by Jette Harris
She stood and stretched, exposing her taut belly and sunken hips, then recoiled into herself, clutching her shoulder. “Would you put some coffee on? I’ll throw on some jeans and be right down.” She tugged at her top and looked down the collar. Byron’s face warmed as he realized she was debating the necessity of putting on a bra.
“Need any help?”
“Unless you’re a fount of fashion advice, I think I’ll be OK. Just warn him the coffee could be used as a weapon of mass destruction.”
“Ten-four,” Byron chuckled. “I’ll get right on that.”
****
When Heather headed downstairs, Dr. Magee was staring into his coffee as if it had just insulted his mother. Having let them wait long enough, she started to tramp down, but changed her mind when bolts of pain radiated around her torso. She continued down with slow, measured steps.
“Dr. Magee, it’s good to see you again.” The weight of the words didn’t hit her until they were out of her mouth. He stood and nodded until it was practically a bow.
“Miss Stokes, I’m glad to see you’re well.”
She cracked a smile, but it didn’t last. “I’m not, but thanks.”
Byron suppressed a snort.
Dr. Magee cleared his throat. “I’ve been informed that you already know about the memorial the school is hosting on Saturday for… your fallen classmates. I’ve come to invite you as a guest of honor. We would understand, of course, if you decline.”
Heather fell still, studying him as if worried the choice were somehow a trick. “Who all is invited?”
“I… well… everyone. It’s an open event.”
“I mean… will the Witts be there? The Shatterthwaiths? Ms. Vlasov?”
Dr. Magee’s mouth hung open a moment. “I believe the Witts have another funeral to attend that day—”
Heather cocked her head. “For Witt?”
“For… For Mr. Witt. Frank, I mean.”
Heather’s jaw went slack. She eased herself down into a seat as every horrible thing she had ever said about Frank Witt turned into a ball of remorse. “I… I didn’t know he had passed.”
“He… Well, he did.” Dr. Magee cleared his throat again. “The Shatterthwaiths will be there, though. I’ve left messages for Ms. Vlasov, but haven’t been able to get ahold of her just yet.”
Heather nodded numbly. “If Lori and them will be there, I’ll… I’ll just go with them.”
“You don’t have to,” Dr. Magee said quickly with a glance at Byron.
“I know. I… I want to. I just need to check…” She cleared her throat, scrabbling for a valid excuse to duck out. “I think orientation for UGA is soon. I need to check the date.”
Dr. Magee had been swaying slightly, but now he fell still. His brow furrowed. “Have you… Has the university contacted you since… you’ve been back?”
Heather shook her head.
“I would call them, if I were you. Make sure you’re on the same page.”
It was Heather’s turn to fall still, straightening as if she could sense danger in his words. “OK…” she murmured after a moment of her throat not working.
After an awkward good-bye, Dr. Magee beat a hasty retreat. Byron sat on the couch next to her.
“You OK?”
She took a deep breath, feeling as if she had forgotten to breathe for the past few minutes. “Yeah, sure,” she answered in a small, unconvincing voice.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“I know… I know…” She looked around, rubbing her hands on her jeans, and stood. “I… um… How much longer are you here?”
Byron cringed. “I dunno if I’m still supposed to be here, but no one’s shown up to relieve me.”
“Can we go some… Go get breakfast?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I just… I need to make a call. I’ll be right back.”
Steyer stepped into their office at the Cheatham Hill Police precinct filled with the sense he had not been there for so long. In reality, it had only been a few days. Between meeting with medical professionals, skulking around the fire ground, and falling into bed at the motel, too much had happened.
He sank into his desk and ran his hands over his face. A large envelop sat on his desk, front and center. He sighed with relief, mixed with a bit of shame that faded as soon as he saw it was postmarked for today. He slid a finger under the flap and carefully tore it open. A thick stack of papers slid out.
Heather Stokes’s rape kit results.
I could die happy if I never had cause to look at another one of these, he thought, then, You were at your retirement ceremony…
He sighed again, leaned back in his seat, and flipped through the pages. He skimmed for any mention of DNA.
“Huh.”
There was a photograph of the white robe Heather had been wearing when they picked her up. Visibly, it was covered in blood. Invisibly, it was a serologist’s wet dream: blood, semen, sperm, spit, vomitus, and vaginal fluid. Steyer’s hope soared. He set the report on the desk and leaned over it, twisting his wedding band. There were two semen samples: one sperm-bearing and one not.
We got him. We have his DNA.
The door scraped open and Remington walked in with a coffee cup in each hand. Steyer must have been making a face when he looked up; Remington froze, eyes wide.
“It’s not decaf, I swear.”
“We got him.”
“What?”
“We have DNA. The DNA of a vasectomized man.”
Remington stared at him in silence, then took a deep breath. “Now all we have to do is catch the fucker.”
Steyer’s expression went flat and he tilted his head.
“What?” Remington handed him one of the cups. “I know you’re thinking it.”
“Yes, I am.”
