Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  “Your lunch?” I heard the waitress ask. “Your lunch was ruined?”

  I opened my eyes. Katie was gone.

  The waitress shifted uncomfortably. I could tell from her body language and posture that I’d scared her. I shook my head, assuring her that I was fine. I forced myself to look at the bottom of my whiskey glass next and then added, “The meal was very good. Thank you.”

  She offered a short nod, saying nothing more. She placed the check on the table before walking away. Her step was a little faster than necessary.

  When my time with Katie ended, leaving me sad and with more guilt than I knew what to do with, I found comfort in the line of the sun cresting above the horizon. Sometimes it was the cloud of blackbirds swimming in the sky, swooping across the windows and up over the rooflines. But the blackbirds always reminded me of the last time I had seen Katie alive.

  I’m a ghost too, I decided.

  The person I’d been when Katie was alive had died too. Killed. Murdered. I decided to leave Romeo’s for the last time. I was done feeling like a ghost.

  EIGHT

  I LET OUR HOUSE breathe tonight by opening the windows, fanning the stale air. The walls moaned as if alive—the sound filling the quiet with creaks and pops. As I opened a third window another low moan came, and I imagined the house taking a deep breath and letting it out. I told myself that it was just the change in air pressure and considered the months of winter we’d just left behind.

  Steve didn’t like the windows open, but I did, and Steve wasn’t home. Maybe it was the cop in him, wary about the dangers, wary about the world’s insanity and the threat of it slicing through our window screens, invading our lives, and bringing a touch of crazy. If he only knew where the real danger was.

  I almost laughed when I opened the fifth window. How many warnings had I ignored? Barefoot, wearing loose shorties, and swimming in one of Steve’s old sports tees—my favorite, the thin one with the faded logo, that hung flimsy and sheer. I was alone in the house with the shades open, and while I couldn’t quite bring myself to wander around in the nude, what I was wearing was virtually see-through. I loved the way it made me feel.

  The wine is helping too, I thought, catching my reflection in the glass.

  Steve’s old tee had never looked so sexy. And right now, a little sexy was what I needed.

  It had been too long since we’d been together. I had listened to the doctors, listened to what they said about recovery and even went online to read about post-traumatic stress. But we’d never been apart. Not like this. I was afraid that the separation was growing wider, becoming more comfortable for him, and maybe me too. I didn’t get married because I wanted a roommate. I married the love of my life.

  I checked the clock, the second hand swinging around the top of the dial, slipping past the minute hand and stealing time right before my eyes. If I waited too long, Steve and I might not ever get back the time we were losing. He’d be home by nine o’clock. That had become the norm when he worked afternoon shifts. I poured myself another glass of liquid courage, realizing a twist of nerves hung low in my gut, fluttering like a bad case of butterflies. I hadn’t felt nervous around Steve since we’d first started dating.

  What if there’s more going on? More than healing from a gunshot wound. What if he’s lost interest in us? Or worse, found it somewhere else?

  The drapes caught a short breeze and wafted up, the ends softly snapping inside the living room. I closed my eyes to the outside sounds of crickets and the distant murmur of tree frogs. Another wind rose and bare tree branches clacked, most of them still shy of their first spring buds. I’d wait for Steve, pounce on him when he came through the door, and see what buttons I could push . . . so to speak.

  I was used to seeing Steve bring work home with him. I was used to a stack of cases on his desk, waiting to steal his time from us. He never knew I liked to read them, though, or that I missed reading them. The shooting took the cases away, leaving his desk empty, leaving the office to look eerie, as if he’d moved out. But since his return to work a few cases had showed up—a file or two, most of which I’d already seen—older cases waiting for a trial date or an appeal or any one of a dozen next legal steps. Charlie remained the head of the department and kept Steve at arm’s length, setting limits, encouraging him to take time away, time to heal. Of course I was grateful to Charlie, but the cases were like candy to me, and I had a craving.

