by Cassia Leo
Sean had his beefy arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head as he watched the scene. “Did you hear that last gunshot? It didn’t sound like it was coming out of the house toward the robot. Am I the only one that heard that?”
“You think there’s someone in there with him?” Matt asked, a bit too eagerly for my taste.
Sean continued shaking his head. “I can’t say for sure, but I think he took himself out. I haven’t heard any more noise coming from inside the house since that last gunshot.”
My stomach balled up like a fist as I suddenly found myself wishing that Sean was wrong. I didn’t want Brandon to die. I wanted him to live the rest of his miserable life tortured by the memories of the despicable things he’d done.
Most of all, I wanted Laurel to have the option to forgive him. That was a decision she should be able to make.
Before I could stop myself, I began running toward the armored SWAT vehicle where officers had taken cover.
“Get back there!” an officer in full tactical gear roared at me.
I stopped about thirty feet away from the SWAT vehicle and held up my hands. “Don’t shoot him. He’s my wife’s brother. Please don’t shoot him. Please.”
The back of the vehicle was open, and Officer Hodges could be seen looking at a bank of at least six screens with camera feeds from the robot. A sudden small explosion made my ears ring. A moment later, the color video feed cleared up as the dust settled.
“You need to go back there to the press area,” the officer repeated his command.
But my eyes were glued to the screen Hodges was watching. It didn’t take long for the lifeless body of Brandon Huxley to appear. He was sitting on the floor, his body slumped against a TV tray and wood-paneled wall.
“Suspect appears to be down,” Hodges relayed the grim news as he turned his attention to the infrared footage displayed in the top left screen. “Standby for confirmation.”
It took almost thirty minutes for Brandon to be confirmed deceased. When they rolled out the body bag on the gurney a couple of hours later, Detective Ava Robinson asked me if I wanted to see his face.
I started to nod my head, and Ava reached for the zipper on the body bag.
“No, I don’t want to see him,” I blurted out before she could unzip.
Her caramel skin gleamed in the shitty sodium light coming from the trailer home behind me. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m done with death. I have to get home to my wife.”
“I understand. If you don’t mind, I’ll need you to come in to the station any time between nine a.m. and six p.m. tomorrow to give a written witness statement before you leave for Portland.”
“Of course,” I replied, feeling so exhausted, it was a wonder I was still standing upright.
A tired smile flickered on her face. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Stratton.”
“Thanks. I’m definitely going to need it.”
I left Sean next to his cherry-red Porsche with a generous payment for his services, and a promise to return soon to grab a beer. “If I can ever do anything for you… or Rosie, you name it. She deserves justice, too.”
Sean flashed me a shrewd grin. “There’s a sound my brain made when I was at war with everyone and everything I thought was standing in the way of finding Rosie’s killer. It was a loud, screeching wail. Well, sometimes it was loud, sometimes it was faint, but it was always there.” He paused for a moment as he seemed to get a bit emotional. “It took me a long time to realize that it was Rosie, screaming at me, trying to tell me to let go of her.” He stood tall and nodded. “I made peace with not knowing a long time ago. You take care of yourself, Jack. I hope you never need my services again.”
I nodded. “Ditto.”
Chapter 20
Laurel
I didn’t sleep in on my birthday. Instead, I woke with my alarm at six a.m. I made a pot of coffee and sat down in my mother’s office — my new office — and began working on the Barley Legal Speakeasy app. But within a few minutes, I found myself wanting to work on the PTSD app I’d discussed with Isaac.
What the hell. It was my birthday. Today, I would indulge myself a few hours to work on something I cared about.
First, I had to download the app Isaac recommended. Once the app was on my phone, I began looking through it, and I couldn’t stop myself from getting emotional as I realized how great it was. Whoever created it obviously tried to make the best app they possibly could to help veterans heal. But they had forgotten the rest of us. Those of us who hadn’t gone to war, but were still fighting a losing battle with our memories.
After thoroughly inspecting the app, and doing several of the exercises, I felt calmer and more determined than I had in ages. I made a list of topics I would need to study before I could even begin working on a PTSD app for civilians. I wanted to know everything there was to know about the subject, and everything the experts still didn’t know. If my app helped just one person deal with non-combat-related trauma, it will have been worth it. Whether it was a rape victim or a mother who’d found her son’s dead body, we all deserved every possible resource available to heal our shattered spirits.
After purchasing a ton of books on Amazon and subscribing to a dozen different medical journals, I felt satisfied that I was on the right path. For the first time in years, my life had purpose.
I worked on the Speakeasy app for a couple of hours, focusing my efforts on the mad lib game. Barley Legal Adult Mad Libs would be played with a group of friends who would each fill in the blanks of a mad lib describing a barely legal scenario. When finished, the app would scramble the mad libs so that each player had to read another player’s mad lib aloud. The first person to laugh had to take a sip of their drink. If the person reading the mad lib laughed, they had to finish their drink.
This app was definitely going to need a very prominent legal disclaimer: Barley Legal is not responsible for anything illegal, dangerous, unsafe, or downright embarrassing that may occur while playing Barley Legal Speakeasy. Drink and play responsibly.
