Skin Deep

by Michelle Hanson

  “Thanks for coming.” I said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I was going to either,” Abi replied as she slid the chair out from under the table. Her eyes were red and puffy underneath, as if she had spent the entire morning crying. She sat on the edge of the restaurant chair, ready to bolt at any time.

  A light breeze flew through the loose strands of her hair, which was pulled back into a braid. She kept a tight grip around her car keys as she crossed her arms and rested her elbows on the table. The way she looked at me intensified my already anxious demeanor. It was as if she was here against better judgment, but curiosity had gotten the best of her.

  “Are you hungry?” I stalled. “We can order something.”

  “I’m not staying long,” Abi quickly answered.

  “Oh.” I forced a smile. “I won’t keep you then.”

  “You aren’t,” she replied. “You said you wanted to clear the air, so let’s clear it.” Her tone was sharp, and I could no longer hear the eggshells she walked on in her voice. She stood on firm ground, no longer afraid to put her foot down. It was enticing in a way, to see that she no longer saw me as a fragile child. Or maybe she no longer cared if I was. She was putting herself first, and I was happy for her. This backbone of hers was long overdue.

  “When you came home the other night, it wasn’t what you thought,” I began. I needed her to know there was nothing going on between Cait and me, at least not physically. Anything emotional I felt for Cait came after things between Abi and I had fallen apart, so I didn’t feel the need to apologize for cheating—because I hadn’t.

  “I know.” Abi glared at me, and I got the sense that I was losing her attention. She wanted answers from me. But unless she started asking questions, I didn’t know what to say.

  For the past year, I had taken the coward’s way out. I had hidden my deteriorating feelings because I didn’t want to hurt her. Leading her on, however, did more damage than the truth ever could have. I had turned her into a fool. I had made her waste her time and love on someone who couldn’t use it. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate her; I did—I still do. But what good is a bottle of wine without a corkscrew?

  “It was never my intention to hurt you,” I said, trying a different approach. Judging by the look on Abi’s face, that was also the wrong thing to say.

  “You didn’t intend to hurt me?” Her eyebrows rose almost as high as her voice. “What did you ‘intend’ to do, Lena? Keep me around to sweep up the pieces of your broken life?” It was a rhetorical question—but one I felt compelled to deny. Had I been given the chance, I would have, but she kept talking. “It’s like I woke up one morning and found this shell of a human next to me. She looked like you, and she talked like you, but she wasn’t you.” Abi took a breath and continued. “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave. Believe me, I wanted to. Plenty of times. But I didn’t.” She paused again. “I stayed because I thought maybe you would turn into you again.” Tears lined her eyes. “I stayed because you were the life I wanted.” She looked away, her jaw clenched as she shook her head. I got the impression she had more to say but was physically incapable of saying it, at least for now.

  She wanted me to be me again. As much as I wanted to give that to her, I couldn’t. She wanted me to be someone I could no longer be. The old me was gone, buried next to Lathan and his victims. I didn’t know how to give her what she wanted. And that’s why my heart had left this relationship long before my mind had. But I didn’t say any of that to her.

  In a sense, Abi and I were working toward the same goal. We both wanted me to be me again. That was our common denominator—it was the biggest thing we had in common. Now that we both knew that goal was impossible, all we had left of our relationship was a cold bed and a house full of resentment.

  “All I can say is that I’m sorry, Abi.” I tried to look her in the eyes, but her head was still down.

  “You and me both,” she said as she sniffed back tears. She gained her composure and lifted her head. “I should get going,” she said softly.

  “Please don’t,” I urged. “Don’t go. I didn’t want you to move out. You can come back to the house—we’ll stay in separate rooms until we can figure something out.” The house was in my name, but it belonged to both of us. She had spent the last eighteen months turning it into our home. It didn’t feel right without her there.

  “Because that always works out so well?” Abi quietly laughed. “We need our space, Lena. I’ll be fine.”

  “At least let me pay for your hotel,” I offered. Getting back together wasn’t an option, but uprooting her entire life shouldn’t be either.

  “I’m not staying at a hotel.” Abi wiped her eyes and stared at me. She began to pick at her nails, a nervous habit when she was on the verge of dropping a bomb she didn’t want to. Her brother lived too far away for her to commute. If she wasn’t staying at a hotel or with her brother, then she would have to be staying with someone else.

  “Who are you staying with?” My mind went through her friends. She was pretty close with the couple who lived a few houses over, but I didn’t notice her car parked on our street.

  “I’ve been talking to someone for a while now,” Abi slowly confessed. Whether she wanted that bomb to explode or not, it did—and all the toxic debris landed right in the pit of my stomach.

  “Oh,” I mustered. My face went numb as my lips inevitably formed into a frown. I tried to maintain a steady breath, but my heart sank so low into my chest that my lungs collapsed under the pressure. “Do I… do I know her?”

  Did I really want to know? Confirmation either way would just be another detonation.

  “No, she and I work together.” Abi sighed. “This was never my intent,” she added.

  And there was that word again: intent. Now I understood why Abi had reacted so harshly when I’d said it. She may not have intended to meet someone, but did she do anything to stop it? Did I do anything to stop us from falling apart?

