Ruin

by Jette Harris

  Rhodes pointed to where Dean had tossed his can. “And clean up your fucking trash.”

  9

  08 June

  Thursday

  Byron descended the stairs as quietly as possible, hoping against hope Kondorf was still asleep in front of the TV. He sighed when he reached the bottom step and found the living room empty. The sound of chairs scraping emitted from the kitchen.

  “Jamal,” Kondorf said, “what the hell—”

  Tech silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. “Let me handle this.”

  Byron’s heart raced again as the old man turned to him. He swallowed hard. Tech squared up at the foot of the stairs, blocking Byron’s path. His eyes drifted down to Byron’s untucked shirt and the duty belt hanging from his hand.

  “She… she had a nightmare,” Byron stammered.

  Tech nodded. Before Byron could speak again, the old man knocked him down with a right hook.

  Byron groaned. “I deserved that.” He rubbed the tender spot under his left eye.

  “Heath never got the chance to warn you, I guess.” Tech shook out his hand and rubbed his fist. “Knocked him down a few times before he learned to use that god-damned tree.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Byron followed the men into the kitchen.

  “The hell you will!”

  “Tech, she’s not sixteen,” Kondorf said.

  “The shit that goes on under my roof…” Tech muttered. “And after what’s she’s been through!”

  “She… But… I…”

  Byron was silenced by footsteps trotting down the stairs. Heather, wearing just an over-sized t-shirt, swung herself into the kitchen.

  “Morning!” she chirped.

  Byron held his breath, waiting for Tech’s barrage. They stared as she rummaged around, making some peanut-butter toast and pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

  “What?” She licked some peanut butter off her knife.

  “Nothin’,” they said in unison.

  “Hmm…” She glanced between the three of them with narrowed eyes. Her gaze landed on Byron’s cheek. “What happened to your face?”

  “My face?” His hand flew to the tender spot. “Oh, I must have… uh… popped a zit.”

  She snorted. Taking her toast and orange juice, she went back upstairs.

  Tech cleared his throat and turned back to his coffee. “Must be true what they said about—”

  “Don’t. Even. Start.” Byron snapped his duty belt on and followed Heather back upstairs. He tapped the door before entering. Heather had a handful of pills in one hand and the glass in the other.

  “Mom told me Grandpa popped Daddy five times before he started climbing the magnolia.”

  “I am not climbing a tree…” Byron leaned in, but hesitated. Heather smirked and raised her cheek to him. His kiss landed on the corner of her mouth. When he straightened back up, she looked pleased, happier than she had since Charli left. Her eyes were bright and drew the breath right out of him.

  ****

  Byron didn’t smell like Rhodes. Didn’t feel like Rhodes. Didn’t taste like Rhodes. Everything about him comforted Heather, from the moment she heard his voice at the door to the moment she woke with his arm across her body. He slowed down when she asked him to slow down, stopped when she begged him to stop. His voice was soothing in her ear.

  When she slept at the Hospitality House, she often woke with Rhodes’s hands on her or inside her, preamble for worse. He stroked her gently, trying to force orgasm. He succeeded eventually. Several days passed beginning and ending like that.

  When she woke and heard Byron’s voice at the door, reassuring, offering, heat flared up under her skin. Her loins throbbed. She didn’t allow herself a second thought. She needed Byron to chase Avery Rhodes out of her mind.

  As she had only ever been to one funeral, Heather only owned one black dress. In the back of her closet, she held it up. Her throat tightened at the sight of the scoop-neck that had served her so poorly when she was fifteen. Walking out of the closet, she pulled it over her head and stood before the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.

  With a strangled cry, she fell to her knees.

  ****

  Tech tapped on Heather’s door. “You OK, sweetie?” The door drifted open and he poked his head in. “I heard a—Heather?”

  Heather sat curled against the foot of her bed, her fingers clutching her hair. Her face was red and wet. “I can’t—”

  “What’s happened?”

  Heather rolled onto her knees, holding out her arms. Tech gasped. The thick red letters shone out on her chest: ABBI. She shook her head. Falling back down on her heels, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  ****

  “Heather, honey?”

  Heather stopped crying. She snatched a throw blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. Lauri pushed open the door. She hesitated before crossing the room.

  “Your grandpa said you needed a dress.” She studied Heather, combing her fingers through her mussed hair. “This one never really fit you.” She tugged at the seams, folding them to see if there was any way to take the dress in.

  Heather tightened the throw around her shoulders. “It’s not that…”

  Lauri stilled and sniffed. “Throw on some jeans. Let’s go get you a new dress.”

  She smiled, careworn and sad. Heather was afraid if she smiled back, she would break. The best she could manage was to press her lips together and nod.

  She hadn’t gone dress shopping since her mother had died.

  “I feel partially responsible.” Steyer stood by Chief Collins’s desk with a hand in his pocket.

  Byron sank further into his seat.

  “I knew when I made my request that they had been… close. I suspected an affection.”

