by Jaclyn Dawn
“But this time someone was right. They want to meet tomorrow,” I said.
“I think we shouldn’t respond and see what happens.”
“They’re going to be at the diner tomorrow at one thirty.”
“Let me go. I’ll have a coffee and see who is lingering at one thirty. I can take pics with my phone and send them to you. It could be a bluff. Maybe they will think they guessed wrong and let it go.”
“And if it’s not a bluff? They could show up here on the farm.”
“We have always been careful. Rule nine: when in doubt, ask a lawyer. We’ve consulted a lawyer every step of the way. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
I imagined our friend Sammy’s uncle, our consulting lawyer with his fancy suits and abundant confidence. Mom knocked on the door twice and poked her head into the room. I jumped.
“Phone for you, Miah,” she said.
CHAPTER 27
MY PULSE CONTINUED TO RACE AS I WALKED TO THE KITCHEN where the receiver rested on the table. Tamara was gone, and my parents were watching TV in the living room. My mind was still on Concerned Citizen’s email. Someone knew I was behind the Inquirer.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Amiah. This is Officer Robert Petersen of the Kingsley RCMP detachment. How are you this afternoon?”
“Okay,” I said. I hadn’t known who I was expecting when I answered the phone, but it wasn’t the police. “What can I do for you?”
“Alek Rooker’s car was vandalized four nights ago while parked on the road outside his sister’s house, address 4533–67th Avenue. Were you aware of that?”
“Yes,” I said. Of course the cops would contact me. The car had my name spray-painted on the side of it.
“I am investigating this case, and evidence suggests you may be of assistance. I do need to speak to you on this matter. I won’t make you come down to the station just yet,” he said. “How about we meet tomorrow afternoon? Say one thirty at the truck stop diner?”
“Sure,” I managed to say. He had to have heard the hesitation, however brief. He was a cop after all. I tried to sound normal as we exchanged goodbyes.
As I walked back to my bedroom, Mom called from the living room: “Everything okay?”
“Um, yeah. Just Bobby asking if I knew anything about Alek’s car being vandalized the other night. Probably some teenagers in town,” I said. I slipped down the hall and into my bedroom before she could ask any more questions. I leaned against the closed door, my breath getting shorter and shorter.
“What’s wrong?” Nathan asked, putting down his laptop and getting to his feet.
“That was the cops. The cops!” I massaged my chest, willing my lungs to breathe. “Officer Peterson wants to meet me at the diner tomorrow at one thirty. That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be. Those types of coincidences don’t happen.” I began to hyperventilate. My anxiety pills weren’t on my bedside table anymore. I looked on the floor and under the bed in case they had fallen. With hot tears streaming down my face—when did they start?—I opened and closed the vanity drawer that held the tube of lipstick. I hurried to the bathroom to check my bathroom kit, then back to the bedroom to rummage through my suitcase. Nathan knew without asking what I was looking for and looked too.
“Looking for these?” Mom tossed the bottle of pills onto the bed. They rattled as they bounced and landed within my reach. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about them but wasn’t sure if I should in front of company.”
Nathan was trapped between Mom and me. This conversation was happening in front of him whether he liked it or not. He folded and refolded his arms a few times before settling with one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other holding his chin.
“Since when do you have anxiety? You were a happy child under my watch,” Mom said. She was frustrated, but I was used to her being frustrated with me. I was frustrated, too.
“I’m sorry I’m not the happy child in the baby albums anymore,” I said.
“Oh, don’t even,” Mom said. “Maybe if you had dealt with whatever needed dealing with, you wouldn’t need pills.” Trust Mom to reduce a medical problem so easily.
“Just because I don’t need surgery and there’s no threat of amputation, it doesn’t mean I’m not sick.” I fumbled with the child lock on the pill bottle. Inhaling sharply, I sounded like a kid with asthma who had just made a cross-country run. The pill bottle wouldn’t open.