  “Well, hello,” I announced to the tall stack of files that I found unexpectedly on Steve’s desk, feeling silly and a little giddy at the prospect of a night of reading. I hadn’t expected to see anything there. I flipped open the first—the folder was new and crisp to the touch, and I eagerly pinched the corner to reveal all the pages. The case involved a group of college students—freshmen and sophomores—and a website for trading cafeteria vouchers. I let that case go, and gravity closed the file like a yawn. Boring. “At least he is off the streets,” I sighed.

  I knew that case had to be associated with the new position Charlie had offered Steve: to remain a detective, but to work most of the investigations from his desk. I wouldn’t have to worry about what door he was knocking on or what neighborhood he was patrolling. I wouldn’t have to worry about suddenly becoming a single mother or having to tell my children their father wasn’t coming home.

  “Good for law school too,” I reminded myself, trying to find a benefit to the disappointment of his first case file. Working in front of a computer and out of harm’s way would be a blessing for the kids and me, but I think Steve hated the idea of it a little. Cyber crime was new to him, and it just wasn’t homicide. I’d seen him reading, though—nearly every night. And I supposed that was good. He’d even commented on the forensic side of the cyber crime division and what they were doing to profile and lift fingerprints. I’d smile, encourage him like Charlie had, but I could tell he missed his old job. And now I saw the plainness of the cases. “But not exactly something to sink your teeth into.”

  I decided to give the case a second chance. I opened the folder again and leafed through the pages. The case sounded innocent enough—until I read the part about hacking into the cafeteria system. There was no mention of murders, but plenty of computer address spoofing and domain-name hacks that Nerd would have found fascinating. Who knew? He might have even had a hand in developing the code. I dropped the folder, giving up on it.

  I was about ready to visit the kitchen and grab a bite when one folder sticking out from the pile caught my eye. I followed the stack down, tipping each with my finger until it settled on the folder’s worn corner. “And what have you got to say for yourself? Are you going to bore me too?”

  My heart soared when I realized only the cyber crime cases were on top; the remaining cases beneath were Steve’s older homicide cases. It was likely I’d read most of them already, but a good rerun is still a good rerun. I had something to read after all. And the first would be the case with the shredded corners. I gently pulled the file, easing it out of the stack. As more of it was revealed, I recognized it.

  It was the belt buckle case. I yanked my hand back as if burned. That case file should have been back at the station and given to Charlie.

  “And what are you doing in this pile?” I mumbled, opening the folder. The dusky smell of photographs and old paper itched my nose. I stretched up on my toes to search the nearby shelves, and found the space and dusty outline where the box of old files had been. Steve had taken the box. He took my father’s belt buckle too, but brought home the case file.

  Is he working the case?

  I paged through the folder, visiting the ghosts of my past again. I should have felt sad, maybe scared, but it wasn’t like that. The emotion that tugged at me was disappointment and regret for who I was, who my mother made me be. “You’re all dead, and there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  I startled, nearly dropping my wine glass.

  “And why are all o
f the windows open?”

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” I told Steve and quickly pushed my mom’s case file into the pile, shuffling the folders like cards, tucking them together into what I hoped was their original order.

  My heart fluttered in my throat. I was unnerved, but it wasn’t because I had been caught skimming through his case files. It was because I hadn’t been ready for him like I wanted to be. I’d wanted to surprise him, and this wasn’t the first impression I had in mind.

  With my back to him, I pinched my cheeks to add more color to the flush the wine had already put on my face. I peered down over his old tee, my breasts noticeable through the sheer fabric even in the room’s low light, but saw that I needed something more. I gave them a quick squeeze too, lightly pinching my nipples and hoping I’d give him something he’d want to see.

  “Amy?” he asked, waiting for me to turn around. I shoved my hand through my hair, tussling it, and hung my other hand from the tee’s thin neckline to reveal an ample amount of cleavage. “Amy?”

  “Yes?” I said, my voice breathy but not over the top—just enough of a tone for him to recognize my intentions. I gave my lips one more lick and spun around. “I’m glad you’re—”

  “Amy, this is Garrett Williams,” Steve said, introducing a tall man with a crop of wavy red hair.

  I froze. My mouth was stuck open in midsentence, my fingers hanging from the tee’s neckline, nipples firmly pressing against the fabric, lips glistening, and my face flushed a sexy, deep red.

