Bloodshade

by Isadora Brown

  "You sure this is a good idea, Red?" Jon asked in a low voice.

  "Secrets, secrets are no fun," Robbie called from his desk.

  "I have no idea," I admitted. "But it's the only one we have right now."

  He clenched jaw and looked away. I could tell he wanted to argue. I knew he didn't want to let me go, but he also knew he didn't have another choice. He nodded once, as though he was giving me his approval. I wanted to tell him I didn't actually need it, but I knew he knew that as well.

  I headed out the door and made my way to the elevator. I stepped inside, pressed the bottom button and looked at Robbie's front door. Jon was still there in plain sight. Granted, he didn't have to worry about anything because unless they knew Robbie, they weren't coming all this way up here, but still. I didn't like him so exposed when he was still wanted on multiple counts of homicide.

  I held his gaze. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He kept his eyes on me until the steel doors slid shut.

  And I could breathe again.

  I went to press my hands against the steel gold wall and found it shaking. I didn't understand why I was reacting this way. I didn't know what it meant. Jon just unnerved me, but in a way that left me undone.

  I caught my breath and shook my head. I couldn't think about Jon right now. Not when there was too much on my plate.

  As I emerged from the elevators, I patted the files against my chest. I wasn't sure if it was going to rain or not, and I didn't want to risk getting them wet, especially since I'd be taking the public transport to get to the station. It was three blocks down the street and seven blocks west from where I lived. I could have walked it, but I didn't trust my legs right now. And, if the government agency Jon and I were at last night knew about what happened, I didn't want to give them an easy target in me.

  The bus was ten minutes late. It felt like the longest ten minutes of my life. Everyone was a suspect. Even the mother with the two children sitting next to her, fighting for dominance over her smartphone. I learned a lot from my uncle, but especially not to trust anyone. I always meant to ask if he meant family as well, but I never got a chance to clarify. I would have expected that it still applied to family, but that family would never betray us. My grandfather fought for his country, died for his country. My grandmother raised four kids as a single mother with no help from her family because they were scattered back east, and had to bury three of them. She died before Richard did. Richard, the only one left before…

  Before.

  My rock.

  And he crumbled, just like a pawn on the chessboard.

  But he didn't have a chance. Not when the corrupt were in charge of the board.

  I clenched my jaw. Finally, I could offer him a sliver of justice. Maybe not directly. But at least I could start this process going. Estrada would get the evidence he kept nagging me about and Richard, maybe, could finally rest easily tonight.

  When my stop came up, I thanked the driver and got off. The Perry Police Department was a long, two-story brick building with a main entrance in the front. It was the only way for the public to access the station. The automatic doors slid open, a bell chiming overhead at my entrance. Public Safety officers—employees of the department who weren't actually sworn but worked for it—glanced up at me.

  I sucked in a breath, feeling my stomach tumble around. My arm tightened over my torso. I felt eyes on me. Did they know what I had? Would they alert Guzman that I was here?

  I tried not to let my anxious feelings show. Instead, I walked up to the bulletproof glass and offered what I hoped was my most charming smile.

  "My name is Lara Tucker," I said. "I need to see Isaac Estrada. It's important."

  The PSO smiled at me. "One moment," he said and picked up the phone. "Hey, I have a Ms. Lara Tucker here for you. Says it's important." A pause. "Okay, sure, I'll let her know." After he hung up the phone, he turned his attention back on me. "Detective Estrada will be right down to bring you back. If you don't mind having a seat over there, he'll be with you shortly."

  I nodded and thanked the PSO before dropping into a worn armchair with firm upholstery that looked as though it came straight out of the nineteen seventies. How could Guzman afford to ensure her office was filled with new leather chairs and her police department was still stuck in the disco era, I had no idea.

  Estrada made me wait another ten minutes before he finally retrieved me. He opened the door and the look on his face seemed exasperated mixed in with slight curiosity.

  I tended to inspire that look in him quite a bit.

  By the time we got back to his desk, I took a seat without him offering and plopped the files on his desk, taking care not to drop them in the microwavable spaghetti meal he seemed to be enjoying already.

  "What's that?" he asked me flatly.

  "You'll need it," I said, making sure to keep my voice down. "You said you wanted evidence; this is evidence."

  He let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. I hadn't noticed it before, but Estrada looked tired. No, not tired. Exhausted. I almost felt bad for him.

  "Tucker," he said. "I thought we already—"

  "Before you dismiss it, you might want to actually take a look at it," I said. "My grandfather's name is mentioned twice. That's all I'm going to say here." I looked around. Even if Estrada had an office, I wouldn't trust this place. "As it is, I'm asking you just to look through it. If you can use it, great. If not, then shred them. But please. Just look."

  Estrada looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he placed his hands on other random papers that filled his desk and rolled his shoulders back.

  "How did you get this evidence?" he asked.

  "I don't think you want me to answer that," I replied, keeping my gaze steady on his.

  "Can I even use this?" he asked, flipping it open.

  I slammed my hand on it, making sure to keep the folder closed. "Not here," I said.