“Since when, Amiah Jane?” Mom raised her voice. Even Nathan flinched.
“Mike! Okay? Since Mike.” Anxiety was just another failure. Remaining invisible would have been better than what I had become. I knew that now.
Nathan gently took the pill bottle from my shaking hands. He opened it and handed me one pill. I put it under my tongue, relieved I would be able to breathe again in a minute, that the hopelessness would ease. I sat on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. Deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth.
“Did he hit you?” Mom asked.
I wished he would have. People can see bruises. “No, he didn’t hit me.”
“Nathan told me what happened the other morning,” Mom said.
“You told my mom on me?”
“I told your mom on Mike,” Nathan corrected. “Someone had to.”
A calm had settled over me, partly because of the medication and partly because I was just very, very tired. I lifted my head and when I spoke, it was in a detached sort of way.
“No, he didn’t hit me. He’d yell, but yelling was a lot better than the silent treatment. And sometimes he would kiss me whether I wanted him to or not. Like the other day in the barn, but worse. Have you ever stopped and listened to yourself? I did one day. I started replaying Mike’s and my arguments in my head. I was whiny and pathetic, pleading for his attention. I hated myself. I was hanging on to an illusion of what my life should have been. I played the part thinking that if I was perfect, Mike would be nice again, he wouldn’t cheat on me again, we could have that rosy life that everyone in Kingsley thought we had.”
“Get off your high horse,” Mom said. “Not everyone was watching you. They were busy living their own lives. Yes, people talk, and yes, people have their opinions, but it is your life.”
“Really? You don’t want me to be like precious Danika with the husband, two kids, and white picket fence?”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Mom asked, struggling to keep her voice even. She still didn’t get it.
“I tried,” I said. “When I couldn’t get it right with anyone around here, I even tried one of those help lines. The guy was really understanding. So was the guy he referred me to and the woman I was told to call after that. She gave me another number.”
“So you ran away. You started playing a different role and following a different script,” Mom said.
“You had no voice, Amiah, but you can have one now,” Nathan said. We were both thinking of the Inquirer.
“And if the consequence is you and Dad lose the buyer for the cows?” I asked.
“Don’t use your father and me as an excuse. Place the blame where it should be placed.”
“I do blame myself, Mom.”
“No, blame Mike,” Nathan said. “I knew what she meant, and she’s not my mother. Why don’t you? No one deserves to be treated the way you’ve been treated.”
Nathan had tears streaming down his face, but I was more surprised by the tears in my mom’s eyes. I laid my head on my pillow and curled into a little ball. Eventually Mom walked away. Who knew what Nathan did? I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 28
AT ONE TWENTY-FIVE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I WALKED INTO THE truck stop diner with its red vinyl chairs, white linoleum, and laminated menus. Nathan was working on an article for the Inquirer while he waited in my Jeep parked on the far side of the lot. The lunch rush was over. A couple of men dressed in greasy work clothes sat at the counter. A teenaged waitress filled t
heir coffee mugs. Officer Robert Petersen sat at a corner table where he had a view of the entire restaurant, including the door. He was wearing his uniform, complete with a holstered gun. He nodded in my direction when I entered.
I sat down across from him, not liking having my back to the door. It was strategic on his part, I realized. He had my full attention. The only thing over his shoulder for me to look at was a dried blob of ketchup on the white wall.
“Can I get you anything?” the waitress asked.
“Water, please,” I said, forcing a polite smile. Bobby sipped his coffee and didn’t say anything until after the waitress delivered my water.
“So are we going to pretend here or are we going to skip that part?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Nathan and I had agreed on a strategy: deny, deny, deny.
Bobby sighed. “You know, I didn’t care about the little tabloid that first appeared in January with its trivial calendar and tidbits of gossip. A lot of people have been up in arms about the Inquirer, though.”
My back stiffened and I tried to sneak a look over my shoulder, fearful the waitress had overheard him. She had nothing better to do than eavesdrop on her customers on a slow afternoon. I knew because up until recently I had been a waitress.