  His face burned; Steyer was choosing his words carefully: “close” was a gross exaggeration, and he knew the affection was one-sided. At least, Byron had believed it was until last night.

  Chief Collins accepted this explanation. He leaned back in his chair and raised his chin as he studied Byron. “Officer Byron, did you and Miss Stokes have a relationship before?”

  “No, sir. We were just friends.”

  “Are you in a relationship now?”

  Byron looked away. “I dunno… Sir.”

  “I understand there are quite a few… complex aspects to this situation—Miss Stokes initiated it, your prior… closeness, her grandfather started the fight—but as an officer of the law, you’re supposed to exhibit more restraint, almost impossible self-control.”

  Byron exhaled slowly through his nose. He knew what was about to occur, and just wanted it to be over-with.

  Collins granted Byron’s wish: “I’m placing you on administrative leave for Conduct Unbecoming, pending a review.”

  Byron sighed with relief. Administrative leave didn’t sound as bad as suspension or dismissal. But that could come later. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  He jerked his leg a few times. “Do I have to turn in my gun and badge?”

  “No, that shouldn’t be necessary at this juncture. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Now, this should not prevent you from… spending time with Miss Stokes—I’m sure she could use the support—but just not in the official capacity of her police detail.”

  Byron snorted.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, no disrespect, sir. I just… I don’t need to be on assignment to protect someone I’m hangin’ with.”

  Collins nodded. “That’s what I expected, although I’m hoping it won’t come to that. Right now, you don’t have the protections an officer would have should anything happen.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Byron stood. Although relieved to be walking out, he fought to kee
p control of his posture and expression.

  “I’ll be right back,” Steyer said in a low voice. Byron heard the agent follow him out. “Officer Byron.”

  “What, man?”

  Steyer looked taken aback, but didn’t respond to the tone. Byron took a deep breath and collected himself.

  You’re never gonna be an agent now… “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I understand you have admired Heather for a long time—”

  “I shouldn’t’ve taken advantage, I know. You think I’m not ashamed?”

  “I think you’re in danger.”

  Byron’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  Steyer lowered his voice. “The Phoenix looks upon Heather as a possession, something very precious to him, and you… sullied her.” He waved a hand to dismiss the negative connotations of the word. “You’re her object of affection, not him. And if he realizes that, if he even suspects it, he will come after you.”

  “Man, let him.”

  “That would put Heather in danger as well.”

  Reluctantly, Byron nodded.

  “I don’t care if you continue your relationship—Mosel tov, in fact—but keep it behind closed doors, and away from windows as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Steyer gave a nod and turned back to Collins’s office. “And that’s no matter what Heather says,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t let her use it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Byron gave a weak wave. “Thank you.”

  Lauri Shatterthwaith had ruined every dress she ever owned. At least, that’s what she said, a little too loudly, when she noticed Heather cower under all of the eyes staring at them in the J. C. Penney. She then regaled her with a series of anecdotes involving waist-deep mud puddles, bike chains, hot sauce, chocolate fountains, and misguided hand-stands.

  Byron had offered to escort them, but Heather balked at the idea. Another day-shift officer, looking awkward and impatient, milled around the perimeter of the women’s department as Lauri pulled out a variety of dresses and held them up to Heather’s body.

  “I think I’d like something like this,” Heather said in a timid voice, pulling out a halter dress. “I need…” She trailed off as she drew a finger over the letters concealed by her baggy t-shirt.

  Lauri’s throat worked like she had trouble swallowing. She took the dress and held it up, then waved over a woman with a nametag that said STACY.

  “Could you show us more like this?” Lauri asked. “In black or grey.”

  “What size do we need?” Stacy asked, eyeing Heather’s bony arms and flat chest.

  “Uhh… The other dress was a two,” Heather said.

  “You might need a zero,” Lauri murmured.

  “You might need the junior’s section,” the clerk said.

  Heat rose in Heather’s face and tears pricked at her eyes. She felt like she was about to be put up for auction. Wasn’t she supposed to be beyond petty encounters like this? She had escaped the Phoenix. Couldn’t she escape dress-shopping? She missed the simplicity of the plain white robe, those plain white walls.

  Her stomach turned. She shook her head to chase the thought away.

  “That’s fine,” she told the ladies quickly. “We can look in both.”

  ****

  The dresses from the junior’s department were far too short: Lauri and Stacy got an eyeful of the bite marks still lingering on Heather’s thighs. Lauri had to disappear into a stall for a few minutes, abandoning Heather to Stacy’s gaping.

  Heather was getting frustrated again, always finding a shining red line peering out where the sleeve was scooped too much, white lines creeping over a too-low back, or the bite marks making their glorious announcement any time she sat down and the skirt rode up.

  Pausing to take a deep breath, she beat her head against the mirror a few times.

  “Heather, honey, do you want to take a break? Maybe grab some food then try another store?”

  Heather swallowed the tears in her throat and nodded, despite the door between them. “Yeah, I just have… three more in here. We’ll go after these.”