  Estrada nodded once. "Fine," he agreed. "I'll look into it. Lara, just be careful, okay? You already put a target on your back after you outed Guzman at the gala. I don't want to see your big mouth get you killed."

  "I know," I said. "That's why I'm bringing this to you and not writing about it."

  "You're not writing about it because you're fired," Estrada said. "Don't think I don't know. I'm only surprised it's taken this long."

  I rolled my eyes but smiled.

  "Anything else?" he asked, giving me a long stare as I stood up.

  "Just be careful," I said. "It can't be easy for you."

  "It's not," he agreed. "Especially when I have to deal with pricks like you."

  Chapter 21

  After dropping off the files with Estrada, I tightened the belt around my trench coat. I knew both Jon and Robbie were at home, waiting for me. Robbie was probably throwing himself into work. Jon was probably pacing. Robbie would tell Jon to calm down. Jon would growl. I knew I should probably go back there and let them know I was okay, especially after what I did to Robbie. I didn't want them to worry. Really, I didn't. But somehow, my feet led me across town. I hopped on a bus and took it to Perry Cemetery.

  I didn't know why I felt the need to visit my uncle's grave. I just knew I needed to. It was like I wanted to tell him what I saw in those files. How Grandpa's name had come up in two different documents before disappearing completely. All I knew was that his unit had been attacked in the war and his name had come up again detailing his injuries. I was, by no means, a doctor but judging by that description, I was sure my grandfather should have died.

  He did, though. They came to my grandmother and told her as much. These documents seemed to prove that my uncle's search for the truth, his death, had all been in vain.

  Except, it hadn't.

  Why was his name tied to these documents? The ones in the Silver Bullet file? What did that mean? And why did Richard insist Guzman and her uncle had something to do with it?

  I still couldn't piece that together.

  The cemetery
was empty, as it normally was. It was a rainy day—the rain was too light to hit the ground but a chill swept through me and little ghosts tapped my bare skin, disappearing the second they hit my body. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, trying to get warm.

  I opened the black gate and heard the creak of the iron as I slipped inside. Anyone could visit the cemetery within certain hours. Rarely did people do that. I wasn't sure why, but it seemed as though Perry liked to keep their dead buried and kept in one singular space that wouldn't taint the fact that the city was constantly reinventing itself, keeping itself alive.

  The last time I came here, there were two people on payroll: someone who worked during the day and someone who worked at night. The man who worked during the day was Toby. I passed the small little office on the main hill, just before the cemetery officially began. The golf cart that was parked next to the office was gone, which told me Toby was off doing maintenance or preparing for a burial. I continued walking forward. I had three roads to cross before I got to Richard. I took my time getting there.

  I was on the cusp of something, but I couldn't, for the life of me, push forward. Maybe Estrada would be able to help.

  I walked through the cemetery. The grass was wet with dew from the morning. The sun was still hidden behind angry gray rainclouds. I didn't mind that my flats were getting damp. It was nice to walk through nature when I was normally surrounded by a steel jungle. I took my time, careful to step around the grass that carried plots. I let myself smile at flowers placed against tombstones and plaques, trying to offer acknowledgment the way loved ones already had.

  There were many people I knew who feared cemeteries. They claimed that there was something off about them. That the air didn't feel right. That it always felt as though someone was watching.

  I found the opposite to be true. I didn't know if it was because I was used to death. Richard had three other siblings including my mother. Michael, the oldest, was the golden child. He did everything right, from graduating with honors from a prestigious college, to getting a good job at a car dealership. Unfortunately, he made one bad decision and he died from an overdose. This was before my grandmother died and it broke her heart to bury her son.

  My mother and father died a few years after that, thanks to a drunk driver. My grandma, again, had to bury another child. I think, at that point, her heart gave out on her. Years of being strong since being told of my grandfather's death took its toll on her and she collapsed.

  Richard's youngest brother, Bobby, drank himself into a stupor, especially when he realized her estate went to Richard because of Bobby's alcohol problem. He drank himself to death.

  And Richard…Richard was so consumed by finding out what happened to my grandfather that nothing else seemed to matter, not even life.

  Now, there was just me. I was the remaining legacy on my mother's side. My last name might have been Tucker, but I was closer to the Kents than I ever was with my father's side, only because they were scattered across the country, living their own lives, not bothering with anyone else.

  Death was a big part of my life. Death wasn't something I feared.

  Maybe that was a bad thing.

  I let my fingers touch a scratchy tomb stone. I only had a few plots more until I reached my uncle's—my family's, I should say.

  Walking through this cemetery was not haunting or ominous. To me, it felt like I was coming home. All of my family was here. I felt safe. Protected. The stillness reminded me that I wasn't alone.

  I took a deep breath and felt myself get lighter as I released it. I came upon the large plaque that took up a good two feet wide and three feet tall portion of the grass. My grandfather and grandmother's names and dates of life and death were at the top. The second row had Michael, Richard, Nancy, and Bobby—in order of birth. Below my mother was my dad's name—Benjamin.

  The only thing that unnerved me about the plaque was that there was space on it for one more name, as though it was waiting for me.

