Pivot Line

by Rebel Farris

  “I’ll get you out of here soon.”

  “We need to rewind a bit. You said that Law made a statement to the police.”

  She nodded.

  “What do you mean, Law gave a statement?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “I mean that he came down to the station and told the police that he was with you most of the evening.”

  “No, we have to take it back. Get it stricken from the record or redacted or whatever the fuck you call it. If he gives a statement, then it becomes public record that he was with me. Do you not already see the news? It doesn’t matter if I was on camera at a gas station. This whole thing will be a shitstorm. I mean, look.” I flung my hand to the TV, where there was a picture of Jared and me. “It’s already all they’ve been reporting on since I woke up. Earlier, they were showing a video of the fight at the Driskill.” My vision grew misty with unshed tears. “I’m not even worried about what happens to me, Bridge. But the girls, Diana and John, Nate and the studio, Law’s career—fuck—everyone is going to be torn down because I made a stupid fucking decision.”

  Tears fell down my cheeks.

  “This isn’t your fault.”

  “The hell it’s not. He killed himself because I broke up with him. The last thing he told me was he couldn’t live without me. I just screamed at him to get out. Don’t tell me that you know, because you don’t. You weren’t there. The gun was in his hand when I found him, Bridg—” A sob choked me, and I couldn’t continue to speak.

  “Maddie—”

  “The media, the police, everybody will try to turn this into something that it’s not. Because it will give them something to talk about. He was broken. He came back from Afghanistan broken, and I couldn’t save him. I turned my back on him. Now, I get to live with that. You just need to help me fix this. Keep it from hurting anyone else. Because it will. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that those people”—I pointed to the TV—“will say and do anything to earn a dollar, regardless of who gets hurt. Help me, Bridget, please. Get Law out of there. Remove his statement from the record.”

  “Okay, Maddie.” She nodded, tears filling her eyes. “I’ll get to it.” She picked up her briefcase and turned to leave the room. “I’ll be back soon,” she said, without looking back at me as she shut the door behind her.

  Now

  We had a guest teacher once in my jujitsu class long ago. He told us that he could teach us every move in jujitsu and possibly every other fighting style as self-defense, but the best skill we had at our disposal, we already possessed:

  Run.

  “I’d love to stay and chat about the case, but I’ve somewhere I gotta be,” I say, turning on my heel and taking the last few steps to the door.

  I can hear the heavy thud of his shoes behind me, and I brace myself. Swinging open the heavy door, I bolt into the darkness. The light from the hallway doesn’t reach more than three feet in here, and this room is black. No light. Complete darkness.

  If my guess is right and this is a stairwell, the next step will drop, or I’ll hit a wall or railing, but I take my chances. I’m sure Joe didn’t bring me here for teatime. So, my goal is to get out at all costs. I’m right. When the floor fails to meet my foot, I pitch forward and flail before losing the battle. I’ve no idea how long I’ll fall, so I curl up like I do in derby and fall small. Wrapping my hands around my neck and tucking my head, I more or less slide down after the first bounce.

  For once, I’m thankful I don’t feel pain. Because that likely would’ve hurt. This is a typical commercial staircase, though, and it only goes down for a half flight before turning. I can see that now because Joe hit the lights. I look back for a second and see him bounding down the steps two at a time, his brow pinched. I scramble to my feet and do the same, holding onto the railing to help me skip steps.

  I make to turn the second corner when I feel the tug on my shirt. I bend my knees, ready my hand, and turn in to him. Pushing up with the strength of my whole body behind my arm, I deliver the heel of my palm to his face and then follow it smoothly with a knee to the balls.

  Take that, fucker. Nobody kidnaps Maddie Dobransky.

  I don’t pause to gloat. As soon as his grip on my shirt is gone, I’m off again. Three more turns and I see the red exit sign. Red has always been my favorite color, but if I could kiss the color red right now, I would. That’s the level of relief that shuttles through me.