  “How long have you been ‘talking’?” The toxins in the pit of my stomach rose up my esophagus and scorched the back of my throat. It was a burn so hot that I was sure I exhaled fire.

  “Four months,” Abi answered. “It was never romantic, at least not on my end,” she quickly added.

  “Is it now?” my new friend, masochism, asked.

  Abi hesitated to answer. “It will be. But she knows I need time.”

  Is that what she gave Abi these past four months? Time? How long was this “she” willing to wait? Did she know about us? About me? Every bit of my life had been thrust into the public eye, so I clung to any pieces of privacy I could. Did she, whoever she was, know that I wasn’t the champion I so desperately tried to portray to the public?

  “What does she know about us?” I didn’t want to ask, but I had to know.

  “Everything,” Abi confirmed. “I’ve basically spent the last two days crying on her shoulder. So she knows everything about us,” Abi said, stomping on the eggshells. “But my relationship with her isn’t about you,” she added.

  Before I could reply, an impatient server came up to the table. “Hi, I’m Steven,” a young man barely in his twenties introduced himself. He wore a black apron tied around his waist and a white button-up shirt. “Can I interest you in something to drink?”

  “I should get going,” Abi said, keeping her attention to me.

  “And for you?” Steven asked me.

  “I need a few more minutes, please.”

  “Certainly,” he said and walked away.

  “I really should get going,” Abi repeated.

  “Where does this leave us?” I asked, sullen-faced.

  “I don’t want us to be strangers.” She paused. “But I need time to let us go.”

  I nodded and took that as a request to let her be. I wouldn’t call her, I wouldn’t text her. I wouldn’t use her as a rock to hide under. I had to let her go, just as she had to let me go.

 
“What about your things at the house?” I managed to ask between tears caught in my throat. Certainly, she still had a few things at the house that she wanted back.

  “I have everything I need at her house,” Abi replied. Although she may not have intended for it to come out that way, I knew what she meant. Everything she needed—the things I couldn’t give—waited for her at another’s woman’s house. Abi looked down at the table and then locked eyes with me. “I came here today because you need to know something. I was going to tell you last weekend at my brother’s.” She paused. I braced myself for the atomic bomb she was about to launch. “The house, the one you were in with Lathan? It sold.” Abi paused again, as if trying to gauge my reaction.

  “It sold?” I repeated. “Who bought it?”

  “The bank has owned it for a few years,” she said. “They were pretty quick to get rid of it, given the history….”

  “Who bought it?” I asked more firmly. The thought of someone wanting to turn my vault of terror into a family home was so infuriating that I had become nauseous.

  “I don’t remember the name offhand. Michael or Mickey, I think? It was a private sale—maybe someone from the tour group? I really don’t know,” she said. It was oddly comforting that the house had been purchased by the West Joseph Tour company instead of by someone who wanted to raise a family there. “I just thought you should know,” Abi said as she sank back in her chair, as if she regretted her decision to tell me. “I need to get going.” She stood from her chair. “Take care, Lena.”

  I wanted to stand with her. I wanted to touch her, and hug her, and apologize for everything. I wanted to do whatever it took to keep her here—because although I wasn’t in love with her, it still felt good to look at her and know she was next to me. But I remained seated. This wasn’t about what I wanted. It was time I gave her what she wanted. What she needed. My cowardice had cost her happiness for too long.

  “You too.” I forced a smile through the tears sliding down my face. “I’m happy for you,” I said. And, to my surprise, that wasn’t a lie. “I hope….” I paused as I thought of what I really wanted for her. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I will be,” Abi said. Her stare lingered on me for just a second too long, and then with eyes full of tears, she turned around and walked out of the restaurant.

  She was actually gone.

  I braced myself for the impact of my life crumbling around me, but nothing happened. There was no rubble at my feet. There were no clouds of smoke. The ground remained intact. I had remained unharmed. I was going to be okay.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?” Steven interrupted my silent celebration.

  “Yes,” I lied, although I didn’t need to look at the menu. I ordered the same thing every time I came here. I wiped the tears from my face and pretended to read the menu. “I’ll have the ‘B-L-T-&-A’ with curly fries, please.” I passed him the two menus that were on the table.

  “And to drink?” Steven asked as he collected the menus.

  “Water’s fine.”

  “It’ll be just a few minutes.” Steven scribbled down the order and walked away.

  I wasn’t hungry. All that had just happened with Abi made sure of it. But I felt compelled to order something. And Bento’s BLT with avocado was delicious. Plus, this would give me an excuse to stay here and recover from my exchange with Abi. It had been more than just a conversation—it was our final conversation, at least for the foreseeable future.

  As much as I wanted to sit here and analyze every detail about Abi, my mind started to drift to another matter I had to deal with today. Flu would be home later this afternoon, and I needed to discuss Detective Novak with him in private. I didn’t understand why Novak would sign out the case file for Lathan Collins, especially on his last week at the office. Whatever the reason, I needed to discuss all possibilities with Flu before I brought it to Cait’s attention.

