Wall of Silence

by Gabrielle Goldsby

  “Riley,” I whispered, listening to her soft, even breathing.

  She was asleep. And what did I call her for, anyway? My face burned as I realized that for all my good intentions, if Riley had been a little more insistent on making love, I would have probably given in. I was long past denying my attraction. As if she had somehow sensed my surrender, she shifted in her sleep and pulled me tightly back against her body. I stared into the dimly lit living room for an eternity before succumbing to sleep. In my dreams I didn’t have to tell her no.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It had been so dark and rainy when we first drove to Albion that I hadn’t noticed much about our location. Some of the homes were exactly what I expected, small and quaint, but many of them were what I would consider to be large and stately. The area was probably a retirement destination for wealthy San Franciscans. Who else could afford to live in such a rural area and own such large houses? It wasn’t as if there were any high-rise office spaces that would support a white-collar workforce. The only people who even looked like they worked were the fishermen, and they for damn sure weren’t living in big, fancy homes.

  Riley had been quiet during the short drive into town. She didn’t think this trip to the public library was a good idea. I thought my dyed hair, hat, and sunglasses were a good enough disguise. It’s not like we were going to see wanted posters of me stapled up around the town. Besides, as much as I was enjoying the cabin, I did need to get out every so often. It had been several days since Riley first told me she was hard of hearing, and since I’d turned into a touchy-feely beast that couldn’t seem to keep its hands to itself. I don’t mean sexually, either; there was just this need to make sure that she was still there. She always was. We ate together, slept together—but not in the biblical sense—and walked together. It was the most at peace I’d ever felt.

  “Here it is.” She pulled up to a pristine white building and we both stared out the car windows, checking the surroundings for police. The library looked like it might have been an old schoolhouse or church at some point. A small picket fence skirted its perimeter, and it had a large steeple at the top, minus the bell.

  I got out of the car and walked into the building ahead of Riley. At first, I felt self-conscious in my sunglasses and orange flip-flops, but the library showed few signs of life. The idea of being cornered didn’t sit well with me, so I scanned the room for the fire exit, my retreat route if I needed to make a quick escape. My nerves jangled as we explored the stacks of magazines and the newspapers that hung on sticks, each section separately suspended by a system of string dividers.

  We started with the Marin County papers and worked our way through to the San Francisco and even the Oakland papers, looking for anything that mentioned me, Smitty, or even Harrison Canniff. I studied Riley occasionally during the next hour or two, enjoying the fact that I could stare at her openly. She looked so sweet sitting there poring over the papers, a frown creasing her otherwise smooth forehead, and her hair loose for a change. I wanted to tell her that I liked when she wore it down, but I felt inexplicably shy. I’ve never been one to pass out compliments freely, and I was afraid of veering too far from my normal path.

  Keeping Riley at arm’s length is for the good of us both, I told myself. For the past few days, arm’s length had included talking—mostly I talked and she listened—kissing, dancing closely, and spooning at night. I put my foot down when Riley suggested we get in the Jacuzzi. It sounds harmless but neither of us had bathing suits, a fact that didn’t seem to bother Riley half as much as it troubled me.

  “I think I’ve found something,” Riley looked up so fast that I was unable to hide the fact that I had been staring and thinking about how much I wanted to kiss her. Her lips quirked into a smile as she whispered, “Concentrate.”

  She pushed a paper in front of me, and my heart slammed against my rib cage. It stood to reason that we would eventually find something. In fact, it was starting to look really odd that nothing appeared to have reached the news media.

  Los Angeles, California

  LAPD detective Foster Everett is sought for questioning in connection with the suspicious death of Harrison Canniff, a Los Angeles County resident and small business owner suspected of making and distributing illegal DVDs. Everett’s partner, Detective Joseph Smith, died in an apparently unrelated car accident on Highway 1. The coroner’s report is inconclusive as to whether alcohol was involved.

  See related stories:

  LAPD Detective’s Death “Suspicious”

  The Forgotten Children

  “Son of a bitch. Smitty never…” I stopped myself then. I had been about to blow up because they were implying that Smitty drank, which he never did while driving. I heard the squeak of chair rollers on hardwood floor and turned to see the librarian coming around her desk and toward us. She was a small woman, probably in her late fifties, wearing tight jeans that looked like they were better suited to a sixteen-year-old, Sperry topsiders, a thick pink sweatshirt with a cat on the front, and a large pink barrette on either side of her pixie-cut, mouse brown hair. Though we were the only people in the library, she still wore a disapproving librarian frown on her face.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, peering over the rim of her glasses.

  “No. But thank you,” I said and we both fell silent until she returned to her desk.

  “Is that the only entry you’ve found?”

  Riley nodded. “I checked two weeks in either direction.”

  I frowned. “That’s weird.”

  Usually the papers were full of shit like this. Murder or not, this was news. A cop suspected of killing a perpetrator was front-page stuff, and it would take people a lot more powerful than the LAPD to hush up a big story like that.

  “Let’s check the related stories,” I said.

  “They probably have those articles over there on the computer, Riley said, already on her way over to the computers. Her fingers moved nimbly across the keyboard, and within seconds of me leaning over her shoulder, the small article was up and on the screen.