A hush fell over the Waffle House as Byron held the door open and Heather walked in. She made herself small, expecting sneers and expressions of loathing among the staff who had loved Zachariah Vlasov as one of their own. But those who were staring wore odd expressions: shock, pity, compassion.
“Hey, there, sugardoll.” A stout woman hurried out from behind the counter to clear off the booth in the back corner, far away from the bustle. Her nametag read Jo. “Y’all can sit right back here.”
“Thank you.” Heather’s voice was weaker than she anticipated. She slid into the booth. Byron sat across from her, looking around and rubbing his hands nervously, like he anticipated her true reason for being there.
“So… what’re you gonna be able to eat here?”
Heather’s heart sank. Dr. Scarrott would certainly frown upon her usual: a pecan waffle with a side of bacon. “Maybe the grilled chicken sandwich… Definitely coffee.” After a pause, she chuckled. “Did you read my statement?”
“No… Agent Steyer’s been keeping your personal documents pretty close to the chest.”
“Well, when—uh—When Avery came into the coffee shop that first night, Zachariah asked him how he wanted his coffee? And he said—” She chuckled again. “—He replied, ‘big and black.’”
Byron stared at her.
“It… it was funny…” You’re laughing at your rapist. You’re fucking nuts. “Don’t care who you are; That’s funny right there.”
“Heather,” he said in a fierce whisper, “what the fuck are we doing here?”
She cleared her throat. “We are… ordering breakfast.”
“It’s lunchtime now, sugar.” Jo returned, perching her hands on her hips as if her sweet words were a scold. “And what would you like?”
They gave her their orders and she delivered their coffees. Heather slowly rotated her mug and studied the staff dancing around one another behind the counter. Aneta Vlasov was not among them, filling Heather with a sense of dissonance: She couldn’t remember a time over the past two years Aneta hadn’t been there, no matter what time Heather had stumbled in.
“Heather,” Byron said flatly.
“No.”
“You’ve never heard, ‘My son would never do that’?”
“OK, yes.”
“Well, I wanted… I wanted to tell…” As she spoke, she could feel tears crowding her throat, choking her and threatening to run down her face. “Tell Ms. Vlasov about Zachariah… what he was like in class, what it was like when…” She checked herself, so accustomed to insisting nothing had ever happened between them, but now—for all she knew—the whole world knew. “When… when we were together.”
She shut her mouth tightly, squeezed her jaw tight, and tilted her head back until the tears bedded back down. Byron shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of his coffee with a wince. He didn’t return his mug to the table, but held it before his mouth.
“I’ve been carrying this around with me since he died, and I need… I need to tell her. I need to talk to her.” Heather’s voice cracked and she lifted her own mug. The edge burned her lips, so she blew on it.
“Have you tried calling her?”
“Yes, but the number I have is disconnected. It’s two years old. Agent Steyer said he was going to ask—”
“Good, because seeing you right now might not be the best thing for her.”
Heather scowled and took a sip without thinking. The liquid seared her tongue. Whimpering, she slammed the mug down. Coffee sloshed and burned her hand.
“I’m—I’m sorry!” Byron grabbed some napkins and pressed it over the coffee. “Could we get some water over here? Ice water?” He tugged several more napkins out to clean the table. “That didn’t come across like I wanted it to. I mean…”
Jo swept over with a cup of ice water and wiped up the mess. Heather fished a cube out and popped it into her mouth. She sucked on it as she pressed another piece over the red cloud on her hand. Byron took the time to choose a better way to phrase what he wanted to say.
“Everyone’s coping in their own ways,” he said when Heather’s expression grew less pained. “What if Ms. Vlasov is coping by isolating herself? It’s not like she took a lot of time for herself… ever. What if she’s just not ready to talk to anyone yet?”
“No one’s been able to get ahold of her.”
“It didn’t sound like Dr. Magee tried too hard.”
“Agent Steyer has. He says he left her a voicemail.”
Byron sighed. He stared at her until Jo brought their plates.
“Here ya go, honeys. Anything else I can get you? What’s wrong, sugardoll?”
Heather gaped at her chicken sandwich. “That’s a lotta food.”
“It’s about normal. Is it OK? Did you want something else?”
“No! It’s fine. I’m sorry.”
“Actually, we have a question, if you don’t mind.” Byron looked at Heather, rubbing his hands over his legs. She stared back at him with shock.
“Uh… yes…” Her voice grew smaller as she spoke. “Is… Do… you happen to know when Aneta’s coming in?”
Jo frowned. After such sweetness, it looked unnatural for her to wear such a sad expression. She blinked a few times and glanced over her shoulder at the others.
“I don’t know what to tell you, sweet thing. She’s been on the schedule, but she hasn’t been showing up.”
Heather’s throat went tight.
“Thank you,” Byron said quickly. “We appreciate it. This looks great.”
“Alright. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”
After she left, Heather lowered her gaze to her sandwich. It wasn’t large, but it was far more than she could eat. Her throat was so tight, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to eat at all.
“Why don’t you cut it in half and pack the rest to go?” Byron suggested.
She nodded numbly. “OK…”
“Need me to do it for you?”
“That would probably be a good idea.”
