Next Stop Love, #1

by Rachel Stockbridge

  “I could come in with you,” Kinsey offered. Again. “Take you straight home once you’re done.”

  “You can’t skip class,” Beatrice said. “Finals are next week.”

  “So? What’s so great about finals?” Kinsey asked, a grumpy frown drawing her eyebrows together. “Suddenly they’re more important than best friends? That’s dumb.”

  Beatrice felt the corner of her mouth twitch. She set her hand on Kinsey’s arm and assumed her most tragic Victorian consumptive face. “It is my dying wish that you take these finals. For both of us, as I am surely not long for this world.”

  Kinsey made a face. “Your dying wish is for me to take my finals? Seriously? I’m not even being charged with avenging your death?”

  “Nope. I’d say my dying wish is for you to ace all your finals, but I don’t want to put any undue pressure on you. So I’ll settle for you taking them.”

  Kinsey glared at Beatrice sideways. “Why am I friends with you?” she said, in an affectionate grumble. “You’re so weird.”

  Beatrice dropped her eyes to the lid of her coffee, her smile fading.

  Talking to her family yesterday had cleared the air some, but she still felt emotionally raw. She had to fight hard for the occasional reprieve from the gloom hanging over her. Stupid things kept making her cry. Last night, her mom had turned on a baking competition—probably thinking it was a safe bet, since there was no violence or substantial conflict—but it just reminded Beatrice of Julian’s bit about the gravy-themed cooking show, and she dissolved into tears two minutes in. This morning she walked out the door feeling content and light for a split second—before she remembered she wasn’t meeting Julian at the train station, she was going to meet Kinsey downstairs. The unexpected drop forced her to stop for thirty seconds, right outside her own door, to pull herself together. And here she was about to cry because she missed Julian calling her weird.

  She hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her mind kept turning over random memories, studying them from every angle, trying to reconcile them with what he’d told her in that hospital room. What drug runner got hearts in his eyes whenever he talked about the artistic efforts of little kids? Or encouraged acquaintances to change majors because he noticed they weren’t happy with their career paths? Or persisted in days-long dad-joke battles over text?

  But then . . . what contributing member of society got chased into libraries and dragged into alleys by vengeful drug dealers?

  Beatrice couldn’t get the pieces to fit together in a way that made sense, and she was furious at herself for even trying. For missing Julian at all, after everything he said. It was just another way to blindly believe the best instead of accepting the truth.

  But she couldn’t help it. She missed him so much it hurt. He had been such an important part of her life, and she didn’t want to believe he wasn’t the person she thought she knew.

  “I was joking,” Kinsey said, finding Beatrice’s wrist and shaking it gently. “You know I was joking, right? You’re the good kind of weird.”

  Beatrice shoved all her confused thoughts about Julian into the flimsy box in her mind that wouldn’t stay shut. She turned her palm over and squeezed Kinsey’s hand, forcing a small smile. “I know. It’s okay.”

  Kinsey’s eyes darted to Beatrice’s face for a moment before they returned to the road. “I won’t skip class if it’s going to make you sad.”

  “Kins. It’s okay. Really. I’m just . . . still not quite myself. I know you were joking.”

  “Okay.” Kinsey gave Beatrice’s hand a final squeeze and released her to navigate a rush hour merging situation.

  Nursing her coffee, Beatrice gazed out the window at the buildings creeping by. The sky was heavy and gray, desaturating even the most vibrant colors the city had to offer. Normally bright reds and yellows looked anemic and grim, as though they’d lost the will to fight against the color-leeching dictates of the sky.

  A flock of pigeons burst out of a bare-branched tree as Kinsey drove past a small park, and the world blurred into bright smears of brown and gray.

  Dammit. Was there anything that didn’t make her cry today?

  Beatrice sucked in a breath, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling up to this?” Kinsey asked. Even with both hands on the wheel, and her attention on the taxi edging into her lane, she hadn’t missed Beatrice’s soft sniffle. “I could turn around and take you home.”