  The Forgotten Children of the City of Angels

  by Staff Reporter Lana Morgan-Archer

  Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office

  “I’ve done this too many times,” she says as she covers the 12-inch form. She holds a clothespin in her mouth while another volunteer hands her dried flowers to place into the tiny makeshift body bag. Citing a near-fatal accident with her own son as her motivation, she has made it her life’s work to champion those less fortunate. She shakes her head as if it is almost too much to bear, but continues because she knows if she doesn’t, no one else will. She named her Ann.

  “Ann was my mother’s name,” she explains, teary-eyed, as she lifts the body onto the borrowed gurney. “Someone let this baby die, threw her away. She never had a chance at dignity. I thought Ann was a dignified name.”

  She watches the volunteer disappear with the gurney. Ann will be loaded into a van and chauffeured to her final place of rest.

  You see, Ann has been adopted by Monica Smith, daughter of Police Chief Herbert James and wife of LAPD detective Joseph Smith. Ann, who was discarded by her birth mother and perhaps unwanted by her birth father, will now be laid to rest in a graveyard filled with adoptive brothers and sisters of every race imaginable. Ironically, over 185 strangers will show up and mourn Ann’s passing.

  Ann, who will be buried with her umbilical cord still attached, will never celebrate her first birthday.

  There have been 23 others, and there is room in the donated plot for 6 more.

  It will be full before year’s end.

  “I remember hearing about this,” Riley said softly.

  I sucked in a breath “Yeah, Monica used to hit me up all the time for donations. I never went to any of the funerals but I heard they were really…nice.”

  “How sad,” Riley said.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I always feel like it’s my fault somehow. Like if
I had done my job better, the babies would be safe.”

  “Something’s broken in our society,” Riley said sadly. “I don’t think you or any other cop bears the responsibility for this kind of thing. All of us are responsible for protecting them. Not just you.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s as if all Monica thinks about is those dead babies. How can someone base their life on something so sad?” I hesitated. I’d never realized how much Monica’s obsession freaked me out, until now. “I used to walk around her van, I mean wide around her van, because I knew she carried the babies in it. But it didn’t seem to bother her at all. She puts their son in there to go to daycare and doesn’t even blink.”

  I thought Riley might be shocked by what I was saying. I was sort of shocked myself. But she just placed her hand on mine for a few seconds. I could tell she was conflicted about what to say to me, so she said nothing. We avoided each other’s eyes because there were no easy answers. And then, as moments often do, that one passed and we scanned the rest of the database for related stories.

  The piece about Smitty’s death was just a few inches long and said nothing I didn’t already know. The wording struck me as careful, but that wasn’t so unusual. When cops killed themselves, the LAPD tried to be tactful in any public statements. After searching a few minutes longer and finding nothing new, I stood up and stretched. From the way my back cracked, I wondered if I had aged ten years from the stress of my situation.

  “Nothing to photocopy?” the librarian asked as we started toward the front doors. She was inspecting Riley like an organism under a microscope.

  Riley’s face wore the same bland, unemotional expression I’d seen at the club, and I realized the look hadn’t been there in a while. I didn’t appreciate someone making her feel like she had to hide behind it.

  “We found what we were looking for,” I said, hoping to discourage further conversation.

  “Visiting from Los Angeles?” she asked, eyeing my flip-flops.

  I didn’t like the way she was looking at us, like we didn’t belong and she was imprinting our images in a mental file she would be able to call up on the witness stand. How could she have guessed we weren’t from San Francisco? It was much closer. I supposed my look could put me in the “Hollywood flake” category.

  With a vague shrug, Riley said, “You know what it’s like ’round here, everyone comes from somewhere else.”

  We escaped before the woman could take our photographs.

  “See why I didn’t want you to come to town?” Riley said. “People notice you.”

  I thought it was her they noticed. But I kept my opinion to myself. Making Riley feel self-conscious was a dumb move if I wanted to kiss her. And I did.

  I was so deep in thought that we were damn near in the store before I happened to look up and catch the Doc Martens sign on the window. I immediately perked up. The bum look I’d been wearing hadn’t done much for my spirits. Riley seemed comforted that my face wasn’t spread all over the newspapers and argued heatedly that the clothes were so I wouldn’t look so damn out of place, and based on the librarian’s reaction, I had to agree with her there. So I allowed her to buy me three pairs of jeans, some socks, a few white shirts, and a brand-new pair of boots.

  By the time we left the store, I was laden with shopping bags and a whole lot of guilt for allowing Riley to spend Dani’s money on me. After I got settled in my seat, I flipped the sun visor down and checked my hair in the mirror. I would need to dye it biweekly to keep it blond. The prospect filled me with gloom. I had never been one for serious hair maintenance. Riley got into the car. “Ready to go home?”

  A thrill shot through me as she said “home.” I disguised the fact that I was touched by her question with a casual, “Yup.”

  “What are you thinking?” she asked as we passed over the small bridge and prepared to make a right turn onto the private road that led to the cabin.