  The door opens easily when I hit it at full speed. It slams into the outer wall with the force of the swing. Really? Detective Martinez is the world’s worst kidnapper. This was the easiest escape ever. I feel let down by all the movies with complicated escape routes, locked doors—so not realistic. Maybe there’s a robot ahead? An electric fence? Anything? I see nothing, other than a few smaller buildings, mounds of gravel, and a backhoe.

  I keep running. Nothing’s stopping me from getting out of here… until a body crashes into mine full force.

  We both go down with a grunt. The air is knocked from my lungs, and I struggle for breath like a kid with severe asthma. I roll over, surging to my feet. The world looks like the view from a Tilt-A-Whirl. I can’t see straight as I try to take a step, and hands drag me back to the ground. My chin bounces off the dirt with the impact. I roll to my backside, ready to fight back, but he doesn’t advance.

  “Stop running… please,” Joe says with a gasp.

  We are both spent.

  I want to laugh darkly, but it comes out like chunky wheezes. “I’m just supposed… to stay here… so you can do whatever your… twisted mind… has planned for me?

  “I’m trying… to protect you.”

  I’ve the sudden urge to cough, but instead, I start dry heaving again. Blood comes up this time. Fuck. My body is fucked up.

  “You can’t… protect me… from yourself,” I say, gasping.

  I go up on my hands and knees, escape still at the forefront of my thoughts. I gotta get back for my girls. I have to survive for Cat and Cora. They need me, and I won’t let them end up orphans like I was. They’ll have a mother that grows old with them, who watches every important life event and hugs them through the bad times.

  “I’m protecting you from the Hummingbird,” he says, clearly catching his breath.

  I freeze. What to do? He knows something I need to know, and I’m fighting the urge to turn around and ask as I struggle to keep moving.

  “Who’s… that?” Curiosity finally breaks me into asking.

  “I don’t know. He’s never contacted me in person.”

  I nod like that’s a totally normal explanation. It seems to encourage him, though, because he continues.

  “All I know is that he had stuff on me. He made me start sending you the flowers again.”

  Again. Holy shit. Martinez is my stalker. Was always my stalker. I called my stalker to complain about my stalker. This seems almost poetically absurd. It wasn’t Blake after all. But curiosity gets the better of me, and instead of hightailing it out of there, I want to know more. Curiosity will be my downfall.

  "What kind… of stuff?"

  "He had evidence of me, stalking you."

  “This Hummingbird… is stalking me, too?”

  “No, I think he’s just very good at finding out secrets and using them against people. To make them do what he wants, or to hurt them. And, for whatever reason, he has it out for you.” I think about that for a moment. Joe’s description does seem to fit. This Hummingbird knew who my stalker was and how to fuck with my life. He knew who Chloe really was and fucked with her life. And he’s still a problem. A big unknown. One that I don’t want to think about anymore. I just want to get away from here. I want life to be normal again. But there’s still Martinez to deal with—to get away from—but he’s not making a move to hurt me, and I’ve so many questions for him.

  “You were… at the concert?”

  “I was.” He looks away. Regret. I can see it written all over him, from the sl
ope of his shoulders to his down-turned eyes. “I was—I needed your friend to get backstage. I needed to get you out of there. This guy—the Hummingbird—is dangerous, and I know he wants you. And he can use anyone with something to lose against you.”

  “You killed Marcus!” I shout, but it causes a twinge that leads to coughing, and more blood bubbles up from my lips, staining the dirt below me.

  “It was an accident. He tackled me, and he knew—he knew that I was the one watching you. He saw my gun. We fought for it. I didn’t—”

  Cry me a river, buddy. I’m angry—no, angry isn’t a good enough word… I’m murderous, enraged. And if I’d enough left in me, I’d gouge out his eyes and feed them to him. But one question keeps niggling at the base of my skull, forcing me to ask it.

  “Why were you… stalking me… in the first place?”

  “My sister,” he answers.