  “I’m sure,” Beatrice said, turning her gaze to the taxi’s license plate—she fortunately couldn’t remember any taxi-related jokes or experiences she and Julian had shared, so at least that was safe. She took a fortifying breath of heater-warmed air. “I want to get this over with. And it’s not like I’m trying to run a marathon, here.”

  Kinsey pursed her lips in disapproval.

  “Pretty sure the cops will call an ambulance if I pass out,” Beatrice added, smiling softly at Kinsey’s stubborn protectiveness.

  “Hilarious,” Kinsey grumbled, but she let the subject drop.

  * * *

  It was bustling inside the police station, but not as forbidding as Beatrice expected. The room where Detective Flores took her to talk was surprisingly devoid of harsh metal tables or two-way mirrors. It was almost cozy. A well-stuffed couch against one wall faced two padded chairs. A low table stood between them, a couple of magazines and a collection of comic strips stacked to one side. There was a window, and the walls even had vintage drawings of the Chrysler Building and Brooklyn Bridge breaking up the monotony of plain white paint.

  “Sit wherever you like,” Detective Flores said, sweeping an arm across the small expanse of the room. She was around Beatrice’s mom’s age, with short black hair that was streaked with gray at the temples, and laugh lines etched into the corners of her eyes. She had an easy competency about her that made Beatrice feel less nervous about talking to her alone.

  Beatrice sat on the couch, dropping her tote bag at her feet. The half-finished latte she kept in her hands, needing the reassurance of the warmth between her palms.

  Detective Flores shut the door and settled in one of the chairs. She’d brought a legal pad and a folder with her, but she set these both on the table and turned a friendly smile on Beatrice. “Thanks for coming down. I know it’s a long trip for you. Especially when you’re still healing. Are you feeling okay?”

  “No worse than usual,” Beatrice said, wriggling against the armrest in an attempt to find a little bit of support for her back. The couch was too deep for her to reach the back cushions without her feet sticking out.

  “Throw pillow there,” Detective Flores said, pointing to the other end of the couch. “Feel free to lie down, if that’s more comfortable. Or you can put your feet up.”

  Beatrice hesitated. “Isn’t putting your feet on a police couch some kind of felony? Vandalism of public property or something?”

  Detective Flores’s smile widened. “Only the real sticklers in the Etiquette Unit care about making arrests on that one. I think I can let it slide.”

  “Okay . . .” Beatrice kicked off her shoes and tucked herself into the corner of the couch, coffee still gripped in her hands.

  “Better?” Detective Flores asked.

  “Better.”

  Beatrice had thought it would be easier, going over the events of that day a second time. And it was, in a way. Detective Flores had taken her first statement, too, so Beatrice didn’t feel like she needed to prove she wasn’t lying. But there was a lot more stopping and going over the same thing over and over this time. Detective Flores kept prodding for more details and a specific sequence of events, since Beatrice’s initial statement had jumped all over the place.

  By the time they got to the part where she’d passed out, Beatrice’s small reserve of energy was drained. There had been other witnesses by then—a couple art center employees who came out when they heard the fight, plus the medics and police and hospital staff who took care of t
hings after that—so Beatrice’s first statement had concluded after she lost consciousness.

  But this time, Detective Flores kept going. “Tell me,” she said, making a mark on the legal pad with her pen before meeting Beatrice’s eyes, “what do you think prompted the attack?”

  Beatrice had already been calculating how many minutes it would take from the time she walked out of the interview room until she let herself into Sasha’s dorm room to crash for a few hours. It took a second to bring herself back to the present conversation. “What do you mean?”

  “We know Julian had a past connection with the men who assaulted you, but we have some evidence they may have been contacted by a third party.”

  “A—A third party? Like . . . someone told them where Julian worked?”

  Detective Flores nodded. “Do you know of any reason someone might want to do that?”