  “I don’t know, I guess I’m still wondering why there was so little in the newspapers. Nothing makes sense. This thing has been hushed up. Maybe it was Smitty’s father-in-law.” Was Chief James embarrassed about the idea of a suicide in the family and just trying to protect Monica? I supposed it was possible. But why come after me?

  Riley stopped the car and dealt with the gate. “You have to stop second-guessing everything,” she said when she was back in her seat. “What’s done is done and you can’t change it. You have a chance to live a new life, and maybe this time you’ll be happier.”

  I didn’t look at her because her voice was entirely too soft and I was already feeling odd about my admissions. “I don’t think so. Every time I’m happy, it’s like I feel guilty about it because Smitty isn’t here and that creep Canniff will never feel happy again. Whatever his crimes, I had no right to take his life, and I keep waiting for my luck to catch up with me.”

  Riley could talk about “moving on” but that wasn’t an option. My life was on hold until I could clear my name. I stared out at the cabin, knowing I could not hide indefinitely. I had a choice to make: I could run and spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Or I could go back to L.A. and find out what was really going on and why.

  Changing the subject, I asked, “Are you happy, Riley?”

  She was quiet for a minute. “I don’t remember ever being more happy.”

  “Good.” I got out of the car and stared out at the view. It was going to be chilly tonight. I could already see fog rolling in.

  We stood there for a while, side by side, just looking out to sea. I relished the quiet moments I spent with her. Riley, unlike most people, had learned the art of silence. Even though I professed a wish for silence, like most people, I felt the need to verbalize. Riley didn’t. She just enjoyed the moment, soaked it in like a sponge. “This has been the perfect day,” I breathed.

  “Would you like to watch the sun go down with me, Foster?”

  I slid an arm around her waist, unwilling and unable to keep myself from touching her. The day had lulled me into a comfort zone I vaguely recognized as dangerous, but I stayed there all the same. “I would love to.”

  “We could sit in the Jacuzzi.”

  “How did I know that was coming?”

  She smiled. “Probably because I have been trying to get you in there for days.”

  “We still don’t have bathing suits.”

  She shrugged, and we pulled the cover off the Jacuzzi before heading into the house to undress—me in the bathroom, Riley in the bedroom. When I came out in a pair of Dani’s shorts and a T-shirt, Riley was already in the Jacuzzi, eyes closed. A smile played across her features, and she ran a finger slowly back and forth along the edge of the tub as if she was tracing something in her mind.

  I placed one foot in the water, hoping to get in before she opened her eyes. She sensed my presence, though, and gave me a welcoming smile as I stepped into the hot, oscillating water. My flesh goose bumped, not the usual response to warm water.

  “I was just thinking,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “About you.”

  I had no idea what to say to that, so I moved closer and leaned in for what I thought would be a sweet kiss. I was unprepared for the passion. So much so that I turned away from her.

  “No,” she said against my temple. “Stay. You want me, you want this. I can tell.”

  I wanted to tell her that it was a mistake, but I didn’t because she was right. I wanted to feel her mouth on mine, her chest moving against me as she breathed. And most of all, I wanted to feel her body responding beneath my hands.

  I straddled her hips, and she placed her hands around my back to give me support. Her eyes latched on to my lips and she met me halfway for a kiss that left us both breathless. Achingly aroused, I drew away, quickly pulling in air tinged with salt and chlorine.

  “We missed the sunset,” Riley said.

  “I didn’t,” I said softly. And even though my face was hidden in her shoulder, I could feel that sh
e was smiling.

  The Jacuzzi’s motor kicked in and the water swirled around us. Even the warmth from the steam was not enough to keep my nipples from rising in the chilly night air. Riley held my butt with one hand, pressing me intimately against the hard muscles of her stomach. To stabilize myself, I put my hands on both her biceps. Her skin radiated heat like a small furnace. The round muscles in her arms flexed and then hardened beneath my palm.

  For some reason, I could not breathe in enough air through my nose when kissing her. I needed to think. There was a reason why I shouldn’t do this, wasn’t there? The kisses continued until I had to break away from her sweet prison. I slumped into her and closed my eyes. With one arm around my back, she held me so close that our billowing T-shirts were crushed between our bodies.

  If I had to put my finger on the moment when I lost all control of the situation, it would have to be this one. As aroused as I was, as much as I wanted Riley Medeiros, it wasn’t until I felt the rapid beating of her heart that I gave up the last vestiges of denial.

  “We should get out of here, I’m getting all pruny,” she said, and I could tell she was as reluctant as I was to stop kissing.

  She stood, and her wet T-shirt clung to the muscled contours of her body like a see-through second skin. I stood up as well, hoping she would admire me in the same way I’d just admired her. She did.

  “It’s as cold as a witch’s tit out here,” I said, basically ruining the moment, but I was too damned cold to care. Even Riley, the living torch, was shivering violently. I threw all pretense of trying to look cute out the window as I ran into the cabin, my arms crossed in front of my chest.

  “Get in the shower,” Riley said as I dripped and shivered in the living room. “I’ll put more wood in the fire.” She spoke with her back turned, something she rarely did. I don’t know if it was because of her hearing deficit or personal etiquette, but when talking to Riley, you got her full attention.