  “Charlie just brought Garrett on board. He’ll be my replacement, so I’ve got some case transfers to do.”

  A detective? He’s not dressing the part. Looks too rich.

  But I admit that wasn’t my only thought; I noticed how his eyes wandered up and down my body.

  At first glance, I had taken the man for a lawyer—a pricey lawyer. With a pair of expensive shoes and a perfectly fitted suit, he wore his money like the smell of high-priced cologne. Square jaw and hollow cheeks. He stretched his arm to shake my hand but then hesitated, taking his time, as he clearly took a series of mental photographs of everything in front of him. I met his crisp eyes and saw a spark of interest—for what I’d prepared to show Steve.

  “Hi,” Garrett said to me.

  He stepped closer—close enough so I could smell his breath. He and my husband had clearly stopped at a bar on the way home. His lips parted and then pursed slightly while he glanced up and down again, his eyes stopping on my breasts. I filled with embarrassment, realizing how hard my nipples had become; I tried to cover them up. His gaze stayed fixed on the tee’s thin material.

  Involuntary, I told myself. Just an uncontrollable male reaction.

  I glanced over his shoulder, then instantly regretted that I had. Steve’s head was down, his face aglow in the faint blue light of his phone, his fingers tapping a message.

  “Hello,” I managed to eke out. The word stuck in my throat. I ignored my hurt feelings and looked back to Garrett, back into the coolness of his hazel eyes. He saw all of me the way I’d wanted Steve to see me, the way I’d hoped Steve would see me. And then it happened. I felt a small urge, just a tingle really, a heartbeat of innocent arousal. I shifted my feet and rushed to shake his hand so that I could fulfill my social obligation and run out of the room. I reached out, and his long fingers softly wrapped around my hand, brushing against my wrist like a sweet whisper in my ear. His touch sent a shiver into my arm. I felt the spark that had stayed in his eyes. Call it lust or just being horny, but there was a sudden chemical connection, and I quickly let go as if dropping the handle of a searing pan. Garrett smiled slyly, not at all shy about letting me know he liked what he saw.

  “I’m not sure you remember, but we’ve already met.” His voice was confident and alluring.

  “Met?” I turned back to look at him, looking over his face again, off guard.

  Hazel eyes. The bridge. He was the one who stopped to see if I was okay.

  “Yes, yes we have. The bridge. Thank you for that.”

  “You’ve met?” Steve asked, lifting his face from his phone.

  “On the bridge over Neshaminy Creek,” I answered, sounding uneasy. “I thought something was wrong with the car and stopped.” Garrett gave me a quizzical look, slightly confused and humored by my explanation. I caught my mistake, my lie, at once. On the bridge, I’d told him I stopped because I felt ill.

  “Okay,” Garrett answered, playing along. Steve heard something in his tone and shifted his eyes from me to Garrett and then back. A familiar buzz sounded from Steve’s phone and within a moment, his attention was lost to it again. “Well, I’m glad everything worked out.”

  “It did,” I said, stepping back and folding my arms to cover my chest. Steve still hadn’t noticed what I was wearing, but Garrett couldn’t break his stare. His gaze followed me as I walked around our small home office and toward the door. Steve’s face stayed lit by the phone. I felt hurt. “Nice to meet you. Steve, I’m tired. I’ll see you upstairs.”

  “I’ll be up in a few,” he answered, putting his phone down in time to see me head to the staircase. His eyes lit up. After all, there was no way to cover my bottom with his old tee—it barely reached my hips. And as I took to the first steps, the hurt faded, replaced by a sudden arousal. Both of them had their eyes fixed on me. “Just want to make this handoff official and get the remaining cases reviewed with him.”

  “Don’t be long,” I told him, teasing. I still wanted my husband and may have swayed my hips a bit as I climbed the stairs. That last part was intentional. I wanted Steve to know Garrett had noticed me.

  Later that night, when Steve finally came to bed, we made love. We turned off the lights, choosing to leave the room as black as a starless night. Twice, when my eyes were closed, I saw hazel eyes in my mind. Once when I almost came, and then again after we finished. Breathless, my heart racing, our sweaty bodies unraveling—the image I had seen of Garrett while making love confused me. I didn’t know what to make of it. Steve had responded well enough to my motions—mechanical and a bit distant and forced—but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

  Is mine?