  The next-to-last dress came just below the knee. With her back to the mirror, she tugged and twisted, but the back stayed secure around her shoulder blades, just a few ashy scratches showing. The fabric hugged the meager curves she had left and fell away in an empire waist. Decent for more than just a funeral. Not that she ever went to dress-wearing events.

  “Actually,” Heather said, opening the door and stepping out, “this one looks—”

  Lauri clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

  “Is it… is it that bad?” Heather flattened the skirt over her brutalized thighs and tugged at the halter, although only the scar from her broken collarbone was visible.

  Maybe it’s transparent? she thought as tears shone in Lauri’s eyes. Heather folded her arms over her chest. Lauri shook her head and dropped her hand.

  “You—” She took a deep, shaking breath. “You look just like your mother.” She gestured toward the 180° mirror in the back of the dressing room.

  “What?” She spun around so fast, it made her light-headed. “No…” Tears began to flood her eyes. She had been doing so well!

  Despite the bony shoulders, despite the ghostly-pale skin, despite the scars—covered beautifully by the dress—she could see it for just a fleeting moment. Heather combed her fingers through her hair, parting it on the side as she had worn it. She laughed through the tears falling down her face. It was almost as if her mother was smiling back at her.

  ****

  After celebrating their victory with a cookie from the Great American Cookie Company, Heather felt giddy on the drive home. She worried the hem of her t-shirt as if it were the seam of her new dress. She didn’t believe anything could ruin her buoyancy, until she caught a glimpse of Lauri’s face.

  The car suddenly felt very quiet. Lauri’s lips were tight. Her throat worked repeatedly. She opened her mouth a few times, but shut it whenever Heather turned to her.

  Oh, God, she wants to talk about it. The muscles in Heather’s neck tightened as she waited, but Lauri never spoke. Her mouth simply grew thinner. Ingratitude clawed at Heather’s chest. Lauri deserved answers; She deserved closure.

  It will only hurt for a moment, Heather promised herself. If it hurt longer, she still had the Klonopin.

  When Lauri pulled the car into the driveway, she turned to Heather with a tight, forced smile.

  “Ask me anything,” Heather blurted before she could say good-bye. Lauri’s smile disappeared. “Please. It hurts to see you like this.”

  Blinking, Lauri turned to stare through the windshield, staring but not seeing her perfect house, where four of her children were safe inside with their father. She was silent for so long, Heather’s resolve began to crumble. Her chest grew tight and tears threatened to escape again.

  “Did she fight?” Lauri asked in a tight voice. “Did she give him Hell?” Her voice broke, choking on Hell. Tears rolled down her face.

  Heather took a deep breath and held it. She hadn’t prepared herself for this. “Yes,” she lied.

  10

  09 June

  Friday

  Heather slid her window open and scurried as quietly as possible among the magnolia boughs. Finding five of the heartiest blossoms, she snapped them off and tied the stems with a ribbon. She inspected it with a sigh. It was pretty and fragrant, but didn’t look anywhere near as professional as the flowers she had received when her parents had died.

  Climbing down the magnolia was a painful ordeal. She had to move slowly, her arm stretching in directions it didn’t want to go, and jump the remaining six feet rather than lowering herself as she usually did. When she hit the ground, she doubled-over, clutching her aching ribs. She crouched by the porch until confident no one had heard her descent, and shot across the street.

  The neighborhood where Heather grew up before her grandfather took her in was a three-mile drive, but just a half-mile trek throu
gh the woods. If she veered to the left, she would emerge on the Cheatham Hill Magnet High soccer field. Veering right would dump her on the highway near the coffee shop. Despite the old paths being overgrown, she knew exactly which way to go.

  ****

  Young stood and stretched as she crossed to the front door. When she pulled the curtain aside, Kondorf had his nose and forehead pressed against the window, tongue out and eyes crossed. She smacked the glass, making him flinch. He was rubbing his nose when she opened the door to let him in.

  “How’s it goin’? Pretty quiet?”

  “Don’t hex us, Tommy.”

  “Us?” He checked his watch. “You’re heading home now, right?”

  She knocked on the wooden doorframe. “As soon as I let Heather know you’re here.”

  Kondorf slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small box. “Hey, Tech, I brought some cards this time.”

  “Thank God,” Tech laughed, leaning forward on the couch.

  Young made her way up the stairs, smirking at the banter below. Heather’s door wasn’t fully closed, but Young couldn’t see inside. She tapped gently, in case Heather was asleep. The door cracked open, and she nudged it farther to peer inside.

  The bed was empty. The window was open.

  ****

  Heather’s heart was in her throat. She clutched the magnolias between both hands and stared at the red door before her. She had to remind herself to breathe. Wiping her feet for the fifth time, she fixed her eyes on the welcome mat and forced her hand up. Her knuckles barely touched the door when it swung open.

  Carly Witt stood before her, looking as wide-eyed and awkward as Heather felt.

  The Witts moved to Cheatham Hill when Heather was in third grade, in a large house on the opposite end of the street from her. She had been thrilled to have new kids nearby, but Chuck Witt proved to be a surly child, and they became bitter enemies.