“We’ve received numerous calls at the station on the subject,” Bobby continued. “Then it got personal. ‘Desperate police wife barters “no tickets” in exchange for friendship.’ Do you remember that headline? Released June 5, 2015. I know you live in Vancouver now, but you do have family and maybe a few friends left here who may have brought it up, right?”
That particular issue was released before I had even arrived in Kingsley. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. A page from the Inquirer. He slowly unfolded it, placed it on the table, and slid it in my direction.
FRIENDS DON'T TICKET FRIENDS
Lonely Joanna Petersen was overheard at a local fundraiser bartering ‘no traffic tickets’ from RCMP hubby in exchange for ‘a real friend.’ After her youngest of three kids moved out and the tragic loss of her mother, Joanna is suffering something inevitable for most stay-at-home moms: Empty Nest Syndrome.
‘A mother’s life revolves around her family. Then comes a time her family doesn’t need her on a day-to-day basis anymore,’ says family psychology expert Hilary Philips, who hasn’t met with Joanna. ‘The children are gone, the husband still has work, and the woman is left in an identity crisis.’
Insiders say Joanna’s grieving father, former Gazette writer Jack Whitby, is the closest Joanna has to a real friend in Kingsley.
‘There’s been too much sadness and loss lately,’ Officer Robert Petersen allegedly says. But what does Kingsley have to offer middle-aged women other than quilting and yoga classes at the senior centre? At least class-goers won’t have to worry about double parking anymore!
“Ever hear the phrase Happy wife, happy life?” Bobby asked. I nodded. “Well, my wife wasn’t happy with this particular issue of the Inquirer. That’s when I sent my first email as a concerned citizen, not a police officer. I trust you know the difference.”
“I thought you wanted to discuss Alek’s car,” I said, realizing he could probably get into trouble discussing personal grievances while on duty.
“We are getting to that,” Bobby said. He took the article back and tucked it into his pocket. I felt warm in my capris and t-shirt and thought he must have been sweltering in full uniform.
“The Inquirer walks a thin line. Libel charges would be difficult, but not impossible. This article, for instance, has the potential to cause problems for me at work. The publisher has been very careful, but I can see why he or she would want to stay anonymous. I was curious about the publisher, so started doing a bit of research—on my own time, of course.”
Next, Bobby pulled out a pocket-sized coil-bound notebook and flipped until he found the page he was looking for. I heard the chimes above the restaurant door sound. New customers entered. Chairs scraped the linoleum as they were pulled out, and the waitress asked if anyone needed menus. It was discomfiting not being able to see them, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to seem guilty.
“Let’s see,” Bobby said. “Purolator employee Sanjit Sharma delivers the Inquirer to Kingsley Grocery every second Friday at approximately seven a.m. Interestingly, there are no order numbers or invoices to track. Sharma pays cash for the tabloids personally from the print shop near his work and then delivers them off the record while making his regular Purolator drops in the area. He also picks up the contents of the contributions box weekly, scans the contributions and emails them to [email protected], and deposits the revenue into a company account.” Bobby looked up at me. I felt sick and he knew it. “Much of the content for the paper I imagine is from social media, word of mouth, websites, and of course contributions, but sometimes the Inquirer hires journalism students from nearby universities to conduct interviews and take pictures. Like small-town paparazzi. Quite clever, I admit. Again—and not without difficulty because I had to catch one of these students in the act—that led to the anonymous email address.
“Then I thought: how were these students and Sharma paid? Sharma could take his fees from the profits in the contribution box before depositing the rest into a company bank account. With the proper paperwork, I suspect the account number would lead me to you and/or a young man fitting the description of the houseguest staying at your parents’ farm. Sharma can’t legally deliver people. It would be a shame to get fired if his boss found out he had ever done such a thing, especially since he has five kids under the age of ten all depending on his steady paycheque.
