by Jette Harris
But that was all in the past.
“Who is it, dear?” a woman’s voice called from the kitchen.
“It’s… It’s Heather.”
The sound of breaking glass made them both start. Cathy Witt hurried into the foyer, wiping her hands with a towel and wearing an expression of bewilderment. She paused and shifted from side-to-side to check if anyone was behind her on the porch.
“Heather! What a… You…” She forced a smile. “Where are my manners? Welcome! Come inside.” She waved Heather in and looked out the door before closing it behind them.
Heather opened her mouth to answer all the unspoken questions, but her words wouldn’t come out. She thrust the magnolias toward Cathy instead. Mrs. Witt looked at them, confused.
“I’m sorry,” Heather blurted. No, you idiot, that makes it sound like you’re apologizing for killing them. “I… I mean, my condolences.”
“Oh.” She accepted the blossoms. “Take a seat, dear. I’ll put these in some water.”
“Right in here.” Carly guided Heather into a sitting room. Every single thing was in its place, except a Cosmopolitan set out of the coffee table. The décor was so antiseptic, if Heather hadn’t known better, she would have thought it was a real estate model.
She sat on the couch and pulled her limbs close. Something about this house made her feel more unsettled than the fire ground had.
Carly leaned close to whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to have bodyguards?”
“What?”
“Bodyguards! Like… men in suits with guns and ear pieces.”
Heather laughed. “No, they’re just… just cops. Sometimes the—”
The clack of a phone being placed in the cradle made her frown. She needed to talk fast.
“Would you like anything to drink, Heather?” Cathy called from the kitchen. “Maybe a snack?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Witt. I actually… I need to talk to you.”
Cathy entered the sitting room, face pulled into a frown.
“Please… sit down.”
Cathy sat on Heather’s side, opposite Carly, and as far away as the arm of the sofa would allow her.
“I… uh… I ran into Dean yesterday—”
“Oh, I heard, and he is so sorry. He’s been sick with—”
“No, I know. But I… I wanted to explain…” Her voice caught in her throat, but she pushed through. “… a bit of what happened in the house, and how Chuck died.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, that’s… That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” Carly said. “What happened?”
Heather swallowed hard. She turned to the girl. Now that it was time, words eluded her. “I… uh… He…” What the hell were you supposed to say?
A thump on the ceiling above them made her jump. She remembered her time was limited.
“First, I… I ha… Witt and I—Chuck, I mean—we never got along. I think y’all knew that. But… he apologized. And I forgave him. It was different when we were inside. We were scared. Hurt. Well, I was hurt. He seemed to… seemed…” She snapped her mouth shut and cleared her throat.
“Seemed to enjoy it?” Cathy’s voice was soft and strained.
Heather’s jaw dropped.
“The… That man sent us a… a recording.” Her voice cracked, eyes glistening.
“Oh.” Heather’s face burned. She was mortified for Witt. His moans echoed in her memory. She imagined how she would feel if Rhodes had recorded their most intimate moments and sent them to her grandpa. Her stomach churned. “Avery manipulated him to believe everything was gonna be fine when all of this was over… and Witt believed it because he was afraid to come home.”
Cathy dropped her gaze. “Did he say why?”
“He was afraid his dad was going to kill him.”
“Why?” Carly shook her head like she couldn’t imagine such a thing.
“Because he was gay.”
The girl narrowed her eyes. “But that’s not true. He wasn’t really.”
“It is true.”
Heather jerked her head up. Dean stood in the mouth of the sitting room, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of his sweat pants. He looked sick: face pale, dark circles under his eyes. He had a large bruise on his forehead.
“Hey,” she breathed.
“Hey.”
“It’s not true.” Carly turned from Heather to her brother. “Chuck wasn’t gay. That’s gross.”
“He didn’t think so,” Dean replied.
“How could you say that?”
“Carly,” Cathy hissed.
“Mom! It’s not true!”
She closed her eyes, pained.
“You’re the one who found the magazines,” Dean said.
“He was hiding those for a friend.”
He shook his head with a sigh.
“She’s lying!” Carly twisted her body toward Heather. “Why are you lying to us? First you kill my brother, and now you’re calling him a fag—”
Heather’s jaw dropped. “I… I…”
“She didn’t kill him,” Dean said loudly. “That guy killed him. The Phoenix. He shot him in the chest.”
How does he know that?
“Dean!” Carly cried.
“Carly!” he replied in a mocking tone.
Heather closed her eyes. This was getting out of hand. “Look—”
A siren cut her off. She sighed.
“Good!” Carly cried. “Get out of my house!”
“Carly Witt, don’t be rude!”
Rude? Heather choked on her words. People are dead, people are dying—
Dean opened the front door as footsteps tramped up the stairs. “Come on in.”
Two officers appeared in the foyer. One of them looked her over and grabbed his radio. “409 to dispatch, we got her.”
Swallowing the rest of her intentions, Heather stood.
Carly shot up as well. “Get her out of here! Lock her up! She’s slandering my brother!” Her voice cracked. She looked at the astounded faces around her and shoved through her brother and an officer to storm upstairs.