  Beatrice opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. Her first thought, that day—before she recognized Vito, before Julian got so angry at her—had been that Greyson must have set it up. He’d gotten other people to hurt Julian before, and he had seemed set on believing Julian had manipulated Beatrice into wanting to break things off.

  But then Julian started yelling at her, telling her he used to be a drug runner, and she figured she must’ve been wrong. After all, it had taken weeks for Greyson to arrange for Julian to get hurt the last time. And it wasn’t like Vito hadn’t gone after Julian before. Beatrice had met Julian because he was trying to escape from the man. It seemed more likely that Vito showing up at his work that day was just an awful coincidence.

  Beatrice clutched her coffee cup to stop her hands shaking. It felt like she was trying to force the pieces of three different puzzles together. Nothing she did could make them into one coherent image. “But—But—No. That doesn’t . . . No. Last I heard, everyone was talking like those men attacked Julian because he used to run drugs for them.”

  “Well—”

  “He told me that’s what happened,” Beatrice said. “He said he flipped on them to escape prosecution, and that’s why they wanted to kill him.”

  “That’s . . . not incorrect,” Detective Flores said, tilting her head to one side as though reluctant to concede the point. “It was the initial statement he made when we spoke to him at the hospital. Of course, when we followed up, his version turned out to be an . . . oversimplification.” Detective Flores scratched her ear. “Julian hasn’t spoken to you about this?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since last week,” Beatrice said. “What do you mean he was oversimplifying?”

  Detective Flores only looked at her at first, and Beatrice was sure she was going to tell her it was police business and change the subject. “Well,” she began, seeming to choose her words carefully, “after Julian made his statement, I followed up with the Assistant US Attorney who prosecuted the case against Vito Cipriani two years ago. She told me Vito and his associates used to find young people in shelters and hostels and hire them for a ‘messenger service’ to take packages all over the city. Most of the ‘messengers’ probably didn’t even realize they were running drugs. Or if they did, they were getting paid enough they didn’t care.

  “I don’t know how Julian figured out what was going on, but one day he walked into a police station with a package containing a couple bricks of cocaine he was supposed to deliver, and told them everything he knew about the operation. They passed him on to the Feds, who had been trying to bring Vito down for months, and the Feds offered him a deal in exchange for his testimony. The AUSA I spoke to seemed convinced Julian was a good kid in a bad situation. Didn’t even think he’d been using. Thought he deserved a chance to get back on his feet.”

  “But—” Beatrice closed her eyes, shaking her head. Her mind skipped back to the last time she’d seen him—Some of us have lives that are already so chaotic and riddled with stupid mistakes that no amount of bullshit planning could pull us out of it. “But he made it sound like he knew what he was doing the whole time,” she said, sounding more argumentative than she intended. “Like he only stopped because he got caught.”

  “That was the story I got, too,” Detective Flores said, tapping her pen on the legal pad.

  “Why would he lie about that?” Beatrice asked, more to herself—or the universe—than because she expected an answer.

  Detective Flores lifted a shoulder. “Guilt? That happens sometimes. People feel guilty for things that happen outside of their control and try to take responsibility for it. Even if they had nothing to do with it.”

  Beatrice rubbed her forehead, trying to sort all this new information into what she already knew. What she thought she knew. Pieces of memories fought for her attention—The defeat in Julian’s eyes when she first tried to get him out of the alley. The fear when he saw she’d been hurt. His head bent over her hand in the hospital.

  And then, strangely, that day after Thanksgiving weekend when she tracked him down on the late train home. The way he flinched when she reached for his hand. His knuckles white as he told her he wanted to cut ties.

  She had been sure—absolutely convinced—it was because he was angry at her. It was because of her he’d run into Greyson again. She was supposed to be his friend, and instead she’d put him in danger. He had every reason to be upset.

  But then he turned up at her apartment claiming he wasn’t angry at her at all. He’d wanted to cut her off, he said, because . . . because he wanted to protect her. He said he was afraid she was going to get hurt.

  And the next day she ended up in the hospital.