  I’m so confused, I give up and fall onto my ass.

  “She wasn’t kidnapped,” he says, rolling over and rising to his knees. “She was driving the car that killed your mother. I was with her. She died that night, too. I survived, and I heard you in that waiting room that night, that you were orphaned, and I knew that I had to look out for you.”

  My face feels numb. I never found out who was driving the other car. All I knew was that it was a minor. I didn’t want to know either; it seemed like not knowing made it easier, more abstract and less real.

  “I don’t think you got it at first, but I was trying to let you know I was watching over you. Like a guardian angel. I just wanted to keep you safe, make up for the lives lost.”

  That’s an incredibly fucked-up sentiment. He should not write greeting cards, that’s for sure.

  “After the park, though, your kids didn’t recognize me. And when I showed you the picture of my sister, I knew you didn’t know who I was. But I had this opportunity—I just had to leave you a flower, and you would contact me and give me an update. But when your fiancé died, I figured I was doing more harm than good. I wanted to give you some measure of peace.”

  “When he… died? You said… it was murder!” I gasp and struggle to continue. Anger forces the words from my mouth. “You’re also… the one… who said that… the stalker… and the murderer… were the same. And you tried… to blame the murder… on me.”

  “I know—I know you didn’t do it. The Hummingbird’s message was clear—I was to blame you and try to find enough evidence to convict you. But I was there. I followed Jared after your fight at the Driskill and at your house. The door to the studio was unlocked. I thought about confronting him for hurting you, but the other guy—your drummer, was there. He was the one who killed him. I thought if I smashed the front door and set off the alarm, someone would get to him in time. That’s when your friend fled the scene.”

  Asher? Asher killed Jared. I’m stunned speechless. My mind has ground to a halt like rusty gears. Asher? No way.

  “Obviously, I couldn’t come forward with the truth, since I had no reason to be there.”

  Obviously. I roll my eyes. I don’t believe this story at all.

  “I went back to check on you, since your fiancé was the one with the gun and was waving it around, talking about how it was all over. I found you with that other guy—the boxer. I smashed that vase to get your attention, so you would leave and go look for your fiancé. I thought maybe you could save him. Then I left. I was done interfering. Your life is your own.”

  “Too shitty… to stalk… I guess,” I snort, but my muscles over my ribs seize. “You were… the one that saw me… with Law… that night… not Jared.”

  He nods.

  And then I laugh. I’m probably dying. I don’t know if it was the car wreck or the stairs, or when he tackled me. Life has a cruel sense of irony. My stalker stopped stalking me after catching me sleeping with another man on the night my fiancé died. Even if, technically, Jared wasn’t my fiancé anymore because I broke up with him… I laugh. Or at least, I think I’m laughing. It might sound different outside of my head, but I can’t be bothered to care.

  Jared didn’t kill himself because he saw me with Law. All that guilt I felt because I had thought he did, I can’t say it was for nothing—what Law and I did will always haunt me. But at least he didn’t die knowing that I lived up to his worst thoughts of me. It made me feel like he had a small measure of peace from that pain. But that guilt will never leave me because the fallout was just too great. The what-ifs still lingered. And they probably always would.

  I gave up on him, and that was enough to push him over the edge. And knowing that didn’t make the guilt any easier to bear. And Asher. Asher killed him. God, life fucking sucks.

  Martinez moves forward, approaching me. I think I might be hysterical, hence the laughing. But his eyebrows are drawn together and his lips pinched. I’m holding on to my side and laughing. He reaches out to touch me, and I scream.

  I shriek—not because he’s touching me, but because warm blood coats my face. Blood that is not mine. Martinez slumps over, a hole in both temples. His mouth opens in a silent scream as he hits the dirt at my feet.

  I scramble to get away from him. I need to hide. Silent bullets are coming from nowhere. That can’t be good. I find my feet and run—well, hobble, but I intend to run. I squat next to one of the massive piles of gravel, my eyes scanning the darkness. I’m not even sure if this spot is effective. I could be giving the shooter a nice backdrop, something to cushion his bullet after it pierces my brain.

