video text of this hot cop arresting a woman in a bar for pulling a gun on some guy who was manhandling his girlfriend.” She points at Clare, wide-eyed. “Oh my God! You’re that woman!”

  “She wasn’t his girlfriend,” Clare says.

  “You pulled a fucking gun on him!” the bride squeals. “And he was a cop! Oh my God, you’re so screwed.”

  One of the women begins a slow clap and the others follow. Despite her exhaustion, despite the knot of rage in her belly, Clare smiles. She waves her hand and lowers her head in a mock bow.

  “The Robin Hood of wronged ladies,” the older woman says. “Keep it up and someone will give you your own TV show.”

  But Clare isn’t smiling anymore. She only realizes now what this means, her image on a video spread far and wide. She imagines Jason watching it, its contents a beacon pointing exactly to where Clare is now. She feels a swell of distress. Clare stands and grips the bars.

  “Do any of you know Germain? The cop who dropped me here?”

  “The kid detective?” the older woman says. “He used to be a beat cop. Not a very nice one.”

  Nice, Clare thinks. Germain: not a very nice one. She feels only rage at him for bringing her here, for processing her upon arrival at the precinct like any other criminal, fingerprints and a mug shot, for taking her to this cell, for vanishing after that. How many hours has it been since she last saw him? Two? How f
ar has the video of her arrest spread since then? The other women in the cell have returned to minding their own business, a few of them dozing, backs flat on the hard benches. Two have slid to a seated position on the floor. Clare studies them closely, one at a time, until it occurs to her. Ask them.

  “Hey,” Clare says. “Do any of you know anything about the Westman family?”

  The older woman looks up. “Are you a cop?”

  “No,” Clare says, crossing herself. “I swear to God. But I’ve been doing some digging on people who’ve disappeared from Lune Bay. Kendall Bentley was one of them. Stacey Norton?”

  The women each look to the older one, who keeps her eyes fixed on Clare.

  “Listen,” Clare says. “Would I be in here if I was a cop? Would I be pulling a weapon on another cop in a bar?”

  “You should know to stay away from the Westman family,” the older woman says.

  “There isn’t much left of them,” Clare says.

  “Jack might be dead, but his legacy lives on. Lune Bay is a charming little place on the surface.” She gestures to the jail cell. “But there’s quite the underbelly.”

  Jack? First name basis? “You knew him?” Clare asks.

  The older woman laughs. “Fuck, no. I mean, not personally. Have you ever heard of a whisper network?”

  “Yes,” Clare says.

  “There was a lot of money to be had. If you were a pretty girl willing to… bend some rules. Jack Westman wasn’t interested in running his business that way. But his daughter certainly was. And she paid very well.”

  “Running the business what way?” Clare asks.

  “I’m sure you can guess the gist of it,” the older woman says. “Business is business, right? You need a signature on a permit but someone down at city hall is being difficult. You need some deal to go through. These pencil pushers are all family men. They’ve got wives and kids. Incriminating photos can go a long way. But sometimes the ladies in these photos would… stop turning up.”

  “You mean disappear,” Clare says.

  “My take is that most of them just got paid to stay away. To move on. Still, we take care of each other, right? So, the whisper network. Women around here let each other know. Anything with the Westman family is a high-risk venture.”

  “I heard stories about some kind of cult,” one of the younger women says. “They had this cabin in the woods and they’d do these ceremonies. Sacrifices.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The older woman rolls her eyes. “No. That’s just some made-up shit to throw you offtrack. It was all pretty bread-and-butter stuff.”

  “You mentioned Jack Westman’s daughter. You mean Zoe?”

  “I’m not saying another word.” The older woman zips her lips and points to the camera trained on them from the high corner of the cell. “Cops are all in on it too. You’re wading into shark-infested waters, my friend.”

  “I would love to talk to you some more,” Clare pleads. “Maybe when we both get out of here?”

  The older woman laughs. “Sure thing. I’ll invite you over to my condo for some wine and cheese.”

  The women have all turned away from her now, the older one lying down on the bench and placing her forearm over her eyes. It’s over. Clare knows this woman won’t say another word.

  Clare lies on the bench too and stares at the ceiling, the pipes crossing it coated with moisture. When she closes her eyes some kind of sleep must overcome her, because at once Jason is there, sitting on the bench next to her, the other women in the cell gone.

  I’m here, he says to her, his voice gentle. I’ve come for you.

  No, Clare says.

  When she snaps awake Germain is standing over her. Clare jolts to sitting. He offers her his hand to stand, but Clare looks at him with such spite that he retracts it.

  “You were saying something,” he says. “You said ‘no.’ ”

  “Can I leave now?”

  “You posted bail.”

  “How? I couldn’t get in touch with Somers.”

  “I posted it for you.”

  “Whoa,” says the older woman. “Friends in high places.”

  Clare laughs bitterly. “Is that even allowed?”