  Cait didn’t know Novak the way I did—or the way I thought I did. Novak was a good detective. I trusted him. And I was sad to learn of his retirement. He was a great guy to work with. Every Monday morning, he would ask, “Is it Friday yet?” with a goofy grin. It just didn’t make sense for him to have Lathan’s case files.

  As I waited for my food, I noticed a flat-screen television in my peripheral. It was on Channel Ten, on mute, but lines of closed captioning scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The anchor’s mouth moved as I read the captions beneath her during the thirty-second promo advertising tonight’s lead story.

  AT SIX O’CLOCK, MORE VIDEOS OF THE CASTING CALL KILLER SURFACE.

  The beginning of Kristen Valeri’s video began to play. She sat in the chair as she memorized the script on her lap. Before the video could get to her horrific death, it cut to the anchor giving a sorrowful frown.

  POLICE URGE ANYONE WITH INFORMATION TO PLEASE CALL.

  The Casting Call Killer was becoming impatient with getting the attention he wanted. All three videos were now in the hands of the media. Being able to separate the actual killer’s confession from anyone who had simply watched the evening news would be impossible now that the videos had become mainstream entertainment.

  What little appetite I had was gone. I dug into my front pocket and pulled out a twenty- dollar bill. I laid it on the table to cover the cost of my food, plus a decent tip for Steven.

  It was close to one o’clock, and I hoped Flu was home by now. It was at least a twenty-minute drive from Bento’s to his house, so that would kill a little time in case he wasn’t home yet.

  As I turned onto Flu’s street, I went over how I would approach him about Novak. Flu and Novak were good friends, and it would be difficult enough to point the finger at another detective, let alone Flu’s friend.

  I pulled into his driveway, revving my engine as I traveled up the slight incline, and put my car in park before I shut it off. Flu’s truck was parked in the garage, and garage door was up. A sigh of relief emitted from my mouth, and I stepped out of the car.

  Small red berries poked through the bushes that sat neatly trimmed between Flu’s two-story house and walkway. I walked up the three cement steps that led to the front door. His porch stretched as long as the width of his house, and I knocked on the red door. A minute had gone by before anyone answered. Flu stood behind the screen door, and his round belly peeked slightly over the frame of the half window. He scratched his head.

  “Evans?” He opened the screen door. “Come in.” He furrowed his brow and looked down his porch, as if he was expecting to see Cait with me. I stepped inside his living room. Brown carpet travelled all the way into the dining room. A deep, musky scent of bachelorism filled my lungs as I stood in his living room.

  A laundry basket full of folded towels sat on the loveseat. The full-size couch sat at a ninety-degree angle to the loveseat, and the couch was aimed directly at the big-screen television anchored to the wall. Aside from the TV, his walls were bare—no pictures of family members, no knick-knacks along the windowsill. Had I not known he’d lived here for the past twenty years, I would have assumed he’d just moved in.

  “Sorry for dropping by unexpectedly,” I said. “How’s your daughter?”

  “She’s good,” he replied as the screen door closed behind me. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked. I had never just stopped by his house unannounced before, so it was within reason that he questioned my motives.

  “I needed to talk to you in private—outside the office.”

  “This sounds serious. Is everything okay?” Flu picked up the laundry basket from the loveseat and gestured for me to sit down. He sat on the couch.

  “It might not be.” I didn’t want to taint his perspective of the situation by coming across as melodramatic. I sat on the loveseat and cupped my hands over my knees as I put my thoughts in order. “Do you remember Detective Novak?”

  “Ryan?” His eyebrows raised. “Of course.”

  “What would you say about him?” It was in m
y nature to turn any conversation into an interview.

  “I would say he’s a great guy… one hell of a detective,” Flu emphatically said. I nodded. That’s what I would’ve said about Novak too. So having to tell Flu about my discovery was proving to be more difficult than I thought it would be. “What’s this about?” Flu asked.

  “I found something… and I don’t know what it means exactly,” I quickly added. “But I need for this to stay between us, at least for the time being.”

  “Sure,” Flu said—although I was certain he would have agreed to just about anything in order to end his curiosity.

  “Before Novak retired, did he act… strange to you?” I chose my words carefully.

  Flu took a moment to think. “No,” he said. “He was his normal self. I don’t think he wanted to retire yet, but he knew it was time.”

  “Had he taken a sudden interest in any particular cases before he left?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Did he have money problems?” I was desperate for anything that would indicate he took the files to sell to the media. If he didn’t sell them to the media, then that meant he wanted Lathan’s files for personal reasons.

  “Not with his pension.” Flu laughed. “Seriously, what’s this all about?” Flu’s tone shifted, and I knew he was tired of being interviewed.

  “Lathan Collins.” I paused. “His case files are missing.” I paused again to give Flu a chance to put the pieces together.

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why they’re missing,” I repeated. “The last person who signed them out was Novak. In April.”

  “April?” Flu scoffed. “That’s impossible. He retired in April.”

  “I know.” I paused. “They were signed out on his last day.”

  “Novak?” Flu looked toward the ground, and disbelief decorated his face. “Have you talked to him? Called him to see what’s going on?” Flu looked at me with both confusion and optimism mixed in his voice.