Every time I ran the code through the compiler and got an error, a song would play in my head. It was a cynical little tune that Jack and I used to sing when we studied together during our last year at OSU. 186 bugs in the code. 186 bugs. Take one down, patch it around... 223 bugs in the code.
God, I missed him.
When I was done working, I took a very long, hot shower and took my time getting dressed and doing my hair and makeup. Drea, Barry, and Dylan would be here around six p.m. to take me out to dinner for my birthday. Then, we were coming back to my house to test out some classic drinking games to see which ones I could modernize for the Speakeasy app.
“That dinner was fabulous,” I said as Barry drove us back to my house from the restaurant. “I wish I’d gone to Renata sooner.”
“I can’t believe you live in Portland and you’ve never been there until now,” Dylan remarked.
I rounded on him in the back seat. “Uh, until a couple of months ago, I hadn’t lived in Portland for eight years. The waitress said the restaurant has only been open for four years. Cut me some slack, you fucking hipster.”
Drea cackled. “Oh, my word! And she’s only had one glass of wine,” she said through her laughter. “May God have mercy on us tonight, Dylan.”
“Good God, we are in for a show tonight,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “But I’ll get her back when we play Barley Legal adult charades.”
I shook my head as he made the universal pantomime for sucking cock. “You’re going down, brother. Down to Barley Legal Town.”
“We’ll see who’s going down after three or four drinks, Miss Hot Mess.”
“Are you three usually this delightful to each other?” Barry asked in his deep British accent; the accent that prompted Dylan to whisper in my ear at dinner, “Is this Denzel Washington’s British younger brother? Like, holy shit. Do you know any ugly people?”
When we got to the house, Barry and I prepared the d
rinks and snacks and laid them out on the dining table in the breakfast nook, while Dylan and Drea sat on the sofa, holding my birthday gifts and whispering to each other in between fits of laughter.
“Your wife is going to steal my new best friend,” I told Barry as I grabbed a couple of wine glasses and a cold bottle of prosecco for Drea and me.
“Speaking of friends, did Drea mention to you that I had lunch with Jack recently?” he asked very casually, as if Barry and I talked about Jack all the time.
I set the frosty bottle down on the table. “No, she didn’t mention it,” I said, trying not to sound too bitter. “So… how did it go? I mean, is he okay? I… I mean, it’s none of my business. Just forget I asked.”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a soft, almost pitiful smile. “You have every right to ask about how your husband is doing. He is still your husband, isn’t he?”
I flashed him a stiff grin. “Barry, I’m turning thirty today and Jack is nowhere to be found. I haven’t received a measly text or email from him in weeks. You tell me, is he still my husband?” I replied.
Judging by the shock on Barry’s face, I had successfully conveyed the message that this little conversation about Jack was over. Tonight, Jack was a footnote. It was my party and I would pretend Jack didn’t exist if I wanted to.
“Should I open my gifts now?” I called out to Drea and Dylan.
“I think mine would be best opened after a few more drinks,” Drea said, which made her and Dylan almost keel over with laughter.
I shook my head. “All right. Three drinks, then I get to open my presents.”
After two rounds of adult mad libs, Drea, Dylan, and I were three glasses of prosecco into a good buzz, while Barry — the designated driver — had consumed two cans of Coke Zero. But Drea and Dylan, not being the seasoned alcoholic that I was becoming, were far more drunk than I was.
Drea wrapped an arm around Dylan’s shoulders and pulled him close so she could give him a loud kiss on the cheek. “I love this man, Laurel. I’m going to steal him from you. I’m going to stuff him in the trunk of our car and take him home with me.”
Dylan turned his face at the same time Drea did, so that their foreheads were resting against one another as they looked into each other’s eyes. “Dylan and Drea,” he said, sounding very serious. “Dylan and Drea. Double-D.”
Drea cackled madly. “If Dylan and Drea are Double-D, and Barry is the designated driver, then the three of us are Quadruple-D!”
“Quadruple-D?” Barry remarked. “Hold my Coke. I’m going in!”
Then, he smashed his face into Drea’s bosom and shook his head as if he were motor-boating her. It took a few minutes for us to stop laughing long enough to catch our breath.
Finally, I took another sip of prosecco, but I was still wearing an unrelenting grin. “Double-D is the perfect nickname for a couple of big boobs such as yourselves.”
Dylan shook his head. “This reminds me of something my mom used to say when someone did something really stupid. ‘Somewhere, there’s a shed missing a tool.’”
Drea gasped. “Speaking of tools. You have to open your presents.”
I laughed. “Did you get me a toolbox or something?”
She and Dylan exchanged a look. “Well, it is a tool and it can be kept in a box.”
I rolled my eyes as I realized she’d probably gotten me a vibrator. Still, I was very excited to open the silver gift box, which seemed much too heavy to contain a regular vibrator. And when I lifted the lid, I understood why.
It wasn’t a vibrator. It was a six-pack of twelve-inch dildos, intricately tied together with white satin ribbon. I should have laughed, but all I could think of was the ribbon I’d worn in my hair on my wedding day.
