A Sublime Casualty

by Addison Moore

  “Tell me about yourself.” Theo has a warm way about him, and that pained look in his smiling eyes screams I’m still grieving. I’m not ready for this. But a part of me believes he’s interested. It’s not ego on my part. Believe me, I would rather he not. But like most girls, I have a good radar for boys and men who seem genuinely interested. And Theo is just that, a strange combination of a boy and a man.

  “I’m big on books.” I rim my water glass with my finger, a mild flirtation that says I like you, too. Please like me and not in any sexual way. I don’t need that right now. Not from you. Your ties to the law have already ruined things between us. “I like reading. In fact, I was headed to the library when you caught me.” Holy hell, I struggle not to shove every napkin on the table into my mouth. I really do have a problem on my hands. Should I clue him in on the fact I particularly appreciate the free computers that I have access to? That the fact it enables me to communicate with my brother and sister while I’m on the wild and woolly lamb? We keep communication to a minimum, but we’re getting sloppy as of late, talking two and three times a week. The incident skirts the periphery of our conversations like a rat threatening to invade with an infestation. And now look at me. All-you-can-eat pancakes with a cop of all things. Bullshit rule number six six six: Never share carbohydrates with an officer of the law.

  “The library? That’s great.” He inches back as if it were unbelievable. “We can swing by after if you want. I mean, you lit up when you mentioned it.”

  “No. No, it’s fine, really.” No sir. Sorry Mr. Nice Guy, but this ends here with a saccharin bellyache and a waddle as I walk you out to your cruiser. No kiss. No second base, even though you’ve dropped those eyes to my cleavage twice now. Yes, I noticed. Mr. Perverted Nice Guy. “How about you? Have you lived in Wakefield long? How long have you been on the force? You’re Jackson’s first cousin, right?” Atta girl. Way to deflect. The one surefire way to get people to stop trying to invade your personal space is to turn the tables on them. People are ardent lovers of themselves. There is no better topic. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

  “I’m originally from Redgrass about a couple hours away. Lived in Idaho all my life. Bought a place up here a few years ago to grow a pair.” His lips expand wide as if laughing at his own analogy. “Jackson moved in with me after my sister disappeared just to help keep my sanity glued together. Pretty boring, huh? Jackson’s mom and mine are sisters. Big Greek family.” He presses out a dry smile. “I guess I’ve been with the force for about five years now, going on six. I was about to upgrade to detective, but then Lizzy went missing, and my old partner took the position. He’s got her case. I was too close to it. You know, paperwork wise. The generalities of it would have been too much. I’m still working on it, though, right along with him.” He takes a deep breath. “Not much to work on. It’s been a cold case from the beginning.”

  “She has a different last name, though.” Really? My God, somebody bring this girl a muzzle. “I mean, I’ve wondered about that.” It’s true. I’ve wanted to study up on her, but I’m afraid, so very afraid to know more than I already do. Lizzy was one of the first people to greet me when I arrived in Wakefield. That black and white flyer was lining my dreams. And then we had a far more formal meeting about two months later, and we’ve been closer than sisters ever since.

  I take an urgent drink from my water as the room heats up around me unnaturally. My mouth should be kept busy at all times in an effort to divert the truth from gushing like a geyser.

  He grimaces a moment. “Lizzy had a brief marriage a few years back. Thomas Hartley. Good guy.” He shakes his head regretfully. “My sister was a bull in a china shop wherever she went, whatever she undertook.” His eyes bulge a moment. “Is”—he pauses as he lets the right tense sink in—“She is a bull in a china shop. Sorry. I knew this would get ugly fast.”

  “No, it’s okay. She’s your sister. You should think of her in the present tense. I mean, you never know, right? Keep hope alive and all those good things.” Keep hope alive and try not to hang yourself. My fingernails dig into my palm until they cut through the clammy flesh. I should excuse myself to the restroom and never come back. How cliché those words were. How cruel. I’ve always known I could be an insensitive ass, but this is a rotten time to display it.

  His shoulders sag and he leans in deep as if he were about to whisper a secret. “It feels good to talk about it. Thank you.”