“Heather, I’m so sorry,” Cathy said. “She’s just… She needs time. She’s taking it very hard.”
Heather nodded numbly. Cathy took her hands with a smile that seemed a little less forced. Her skin was papery and cold.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d much rather hear it from you than from… a reporter or a detective.”
“No problem.” She allowed the officers to usher her out. One shut her into the back seat of a patrol car and stood in the yard, smoking a cigarette. The other remained inside for quite some time.
A heavy mass formed in Heather’s chest. Her breathing grew more and more ragged until she was choking. Closing her eyes, she threw her head back and screamed.
“You know what you need?” Officer Gearhart looked back at Heather in the rearview mirror. “A donut.”
Could you be any more stereotypical? She sighed and closed her eyes, resisting rolling them. “Eating donuts could kill me.”
“Just one?” He stopped at a stop light and twisted around in his seat to cock an eyebrow at her. He didn’t look old enough to shave, much less carry a gun. She took a deep breath and pursed her lips.
Officer Lester, who had collected the Witts’ statement, rumbled after them on a motorcycle. They pulled into a Krispy Kreme parking lot. The Hot and Ready light glowed, and there was only a single free parking space. Gearhart pulled into it and edged up until his grill guard scraped the sidewalk. Lester turned his motorcycle so it was facing the driveway and pulled it close behind the cruiser.
“You sure you just want to sit in the car?”
Well, when you put it that way… The cruiser reeked of sour sweat and Gearhart’s cigarette smoke. “Maybe I’ll have a coffee.”
Lester opened the door for her and the officers flanked her to the entrance. Heather’s face burned as everyone stared when they walked inside. The air was thick with the sticky
sweet smell of glaze, overwhelming even the smell of bad coffee.
They turned toward the counter. Heather’s heart leapt into her throat as two men in brown deputy’s uniforms stood in front of the register. Not him… Not him… Too thick, too short, hair the wrong color… But her heart wouldn’t slow down until she glimpsed their faces as they greeted the officers. Releasing a long, low breath, she fixed her eyes on the donut-making machine behind a glass partition. She could still feel everyone’s eyes on her. She rubbed her arms, feeling exposed, and wrapped her fingers around her wrist to cover her prominent scar.
“Hey!” Lester nodded her over. “How do you want your coffee?”
“Big and black.” The words were out of her mouth before she considered them, and the ease of them jarred her. But it made them laugh, oblivious. Lester accepted her coffee and a bag and thrust them into her hands.
“Enjoy!” He wore a big, sappy smile.
She accepted them with a nod. Her tongue was dry, stomach churning. There was no way she could eat this donut. Lester, Gearhart, and the deputies didn’t wait to supervise her eating. They broke around her like water and sat at the only free table. It only had two chairs, so the youngest of the four sat perched against the windowsill.
Heather blew on her coffee and took a step toward the door. They didn’t glance up or beckon her closer. She side-stepped right out the door. The air was hot and muggy, the smell of exhaust came off the highway running in front of the parking lot, but it was easier to breathe than sugar. Not wanting the officers to jump up and chase her, she leaned back against the window.
The screech of tires and an angry horn made her jump, sloshing hot coffee over her hand. A car had stopped for the yellow, but the car behind had sped up to run it. They honked and yelled until the light turned green again, making her stomach turn and her muscles wind up like a spring-loaded toy. Pressing a hand to her chest, she bent double and took several deep breaths. Among the chaos, a sedan pulled into the parking lot. Finding the spaces full, it made a three-point turn and backed in front of the dumpster at the far end.
When her stomach calmed, Heather straightened and let her head fall back against the window. She tossed her donut into a nearby trashcan. The screeching and squealing of breaks repeated every time the light changed, the traffic was so thick and fast. Like on the mountain, an iron railing separated the parking lot from a three-foot drop into the lane. She tilted her head to study the flow, her mind working slowly. Her stomach settled. Her muscles loosened. But her pulse quickened.
Like on the mountain.
Heather stood and took a halting step forward. She glanced over her shoulder. Gearhart gave her a thumbs-up and she replied with a smirk. A few seconds later, they were re-absorbed in their conversation. She tossed her coffee into the trashcan and stepped into the parking lot. The light turned red, and she paused by Lester’s motorcycle.
It’s funny… You don’t want to risk disobeying your doctor, but you’re on your way to throw yourself into traffic.
That’s irony right there.
The light turned green. She glanced back at the officers. Light against the window obscured their faces, but they were still seated. She continued toward the road, but the screech of tires made her jump. The sedan in front of the dumpster shot forward and slid to a stop in her path.
The door opened and Avery Rhodes stepped out. Heather froze.
“You’re no good to me as roadkill, Little Rabbit.” He pushed the door wider, revealing the Tazer in his hand.
Fight. Now’s your chance. Don’t stop. Kill him. You’re supposed to fight this time. But her muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
The door scraped open behind her. “Heather!”
Rhodes jerked his head up and recoiled into the car. Before the door was even closed, he shot out of the parking lot, side-swiping a minivan. An arm wrapped around her torso, pulled her off her feet, and swung her toward the patrol car. Lester narrowly missed hitting her as he turned the throttle on his motorcycle. The roar was deafening.