“The student I got in touch with, however, received payment via post. Unlike professionals, students are willing to work for cheap and can be paid in cash, leaving no digital trail. The envelope didn’t have a return address obviously, but—” He pulled out the empty envelope and pointed to the postal cancellation. “Mailed from a Vancouver, British Columbia, postal code. Who lives in BC and has an axe to grind against little ol’ Kingsley, Alberta? I have to admit you threw me off with these articles about yourself. Are we done playing now?”
I nodded.
“At first, I thought the Inquirer simply needed to disappear. A retraction would only make matters worse for my wife and, correspondingly, me. I’m not interested in swaying public opinion or getting into a debate about freedom of speech, either. But then I realized I shouldn’t be so hasty and throw away what could be a valuable tool. Remember your articles about the baby Jesus being stolen from the church nativity scene?”
Of course I did. Denying it was pointless.
Bobby flipped a couple pages in his notebook and read the headlines anyway. “January 9th Issue: ‘Baby Jesus On Ransom.’ January 23rd Issue: ‘Teenager Suspected of Robbing Holy Cradle.’ February 6th Issue: ‘Baby Jesus Home Safe and Sound.’ June 19th Issue: ‘Nativity Scene Thief Strikes Again!!! Garden Gnomes Missing Across Town.’ Well, I don’t know what’s happening with those garden gnomes, but baby Jesus likely turned up because the Inquirer sensationalized the crime and freaked out whoever stole him.”
“Do you expect someone to show up and repaint Alek’s car?”
“No,” Bobby said, ignoring my sarcasm. “It’ll be like those crime watcher shows on TV. Media stirs information. Appeal to the town’s sense of responsibility. You’d be surprised at the loyalty some people have to their hometown. The pictures I saw you and your friend taking at the auto shop the other night will accompany the article perfectly.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to hide my surprise again. “And then what?”
“Then we have another talk.” Bobby stood up while tucking his notebook and the envelope into his pocket with the article. He put three dollars and fifty cents in change on the table and walked away.
CHAPTER 29
I TOOK A SIP OF MY WATER, NOT WANTING TO WALK OUT OF THE diner with Officer Petersen. I heard him exchange greetings with a couple of familiar voi
ces. Once Bobby left the diner, I turned to find Edith and Peter Hayes sitting at the table nearest the door along with their pervert grandson, Austin. There was no other way out. I pasted a polite smile onto my face and approached their table.
“Hello.”
“Hi, dear,” said Edith. “How’s your dad doing?”
“Still sleeping a lot, but glad to be home,” I said. “How have you been?” I realized how stupid the question was as soon as it escaped my mouth. You asked someone you haven’t seen for a couple days, a week, or even a month or two how they have been. Not people you hadn’t seen for two years, especially when the last time you had seen them was the day before you ran out on their son. I remembered Travis’s reaction to seeing me again and wondered if Peter and Edith hated me, too. It made me sad, especially to think of Travis’s wife, Emily. She had been one of my few friends toward the end of my time in Kingsley. I had closed almost everyone else out.
“Oh, I can’t complain,” said Edith.
“I sure can,” said Peter. “I’m paying for lunch and Austin eats like a horse.”
“Have coffee with cops often?” Austin asked.
“Have some respect, boy,” said Peter at almost the same time as Edith said: “It’s none of our business.”
“It’s okay. Bobby was just asking about Alek Rooker’s car. He’s talking to a few people in town,” I fibbed. I realized they all probably saw the latest Inquirer featuring me making out with Alek. I felt my face grow hot and began fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. Luckily, the waitress interrupted with plates overflowing with hamburgers and fries.
I took the opportunity to excuse myself. I simply wanted to go home, but as I neared my Jeep, I saw that Nathan was not alone. Danika stood at the passenger-side window. They were chatting and laughing like they were the ones who were old friends. The only thing I had foreseen them having in common was me. But I realized that there had to be at least a few more similarities for me to have been best friends with each of them.