  We didn’t make love like I had planned. We just had sex, and that made me feel even sadder. But not because I missed Steve, but because a small part of me thought that maybe it was okay. I told myself not to worry. I reminded myself of how we’d been through slow patches before, and how we’d always bounced back. Who knew, maybe we needed some breathing room, maybe we needed some windows open like the house did, inviting in the change of seasons.

  “Love you, babe,” I said, panting with the warm afterglow of sex high on my cheeks. I climbed to my elbows to face him and playfully bit his chin.

  “Love you too,” he replied, even as he looked past me with retreating eyes. I could tell he was already withdrawing, going back to that place he’d been since the shooting. The playfulness drained from me, and I eased back down to lie next to him.

  “That was nice,” I added, stretching into a yawn as if I was ready to go to sleep.

  Out of nowhere, Steve asked, “What did you think of Garrett?” His voice was dry, and I heard the plastic snap of a water bottle’s cap next. I opened my eyes, let them adjust to the darkness, and then rolled over onto my front. The sheets were still warm, still damp, and I wanted to open the windows again, to let the air rush over my body.

  “I don’t know,” I answered, uncertain of having any opinion except the one I couldn’t share with my husband. “I didn’t get to talk to him.”

  “Yeah, you seemed rushed.”

  “Seriously?” I asked, slapping my hand against his chest.

  “What?” he spat, coughing on a mouthful of water.

  “Steve, I was nearly naked for you. It was supposed to be a surprise,” I added, insulted. I thought back to how he’d buried his face in his phone. “You didn’t notice me, though. Your friend sure took notice. Bet you didn’t see that either.”

  “Did he
?” Steve asked, his voice hanging with sudden interest. I regretted adding that last part. I know it was a bitchy thing to do, but it felt damn good. He rolled onto his side and ran his fingers along the length of my back, his earlier distance disappearing. I liked that. “Babe, I did notice.”

  “You did?” I asked, trying not to sound needy.

  “I did.”

  “Really?” I failed.

  “Amy, I always notice.” His hand fell between my legs, his fingers eagerly glided upward.

  “Do you want to notice me a little more tonight?” I joked, reaching down to take hold of him. He was already hard, and I encouraged him with a playful tug. “Oh, I guess you do!”

  “Maybe,” he answered and perched himself above me, kissing my neck and lips. “I noticed you, Amy. I’ll always notice you.”

  We made love again, and this time Steve stayed with me until we came together, then fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Later, at the deepest point of the night, I woke up to find my husband with his arm still around me. We were naked, and the air had become chilly. I lifted his arm, and instinctively he pulled me into him. I melted into the crook of his body, finding what was familiar, what was normal—our normal—and quickly disappeared with him into the night. It was good.

  NINE

  MY MOTHER’S LIPS, RED and glistening, set aglow and captured in the moonlight. The image was electric, sensual, but I’d seen it before. I’d seen it so many times before. Shush, she motioned, touching her finger to her mouth, moaning with a man beneath her. Their skin shimmered in the pale light, alive with sweat, filling the car with their smell.

  “Make a loop,” I breathed, doing as I was told, doing what she’d showed me. “The buckle faces me. Put it backward and inside out.” I wound the end of the belt around and fished it through the buckle’s ring. The noose was ready. I grabbed the loose end and got to my knees, placed the open end near the man’s head as they began to peak. My mom caressed his neck and gently eased his head back, then perched his neck over the edge of the car’s front seat. It was time. I threw the noose around his neck and yanked down on the slack, closing the noose with a furious snap. The man lurched and jumped, but my mother held him down, grinding on him, riding him. He grunted and tried to scream, but I hung my weight from the belt’s strap, rocking back and forth while my mother held his arms. The man was strong—stronger than most—and he swung me around like a rag doll. But he couldn’t fight us both, he couldn’t fight the surprise that awaited him. And when he slowed, when his body stopped, he lost the fight, just like the other men. They always did.