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” Drea said, getting up from her chair and coming over to stand behind my chair as she wrapped her arms around me. “I did get you a real gift, too. A gift card that’s going to be emailed to you later tonight. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
I laughed through my tears. “It’s not that. You didn’t hurt my feelings. I swear I love the gift. It’s just… It’s the ribbon… It reminds me of my wedding day.”
I couldn’t see Drea’s face because she was standing behind me, but Barry flashed her a split-second look of significance, followed by a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. Did they plan the gift that way, to remind me of my wedding? But… I didn’t meet Drea and Barry until after I got married.
I didn’t know what was going on. Either I was imagining the significance of the birthday gifts I’d received from Drea and Houston and Rory, or I was caught in some kind of conspiracy to make sure I didn’t get over Jack.
“I’m so fucked,” I said, feeling utterly defeated by my longing for him.
“You’re not fucked,” Dylan insisted emphatically.
“It’s true. I’m floundering,” I replied, suddenly feeling as if I had to get everything out in the open before the alcohol wore off and I tried to run from my emotions again. “I’m floundering and I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to catch my fucking breath. I want to convince myself it’s over. I want to believe it’s time to move on. But my heart keeps telling me it can’t be over. It can’t possibly be over when I still feel so much. When I still love him so much. I... I feel like an addict who’s been forced to quit cold turkey. And the only way to get my fix is to remember.” I took the paper towel Drea handed me and used it to wipe my tears. “My memories of Jack and Junior and my mom are like hits from a crack pipe. They keep me going for just a while longer. Problem is… I feel like I’m becoming lost in my memories and I don’t know how to make it stop. I need help.”
“Darling, you’re not an addict,” Drea assured me gently. “You’re heartbroken. And you will be okay. I promise you that.”
“You don’t know that for certain. You’re just saying that to placate me. And that’s okay, because you’re my friend. You’re supposed to say stuff like that.”
“I am most certainly not blowing smoke up your lovely arse. You will be okay. Trust me.”
“But how do you know that?” I begged.
She looked me in the eye and spoke fiercely. “Because many others would have been completely broken by what you’ve endured. But you’re still here. You’re still fighting. And that’s how I know you’re going to win. I know it like I know the sky is blue. You are going to be okay. I promise.”
After completely killing the mood at my own birthday party, I was not at all surprised to open Dylan’s gift to me and find a gift card to R.E.I. That was it. It was settled. They were all in on it. It wasn’t paranoia.
But I didn’t get emotional or tell Dylan about how I used to work at R.E.I. when Jack and I first started dating. Instead, I thanked him for the thoughtful gift and suggested we continue testing out some more drinking games.
I didn’t want to feel anything for the rest of the night. No nostalgia. No despair. Heck, I could also do without the supreme joy my friends brought me, because it was too depressing to think about how I only felt this happy on special occasions nowadays.
Three more glasses of prosecco and two beers later, I was beyond drunk. I was crunk. But I still managed to walk Dylan to his Uber and give him a very clumsy goodbye hug. Then, I drunkenly insisted that I also needed to walk Drea and Barry to their SUV.
“I’m so sorry I can’t stay the night,” Drea slurred. “Colin has a football—I mean, a soccer game at fucking eight a.m. What kind of cunt schedules anything involving a dozen eight-year-olds before ten a.m.? His coach, that’s who. Total fucking cunt.”
Maybe I was laughing a little too loud. I didn’t really know. My body was so numb, I wasn’t even sure I was standing up.
“Anyway, don’t forget to check your email for that gift card I sent you,” she said, with an exaggerated wink.
“Okay. Goodbye,” I slurred, unable to muster any more words, then I watched them pull out of the driveway and disap
pear down the street.
As I stumbled my way back to the house, I tripped on the final step and did a face-plant onto the porch. At first, I laughed. I didn’t know how long I was laughing, but as I attempted to push myself up, my giggles morphed into sobs.
“Jesus Christ,” said a voice, though I didn’t know whose voice it was.
Maybe God was finally taking an interest in me just to express his disdain.
Then, large arms curled around my waist and lifted me up. I slowly turned my head and smiled when I saw Isaac.
“Are you hurt? You took quite a nosedive there.”
I stared blankly at him for a long moment before I proclaimed, “I really am a hot mess!”
He shook his head and laughed as he helped me inside and slammed the front door behind us. “Come on, birthday girl,” he said, wrangling me as I attempted to walk toward the kitchen. “You’re not going that way. You’re going up those stairs and straight to bed to sleep this off.”
“But I’m thirsty,” I slurred.
“I’ll take you up to bed first. Then, I’ll get you some water. Come on.”
Somehow, I made it up the stairs without tripping again. But when Isaac asked me which bedroom I slept in, it took me a while to remember before I told him to just take me to the first bedroom we came upon.
We ended up in my old bedroom, the room with the smallest bed, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to collapse. Tomorrow, I would wake up and never drink again.
“Do you have any pajamas you want to change into?” he asked as I sat on the edge of the bed and clumsily kicked off my Converse.
“No, thanks,” I managed, before I lay down fully clothed, on top of the blanket, and closed my eyes.