  “Please talk about it.” Talk about anything you like other than me. “I don’t mind, really.”

  “That’s awful nice of you. But I won’t do it. How about you? Any siblings?”

  Tara comes by just in time. “Here you go.” She lands two heaping plates of pancakes in front of us both. There should only be three on a plate to start with, and yet she’s loaded us down six deep. If Joe were here, it would be just cause for a cardiac episode on his part. Food waste is akin to a felony in his eyes, and I agree with him on that point.

  “Thank you,” I say sharply. “Not one bite will go to waste.” I tick my head back to the kitchen. Go away, Tara. Do not interject yourself in my date with my totally nice cop. This is not your territory. Not mine either, but that’s another matter.

  She gives a sly wink as if in on the joke. “Aw, come on, you were just getting to the good part. Tell him about Peavey and D and how you miss ’em so damn much.”

  Hell.

  She turns to Theo with her signature jack-o-lantern grin, every other tooth out of commission. “Never heard a girl care so much about her siblings. You’d think she was the mother. She’ll be a good one someday.” She smacks his arm with her elbow before sauntering off.

  “Peavey and D.” Theo sits a little straighter. “Brother and sister? That’s great. Are they in Wakefield?”

  “No, actually, they’re not. New York.” Lie number one. “I have another sister, too, Tammy.” Lie number two. “I’m not that close to any of them.” Especially not Tammy since I completely manufactured her less than a second ago. The more lies I throw at him, the more dilute the truth will be, and damn Tara to hell for tossing Peavey and D in there. Thank God I never used their real names.

  He offers a peaceable smile. “Is that where your family is from? New York?”

  My mind does a quick review of all the half-truths I’ve fed Gabby over the last year. “Connecticut actually. Hartford.” I chose Hartford because it reminded me of his dead sister’s surname, Hartley. And yes, I do believe she is dead now. Knowing what I know, seeing what I’ve seen, keeping what I kept, the odds of oxygen filtering through her brain are not in her favor. “But they’re with my mom and her new husband in New York at the moment. I didn’t really get along with my new stepfather, so I took off about a year ago. I never really knew my real dad.” I gag on how many half-truths I just bled out. “Anyway, I thought I had a friend in Wakefield, but it turns out he was just passing through and I ran out of money so I stayed.” Gabby might have let him in on the fact I was homeless when she found me. It’s best to stick to the truth when possible. “Joe was kind enough to take me on, and Gabby was kind enough to take me in. She’s really been more than kind.” I pump my shoulders, trying my hardest not to look like a threat. “But now that I have a job, I’m able to pull my weight and help out.” Gabby buys all the groceries for us, and even breaks her vegan code to buy those strictly forbidden dairy products. I’m her charity case and she loves to spoil me. I secretly love it, too. Don’t rob me of the blessing is what she likes to say if I protest too much. I wouldn’t dare rob her of the blessing. Her wallet is a different matter.

  “That’s great. My father’s in New York. Manhattan. Expensive as hell. Where’s your family?”

  Shit. “I don’t know exactly. They just moved upstate. I can’t keep up with them. They act like a bunch of fugitives.” Very funny. A spike of heat erupts under my arms. I’m the only fugitive I know. “You ready to dig in? Because I’m about to annihilate you. I’ve never met a pancake challenge I didn’t win.�
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  “Oh, really?” He brays out a laugh and we get right to it. After fifteen blissful minutes of grunting and groaning our way through three different plates each, we come up for air, our faces a little greener for the effort.

  “Eighteen pancakes,” he moans. “I give.”

  “I guess that means I win by proxy. I was just about to ask for another plate.”

  He belts out a laugh. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

  “I lie about everything.” I give a cheeky wink. It’s the only pure truth I’ve told all night.