  Maybe that was morbid. In fact, I never told my family—this family that I could barely remember save for Richard—what I wanted when I died. I didn't think I was supposed to, considering I was the youngest. The old were not supposed to bury the young.

  I didn't think I wanted to be buried in the ground. I wanted to be cremated and scattered on the Pacific Ocean with the sparkling ocean as the sun dipped low. I wanted freedom. I wanted to float away until I disappeared. I didn't want to be caged in a box even in death.

  I found myself kneeling down. The ground was slightly damp, so I made sure my knees didn't press against the grass. If anything, I wanted to touch the stone, really feel it beneath my fingers.

  I still didn't know if I made the right choice, giving Estrada a copy of the evidence. At least I could say I tried. I tried to do things the right way. Jon wanted the opportunity to execute revenge, especially after what happened last night. Asher Grey was probably at the top of his shit-list, if not, just behind Sonya Crawford. I was sure Yvonne was on it too, but I didn't know if Jon was ruthless enough to actually kill Yvonne for being a terrible person.

  Not that it mattered.

  There was enough blood on Jon's hands. He didn't need to add any more.

  I hummed to myself as I looked at the marble. Time had chipped into it. A spot here, a spot there. As a whole, it looked nearly untarnished, however.

  What was I doing here? Why was I seeking comfort from rocks and spirits who I didn't remember? It almost felt as though I was asking my uncle for approval, as though I wanted to go to him and let him know what I was doing, and hope that he was giving me a warm high-five from his grave.

  "We're close," I felt myself saying.

  But did it even matter? At the end of the day, Richard was dead. Because of this. Was that the legacy he wanted to leave me?

  I shook my head. Jon and Robbie were getting to me.

  I came here because I needed some space. I needed the fresh air. I needed to get away from the city and just give myself the capacity to breathe again. I also knew what I had done was a risk. I wasn't sure what Estrada was going to do with it, but at least he had it. It wasn't like I was going to write an article and publish it without giving him a head's up.

  I gave him that much.

  But there was part of me that was concerned. I did worry that maybe Estrada wouldn't actually do anything with the evidence. Maybe he would make it go away.

  Which was why Robbie made copies.

  I cleared my throat. I didn't know why I felt so comforted by the bitter sting of the wind that shook the trees. I closed my eyes. I didn't know how I knew it, but I did: a storm was coming. There was nothing I could do about it, either. It was one of those storms that took everything, that consumed not just the body and the mind, but the soul. And if I made it out on the other end, I would be reborn. Cleansed of all of the mistakes I had been making over and over again, chasing ghosts I could never quite grasp in my hands.

  I snapped open my eyes and narrowed them at my uncle's name. He had gotten to me, gotten under my skin. He had preached how important family was. And yet, he had completely left me behind.

  And now…now I was doing the same thing. I had no family. Richard's incessant digging at death's door got him killed. No—Guzman. She was behind this. I knew she was and I couldn't get the fucking evidence.

  I squatted down, making sure not to get my knees on the grass. I didn't need stains on these pants. I didn't need any more dirt covering my sins. Tears crept in the corner of my eyes and they didn't want to leave, even when I squeezed them tight to push them out.

  I let out a breath. I blinked. And then it hit me. I was forcing things. I so desperately needed to be right about everything that I was trying to force the evidence, bend the truth so it molded to my narrow view. By forcing it, though, I kept running into blocks, running into tension. I was slogging through wet cement, riding my bike against the wind. I was walking in the wrong direction on an escalator and thinking everyone else was wron
g.

  I was wrong.

  Not about Guzman. Not about what happened to my uncle. But about how I was trying to figure this all out. How I was handling this all.

  "God, please, may You take this cup from me," I said, fiddling with my necklace. "Yet not as I will, but as you will."

  It was nice to say the words. It felt like something shifted from my shoulders. I wouldn't say that the weight had been lifted. Not by a long shot. But it was a start.

  I sucked in the icy air. It pierced my lungs, waking up my body. I needed this. I needed it so much. I took another breath and then another.

  This was not Richard's fault. This was not even some legacy I was going to fall into like my uncle and my grandfather. This was me, being torn up about losing my only family, needing something to put that anger and bitterness and just plain misery into something. And I wasn't just angry at Guzman for taking him from me, but at Richard himself, for not thinking about me in his quest for the truth. I was important, but not the most important thing.

  And that sucked.

  I shook my head. These thoughts weren't helping. I stood up and stretched my legs. They groaned with the abrupt change in positioning.

  My phone chirped.

  Where the fuck are you?

  It was from Robbie. I wanted to throw my phone across the cemetery and forget it existed. It was like a rude interruption during the sermon in church. I was so focused on my thoughts, on sifting through them so I could try and find the end of them by untangling them, that any distraction forced me to have to start all over again.

  However, I could also understand his concern. I wondered if Jon was still there or if he chose to leave. Jon was not the sort of man who stuck around. Not because he was a jerk. More like he needed his space. Staying in the same place was a sure way to get killed, get caught, be exposed. Maybe it was something he picked up while in the military. Then again, maybe it was something he was forced to develop as a werewolf.