“Wait!” Gearhart screamed after him. He shoved Heather into one of the deputy’s arms and jumped into his patrol car. As soon as it pulled out of the parking lot, lights blazing, siren screaming, the deputies bundled her into the backseat of another cruiser.
It smelled much, much worse.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she cried.
“What?” the deputy called through the window.
She closed her eyes and swayed. He must have gotten the message. The door popped open. Heather threw herself to the ground and heaved.
****
With traffic so heavy, Rhodes knew he wasn’t going to get far. His heart pounded and he forced his breath even. He tried to blend in, but knew better than to cling to hope as cars parted behind him and a Harley with flashing lights came up on his tail.
Chest tight, stomach churning, Rhodes took a deep breath, signaled, and pulled the car onto the shoulder.
The officer skidded the bike and popped the clutch as if he hadn’t expected the car to stop. He jumped off, whipped his gun out of its holster, and pointed it at the car.
“Fuck!” Rhodes thrust his hands up out the window. “What the fuck? It was only a minivan!”
“Get out of the fucking car!”
“OK! OK! Please!” He reached down and opened the door from the outside. He stepped out slowly, keeping his back to oncoming traffic.
“On your knees!”
“Please, it was just an accident!”
Officer Lester grabbed his shirt and yanked him back. “Get on your fucking knees!”
“You didn’t say please!”
Lester blinked. Rhodes stepped back, knocked the gun askance, and threw his elbow into the officer’s throat. The gun went off, shattering the back window. Lester fell back with a choking cough. Rhodes slammed his foot down on his arm. The officer screamed, his hand loosening around the gun. Rhodes snatched it up.
Returning to the open door of the sedan, he reached in and grabbed his bag. Holding his arm up over his face, he stepped over Officer Lester toward the motorcycle. Lester grabbed at his leg, reached for his Tazer, then reached for his throat, panicking as his oxygen ran out.
“Nice,” Rhodes said, settling into the seat.
A sheriff’s cruiser, sirens blaring, barreled toward him. Rhodes raised the gun and fired until the car skidded to a stop. Stomping the bike into gear, Rhodes rolled on the throttle and shot down the street.
****
“That was… really fucking stupid.” Remington spoke in a low voice, but Heather still heard it from the back. He stood at the front window, looking out over the Krispy Kreme parking lot. Every few minutes, he would realize he was grinding his teeth, stop, and start shaking with nervous energy. “Right in the open, in front of three police vehicles, four cops… It doesn’t make any sense.”
The building and the parking lot had been cleared out. Heather sat with her head down, sprawled out across a table in the back corner with a cup of water in front of her and a bucket at her feet. Agent Steyer had dropped Remington off and disappeared. The younger agent clipped a radio to the back of his belt and pressed an earpiece into his ear. He didn’t say anything about what was going on, but Heather didn’t like the faces he kept making.
As he returned to the back of the building, she leaned back into her seat. He paused when he saw her expression, the way she pulled into herself.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Better,” she lied. “Just tired.”
“I should have said, What’s wrong? You don’t look scared or sick; You look… ashamed.”
Her eyes met his with a fleeting trust, but she dropped her gaze to the table.
“He said something, didn’t he?”
She glanced around, swallowing hard. She had lied and said he had just called her name, but attempting suicide was not what haunted her. Why did you stall? Why do you always stall?
“What did he say?”
She pursed
her lips. Remington sat across from her and skimmed the statement she had written. He tapped his fingers as he read and glanced up at her.
“Did you know that he was there?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I was just watching…”
“Watching what?”
“Traffic. There was almost an accident.”
“Is that why you were in the middle of the parking lot?”
Her eyes flickered up to his. He was working out what had really happened, but he didn’t look angry or concerned. He looked… interested.
“Were you walking out to the street?”
“Yes…”
“Why?”
She shifted and shrugged. He leaned forward to put his elbows on the table.
“Heather, I’m not here to judge you; That’s above my pay grade. I’m here to make sure that what happened to you doesn’t happen to anyone else. Part of doing that is protecting you.”
“The smell is making me sick,” she murmured.
He sighed and leaned back, then returned his elbows to the table. “Is that why you went outside?”
“I was having trouble breathing.”
“Because the smell?”
“I guess.”
“Were you upset because of what happened at the Witts’?”
Her lip trembled. She turned her eyes to the ceiling to keep tears from falling down her face.
“So you stepped outside to get away from the smell, to get out.”
“Yeah.”
“Where were you heading?”
“To lean on the back of the patrol car.”
“Really?”
She closed her eyes. “No.”
Remington looked taken aback by her sudden honesty.
“No, I saw the flow of traffic and how difficult it was for everyone to stop…”
“You were going to… step in.”
She looked away, shame filling her throat.
“And Avery Rhodes chose that moment to—”
“He knew.”
“What?”
“He must have seen it on my face or something. He pulled right into my path and said, ‘You’re no good to me as roadkill… R-Rabbit… Little Rabbit.’”
Remington leaned back, nodding. “Why Rabbit?”