  Beatrice felt lightheaded. She’d spent so much time in the past week trying to convince herself that Julian was some kind of villain. That way, if he’d been using her, if he’d been lying to her since the day they met, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much to know he didn’t want her. It might mean she was gullible—naïve—to have believed him, but it should make it easier to put him behind her.

  But how was she supposed to do that now? When she couldn’t dismiss him as a criminal anymore? When it looked like she had been right about his good heart all along?

  “Can I get you some water, Beatrice?” Detective Flores asked, her brow furrowed.

  “No, I’m—I’m fine.”

  “We can finish this later if you’re not up to it now. Though . . . I did want to let you know we made another arrest this morning. We picked up Greyson Sayer-Crewe on conspiracy charges.”

  Beatrice’s heels hit the floor, her stomach clenching. “What?”

  “I don’t want you to worry,” Detective Flores went on, holding up a hand as though to calm Beatrice. “As far as we can determine from the recording, Julian was the only intended target.”

  That was supposed to make her feel better? “Recording? What recording?”

  Detective Flores hesitated. “Julian went to speak to Greyson yesterday afternoon. Without my knowledge—I’d advised him to stay away. But I think he was frustrated we weren’t turning up any evidence that supported his theory that Greyson had organized the assault. So Julian went to his apartment and tried to get him to confess.”

  Beatrice let out a puff of air. “What happened?”

  “He confessed,” Detective Flores said, looking mildly impressed. “And made a few threats for good measure. There’s nothing to worry about, though. We’re taking care of this. Julian wasn’t hurt, and we got him and his sister into a motel for a few days to make sure it stays that way. None of the threats appeared to extend to you, though it wouldn’t hurt to stay with a friend or relative for a while if it would make you feel safer.” Her frown deepened. “You sure I can’t get you anything? You look pale.”

  “I’m okay,” Beatrice said. She wasn’t. She couldn’t breathe.

  She wanted to go home. She was overloaded with information and needed somewhere quiet and familiar where she could sort it out.

  Pushing her cup on the table, she bent to yank her shoes on. “I’m sorry, I—Can we finish this later?
I’m not feeling well.”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  “No, I’m okay. I just—I just need some air.” She tugged the last clumsy bow tight and fumbled for her bag as she stood. “I’m okay.”

  Detective Flores got to her feet as well. “Do you want a ride?”

  “No, I can—I’m okay.” Beatrice backed towards the door, stammered out a quick goodbye, and fled.

  Twenty-Seven

  Julian knew Beatrice probably didn’t wear her yellow peacoat anymore. Even if it had escaped confiscation to a forensic lab, he doubted the bloodstains would ever come out of the wool. So Beatrice must have started wearing a different coat.

  But knowing it didn’t stop his eye being drawn by every scrap of yellow worn by passing strangers. And it didn’t stop the heart-clenching disappointment every time he realized it wasn’t her.

  There was no reason to expect her to be in the city anyway. She should be home, recovering under the care of her family.

  Julian probably shouldn’t have been in the city today, either. After he left Greyson’s apartment yesterday, he’d gone straight to Detective Flores with the recording he’d made on his phone, and everything had snowballed again. He had to make more statements while fielding lectures from several detectives and the prosecutor handling the mugging case—all of them peeved at Julian for not trusting the system to handle it. And then there was a scramble to figure out what to do with Julian and Fabiana, since Greyson had threatened to pass Julian’s address along to Vito’s gang. Finally, Julian and his sister were deposited in a motel outside White Plains for a few days—courtesy of some victim’s services program—where Julian had to put up with another round of lectures from Fabiana regarding his monumental stupidity in performing a sting operation on his own.

  But Julian still had a few things he’d needed to take care of in the city. He had a GED exam to sit for early that morning which had been scheduled for weeks, and he’d wanted to turn in his resignation to Mr. Fisk in person. He’d technically been on a leave of absence since the attack, and explaining things to Mr. Fisk face-to-face seemed like the least Julian could do, after everything he’d done for him.