  We chat about the weather, local politics, about the bowling alley they might put in just down the road. He tells me about his mother, a supervisor at the Bank of Redgrass, his sister, the business coordinator at Redgrass General. He probes lightly about my home life, my brother, and sisters—plural because I do in fact lie about everything—and I deflect like a master. Finally, the bill is paid—by him, the tip is notably generous—Mr. Nice Guy strikes again, and we make our way out together into the inky crisp blackness that only fall can bring.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he says, his badge catching the light from the streetlamp and flickering like a distress signal. “How about we hit the bookstore? My treat, as many books as you want. It’s on me.”

  A strange sense of euphoria grips me at the offer.

  “You do remember that I said I was addicted to reading. This could be a very dangerous feat for your credit card.” I will politely turn him down, but I’ll admit my arousal is at an all-time zenith. There is nothing more intoxicating, more erotic, orgasmic as the scent of a beautifully stocked bookstore. Libraries are simply its older, far less attractive brother. A bookstore is who a reader really wants to get it on with.

  “Second challenge of the night accepted. I’m betting my credit card can outrun your addiction. At least maybe for a night.” His thumbs hitch through his belt loops as he rocks back on his heels. The handle of his gun glints in the light and throws the hammer down over this good time.

  My mouth opens to say no. “I’d love to.” I never could trust a damn thing that comes out of it.

  We hit the bookstore at the end of the street, and I bolt around scooping up an armful of fiction, mostly romance novels, a few cozy mysteries, a biography here and there. I treat the true crime section as if it had an active case of herpes. I’m pretty sure snatching up an entire array of books about women who got away with murder might lift the brow of this very generous police officer. After all, Theo Stavros might be a totally nice guy, but I’m betting he is also sharp as a tack.

  He gives me a ride home in his police cruiser, front seat of course, and it feels as if I were flirting with death. Here I am dancing on the tip of a very sharp knife and enjoying every orgasmic literary minute of it. We hop out and hit the security gate at the condo complex. I type in the combo, then slide my foot through the crack before it shuts and locks me out again.

  “Sorry.” I wince while I struggle to hold my newfound books while keeping the gate open. “It keeps the criminals out,” I tease. Or in. But I don’t tell him that part. If he’s as sharp as I predict, he’ll catch on sooner than later. Total transparency is a dangerous seductress.

  His teeth flash in the night like solid sunshine opening to a cave. “You busy this weekend?”

  “I have Sunday off.” My heart thuds hard against my chest as if socking the hell out of me from the inside. Punishment for being so stupid.

  “Great. If you want, we can hike out to the Secret Falls. It’s about a mile in either direction, if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, that would be great.” Damn me. I suspect I will come down with an incredibly sore throat on Sunday. Maybe cramps. Nothing weirds the men folk out more than a good menstruation. They have no clue what to do with it.

  “Good.” His entire face lights up and my insides pinch in response. “Can I get your number?” He winces as if it hurt to ask. But there’s something adorably middle school about the way he kicked his foot against the sidewalk when he asked.

  “I don’t have a phone. I’m old school that way.” And remarkably untraceable.

  His face smooths out at this odd revelation. Not having a phone these days is akin to not having a beating heart. Society thinks you simply need one to survive. “I’ll pick you up about noon then? Maybe we can grab a bite on our way out. You’ll love it. It’s beautiful this time of year,” he says, walking backward and nearly tripping over a crack in the concrete.

  A tiny laugh erupts from me. “Careful! I’d hate to see you shoot yourself in the foot,” I call out as I make my way inside. The gate slams like a gunshot, like a warning to the both of us. “Thanks again for the books!” It’s me who’s shooting herself in the foot. I’m quite good at it actually.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  And just like that, the night swallows him whole.

  Theo and I could never happen. The only ending our story would have would be of tragedy, of great sorrow, nothing more than a sublime casualty.

  I freeze a moment before heading to the elevator, my arms heavy with perfumed parchment. I haven’t felt this alive since that night in Strafford. Every cell in my body is ringing with panic, with fear, with a strange sense of elation. Theo is alarmingly handsome, far too easy to get along with. Gabby was right. He is a totally nice guy. I’m going to feel lousy breaking our date.

  God, I hope I break it.