  And then I see him.

  He’s a shadow. Framed by the dark—black pants, black shirt, black boots, a black sniper rifle with a silencer strapped to his back, and killer eyes. Turquoise pools of death. My deadly love. Dex.

  He runs across the open space, skidding to a stop in front of me. His eyes search mine as he cups my face with one hand and strokes my hair with the other.

  “Shhh… shhh… I got you, Firebird. I got you.”

  Then

  They insisted on wheeling me out to the parking lot in a stupid wheelchair. The orderly pushed me through the automatic doors to the sidewalk. I’d no idea who was picking me up. Bridget had come back with clothes and mumbled something about a ride home. I didn’t blame her for not wanting to be around me. I didn’t want to be around me, and I was taking it out on anyone with an ear.

  I looked around and didn’t see any familiar cars, but then I saw him. Law leaned against his bike, holding two helmets in his hands. It wasn’t the same bike he had back in the day, but it was the same make. I narrowed my eyes at him. The last thing he needed was to be seen with me. I looked around and didn’t see any media or paps, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking somewhere.

  I walked over to him, and he held out a helmet. I took it automatically without thinking.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with his now free hand. “I thought maybe you might like to go for a ride after being cooped up in there.”

  “You thought wrong.” I shoved the helmet back at him.

  He didn’t take it, just studied my face for a moment, then turned and straddled his bike.

  “Hop on,” he said without inflection.

  I folded my arms across my chest and stood my ground. “No.”

  He looked around us. “Dammit, Laine. Do you really want to do this here?”

  My eyes followed his gaze, and I realized that people were starting to notice us. I pulled the helmet on and got on the bike behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He started the bike up and took off out of the parking lot with a squeal.

  He got on the highway and took us straight out of town to the long winding country roads. When we had gone far enough that we hadn’t seen a place of business or home for miles, he pulled off onto the shoulder. I hopped off immediately and pulled off the helmet.

  He sat there for a moment before killing the engine. I waited for him to remove his helmet. He d
id, rolling his shoulders before swinging his leg over the bike to stand. He placed the helmet down on the handlebars and turned to face me, his hand going to the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  I rose a skeptical brow. “Are you?”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m not sorry about us. It sucks that it happened the same night we reconnected, but I’m not going anywhere. I know how you felt about him, and I know it—”

  “Fuck what you know. You’re not sorry? Really? We fucking did this. We didn’t pull the trigger, but we may as well’ve, Law.”

  “They ruled it a murder—”

  “Did you know the last thing he said to me was that he couldn’t live without me? Then he comes home to find your dick inside me. How is it that you’re failing to see the connection here?”

  “They said—”

  “They?” I threw my hands up. “They are going to say what makes them the most money. The media gets a rapt audience, the police get good PR for working to protect the public and bring a hero’s killer to justice… Listen to me, because I’m the one who found him. I was there. I saw—I saw—” I couldn’t breathe.

  I struggled for breath as I collapsed to my knees. Tears fell to the dirt below. Law’s arms came around me to gather me close. I couldn’t look at him without the reminder of what a fucking horrible human being I was. I couldn’t let him touch me because I didn’t trust my weakness for him. And I didn’t deserve—I didn’t deserve his comfort or some happily ever after where he wades through the grief with me and our love grows.

  “Don’t touch me!” I skidded away from him on my butt. “I can’t—”

  “Don’t. Don’t you fucking say it, Laine.”

  “I’m not fucking Laine!” I pulled my hair by the roots. “It’s a fucking stage name, a facade, a fake persona.”

  He stayed crouched near me but didn’t move to touch me. He was silent as he rubbed the back of his neck. I used to think it was adorable that he had that tic, exposing when he was nervous or anxious. But at that moment, it annoyed me to the point that I wanted to break his arm or his neck to stop him.