She didn’t move, but continued to stare at her plate. Byron heaved a sigh.
“Want me to call in a welfare check for Ms. Vlasov?”
Heather jerked her head up, hope and tears in her eyes. “Can we do it?”
“Heather…”
“Please?”
He sighed. After a moment of tense silence, he slumped back. “Eat your food. I have to see what my orders are.”
****
Steyer surrendered the report just long enough for Remington to make copies. Chief Collins brought muffins. They sat around Steyer’s desk and flipped through the papers for pertinent information.
“Urine shows traces of Hydromorphone and large amounts of Penicillin.” Remington leaned forward over his copy and ground his teeth.
“Penicillin?” Collins repeated.
Steyer nodded slowly. “He wants everything to be on his own terms. He won’t leave anything to chance.”
“Except the chance she might be allergic to Penicillin.”
Steyer shrugged.
Remington blinked slowly. “She mentioned the Hydromorphone in her statement, but not any kind of injections.”
“She may not have been in a state where she would remember it. There are several… gaps in her statement.”
“I’ll bet,” Collins muttered.
Steyer’s phone vibrated, a feeling that caused his muscles to twist into knots. They twisted tighter when he saw a text from Heather.
Dr. Magee from the school came to visit.
He invited me to the memorial.
Are you okay?
Just thinking…
Do you think the Phoenix will be there?
Steyer thought for a moment, twisting his wedding band.
It’s possible.
You don’t have to go if you’re concerned.
That’s not it.
Can we set a trap?
Steyer blinked at the question and jumped out of his chair. Remington and Collins moved to stand as well.
“I’ll be right back,” Steyer said on his way to the door. He hit Call.
“Heather,” she answered. He could tell she was trying to sound more confident than she felt.
“Where are you right now?” The office was crowded with officers and deputies. A few of them turned to the sudden voice. Steyer made a beeline for the back door. It was propped open with a brick, but no one was out there.
“Out getting breakfast with Jamal… Officer Byron.”
“Has Avery attempted to contact you?” He winced—he had been avoiding using a name he knew for a fact was fake.
“What? No!”
He spoke slowly and firmly: “You are under no circumstances to try to bait or trick or trap the Phoenix, do you understand?”
She was silent. He could hear scraping in the background.
“I know you don’t have any reason to trust anyone for anything,” he said, lowering his voice, “but, please, trust this: traps end in tragedy.”
Another long silence, then, “Yessir.”
He took a deep breath, not daring to feel relief. “Would you like some good news for now?” He sat on an overturned bucket near the door.
“I could really use it.”
“We got the results back from your sexual assault kit. They include samples from a vasectomized man.”
Heather made an odd sound in her throat. It could have been a hiccup or a sob. “What… what then?”
“We run it through CODIS—”
“Two weeks, right?”
“Well… more like two months.”
A long sigh dissolved into deep, shuddering breaths.
“Heather? I’m sorry. We’re not—”
“No, it’s not that…” She sniffled. There was a thud, followed by a murmur, “I’ll be right back…”
“Heather?”
He heard the fwump and wind-tunnel of a door and entry way, then open air.
“I… um…” She sniffled again. “I called the registrar… for UGA… Dr. M
agee suggested it. He must’ve known… They—um—She told me they gave my seat away. They thought I was dead and gave it to someone else.”
Steyer covered his mouth. She was unstable enough without this little earthquake. “I’m very sorry. I know that meant a lot to you.”
“They’re going to see what they can do, seeing as… you know… I’m not dead…” She cracked a bitter laugh. “Probably good news for you. One more reason for me to go into witness protection.”
“I’m actually hoping that won’t be necessary.”
“Yeah, well…” She released a shuddering sigh. “I should ask Toulane if Monica’s seat is still open… Or maybe I’ll get a pity scholarship from one of my back-up schools.”
“Focus on making that happen,” Steyer said. He heard Byron’s voice faintly in the background. An idea popped into his head. “Do you have any plans for this evening?”
Heather gave another bitter laugh.
“Just checking. We’ll talk later. Take care.”
****
“This is not a good idea,” Byron muttered.
“If I were in her shoes, I would need to speak to me, too.”
“You’re being selfish.”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “You know what? I need to be a little selfish right now.”
He sighed. They leaned forward to look down the slope at the duplex where Aneta Vlasov had lived with her son. The yard was baked and cracked red clay with scraggly patches of grass here and there. The roof over the porch looked like it was melting in the heat. If Byron had just been passing by, he would have thought it was abandoned. As soon as he opened his mouth to continue to protest, Heather shoved the door open and climbed out.
“Alrighty then…” he muttered.
Arrived at Vlasovs, he texted Young.
Watching Doctor Who, she replied.
“Wish I had a time machine,” he muttered. He checked to make sure Heather didn’t hear him, but she was already on the front porch.
She shuffled her feet and raised a hand. The door swung open as soon as her fist hit it.
“Don’t!” Byron jumped out of the car and slid down the clay slope.
Heather didn’t listen. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to cover a sob. An odd, strangled sound escaped her.