  Theo

  Three days straight I think about her. Nonstop. Charlie Neville has become a welcome distraction, a much-needed respite in this sea of constant agony. Jackson razzed me about getting dolled up, licking myself clean as he put it for my hike with Charlie. Such a cute name. Such a cute girl. Jackson has been on me for months to make a move on her—per Gabby’s direct orders. Gabby has really taken to her and I can see why. Charlie is sweet, a little bit shy, and just self-deprecating enough to charm the pants off anyone. And yes, she can certainly charm my pants off if she wanted, my boxers, too. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Gabby’s roommate. One-night stands are off the table. Gabby is like family, and once Jackson proposes, she will be officially. Any good friend of hers isn’t simply going to disappear. Charlie is someone I will most likely be looking at from across the Thanksgiving table for a long time to come. This can’t go sideways. I need to take things slow. She’s beautiful, and funny, and smart, and if she’s willing, we could really go somewhere. She’s young, though. And alone. She’s got family in New York. She might pick up and leave tomorrow if she feels like it. The thought alone depresses the hell out of me.

  Out of habit I drive out to the north end of town and do a quick look around Conrad. It was the last place Lizzy was seen. In a sense the parking lot she said her last goodbye in has become sacred ground. Cursed ground, too, but I try not to dwell on that. I’ve mapped out all of Wakefield in a series of figure eights and loops. I drive the same direction day after day when I’m on patrol. It drives my new partner, Fiona, nuts. Once Neil was bumped to lead detective, she was next in line to sit by my side. I didn’t know how I’d feel about spending so much time with a woman, locked hip-to-hip like that. I have nothing against women. I was raised by a single mother, love my sisters more than I love myself—a lot of good that did Lizzy, and I slam my palm over my steering wheel briefly— but Fiona was something altogether new. Fi isn’t at all what I was expecting. Hell, I don’t know what I was expecting. She’s petite, four foot eleven, hardly weighs enough to sit up front without a booster seat. In fact, she does sit on a stack of phone books to keep her visual field above the dashboard. She asked if I was okay with it. I didn’t mind. It borders on illegal, though, and once the captain saw all those yellow books in the seat of our car and asked what century I was living in. Fi lied and told him she was taking them home to her mother. I figured she was either embarrassed or having some fun at the captain’s expense. We never brought it up, though. Once, about a million years ago, my father said you should never trust a cop that lies. That was before he walk
ed out on us and started up a new family in New York. I think that’s why I warmed up to Charlie so fast. It appears we have the same father.

  I hit a red light just before I get to the complex and lean into the steering wheel, trying to get a better look at the building Gabby and Charlie call home. I’ve never been behind the gate. I’m guessing they have two bedrooms. It might be awkward for Charlie to invite me back. I’ve known Gabby for eight years now. She’s practically a third sister to me. Nope. I’m pretty sure I’ll never see the inside of Charlie’s bedroom. I shake my head for even entertaining the thought. Hell, I’d take on those awkward feelings just to see it. Charlie is worth an awkward glace or two from Gabby.

  I shoot a quick glance to the telephone pole across the street and my heart stops. There she is in black and white. Lizzy pointing that dazzling smile right at me like an accusation. Her eyes squinted into half-moons, annunciating the early signs of crow’s feet in each corner. She hated them. She swore she would be a Botox princess before the year was through, but she never got a chance. The light changes, and I hit the gas aggressively, causing the wheels to spin out. That damn picture guts me every time. It’s just something you don’t get used to. You never stop looking for a loved one. You never give yourself permission to fully enjoy life again because it’s a betrayal. This entire afternoon is a betrayal. I’m the worst brother in the world because I’m actually looking forward to it.

  I take the turn and spot Charlie ready to go, her dark hair up in a ponytail, light roots, an odd combination, but she’s beautiful. Natural beauty, too. They don’t make them like that anymore. Light hazel eyes that make you want to fall into them, swim around in their maple syrup goodness. I wanted to say innocence, but there’s an underlining knowing about her. She’s an old soul. That might be the reason she’s taken my mind hostage so quickly. That or the fact I haven’t gotten laid in over a year might play into it.