  “It’s not your concern,” Germain says. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” Clare says. “My only concern is that you’re a huge prick.”

  At these words the other women gasp and clap. Germain releases a long sigh and gestures to the cell door. Clare stands and follows him out. The older woman shakes her head at Clare as she passes, a warning. Be careful.

  “What about me?” the bride yelps.

  “Your fiancé’s on his way,” Germain says.

  “Oh God,” she says, burying her face in her hands. “Oh no.”

  Clare offers the group a wave, a grateful smile. Then she follows Germain through the cell door he locks behind him.

  From the cell, Clare trails Germain down a windowless hall. They are in the basement of the detachment. Is it morning yet? Clare has lost all sense of time. In the elevator, they stand side by side in silence, Clare catching the subtle scent of Germain’s aftershave. She dips her nose to her own armpit and recoils at the stench. The elevator doors open to an atrium six stories high. The light is pink. It is early morning. They walk down a hall open to the atrium below, where Clare can see a skeleton crew of caretakers readying for the day.

  A few more turns through clusters of open desks and they arrive at Germain’s office. It is nicely decorated, artsy photographs on the wall. Aside from a framed commendation, Clare sees no personal touches, no family photographs or memorabilia. He sits at the desk and turns on his computer. When Clare takes the seat across from him, he opens a drawer and hands her a bottle of water.

  “You’re pretty young for an office this nice,” Clare says.

  “Youngest detective in the detachment’s history.”

  “Your parents must be proud.” Clare doesn’t mask her sarcasm. “Hey. I’ll be needing my phone back.”

  Germain laughs. “Give me a minute.”

  He taps at the keyboard until his computer screen comes to life. The events of last night rile her, the trip here in the back of the cruiser, Germain tossing glances back to her at every stoplight, her shoulders smarting from her wrists cuffed behind her back. She thinks of the way he extracted her from the cruiser, her balance off because of the handcuffs. Then a uniformed officer processed her in that too-bright room before leading Clare to the basement cell. Recounting those scenes now fills her with a rage that clenches her jaw.

  “How can the arresting officer be the one to post bail?” Clare asks.

  “We’ve got a few workarounds in place here. Besides,” Germain says, leaning back in his chair, “I only actually pay it if you break the terms. If, say, you take off.”

  They watch each other across the desk.

  “Where’s my gun?” Clare asks finally.

  “Yeah. You’re not getting that back.”

  “You didn’t have to arrest me.”

  “You pulled a gun in a bar, Clare. I’ll make sure the charges are dropped. But the only way I was getting you out of there was in cuffs.”

  “There’s video of me everywhere. One of the women in the holding cell had seen it.”

  “Because you pulled a gun in a crowded bar.”

  “You’re not the hero here,” Clare says.

  “Jesus Christ. Listen, I’ll work to get the video wiped. We have ways of making that happen.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Germain releases a long sigh in an effort to calm himself. He turns to his computer again. Clare watches him with a wave of shame. She knows she is being insolent, that she should instead level up to Germain’s coolness, his restraint. She needs to focus again. She pinches the back of her own hand, the sharp pain snapping her alert.

  Press reset, she tells herself. Start again.

  “I heard from your cop friend,” Germain says. “Hollis Somers. She
got your message. She’s on her way.”

  “She’s coming here?” Clare says. “Like, in person?”

  “Yep. Her flight landed an hour ago. She said she was going to rent a car. She should be on her way to the detachment by now.”

  Somers. Here in Lune Bay. Clare is exhausted, and everything is muddled. The wave of relief she feels at Somers’s impending arrival is tempered by the voice in her head: she lied to you. The printer behind Germain spits out a handful of papers and he presents them to Clare for signature. Conditions of Release.

  “A formality,” he says.

  The pen feels thick and unwieldy between Clare’s fingers. She must pause and consider what name to sign, all her identities mashing together. Clare, she writes, scribbling her false last name into a cartoonish swirl. O’Kearney. She slides the papers back to him. Germain opens the top drawer and passes her phone across the desk. Clare powers it on. The battery is low. Did Germain check her phone after he confiscated it last night? She has not deleted the messages from Malcolm, their exchanges. Surely detectives have means of unlocking a home screen, of reading any new messages before marking them unread again. Across the desk Germain leans back in his chair, hands intertwined on his chest. What do you know that you’re not telling me? she’d like to ask him. Her phone pings as the messages come in.

  The first is from Somers. It reads only:

  Jesus, Clare.

  The next message is from Malcolm’s number. It is a long note that arrived in her in-box last night, shortly after she was arrested. Clare locks the screen and looks up at Germain.

  “Am I free to go?” she asks.

  “You’ve got a few minutes until she gets here,” he says. “The airport’s over an hour away. You want a coffee?”

  “No,” Clare says. She is being stubborn, she knows. Petulant. But all she wants is a moment to gather herself before Somers arrives. Germain taps at a file folder squared on the center of his desk.