So while I always recognized his pain and could often get him to talk about it, or at least let me comfort him, I rarely let him see mine. It was an issue, but not one I was ready to deal with. It was too hard being me, not driving everyone away, as I'd always been so accomplished at doing.
I was either the most annoying man in the world, or the best at self-sabotage. Perhaps my personality really was just that grating.
#
The morning after his latest nightmare, I looked at Ellery appraisingly. He seemed uneasy, and I wanted to know why. At the same time, it was important to me that I not end up badgering him. Ell was one of those soft-spoken people who can get intimidated easily. I had a much more forceful personality and always tried my best not to overpower him with it. Because I was so sensitive to his moods, it was fairly easy. But it was something I had to be aware of.
"Something wrong?" I asked, as casually as I could.
He hesitated, then shook his head. Then bit his lip. I watched him as he got dressed. He was a fine-looking man, more pretty than handsome, but very good-looking whatever you wanted to call him. He was smaller than me, which was something of a novelty. Most of my boyfriends had been bigger than me.
I never had to worry about Ell deciding it would be fun to hold something out of my reach and laugh at me if I tried to get it from him. Not that he would've, even if he could have. He was a nice guy, nice enough to never want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.
Sometimes I thought he put me to shame, he was so kind and thoughtful. But in general, I felt like he inspired me to want to be the best version of myself I could be. It was hard not to feel inspired by someone so kind-hearted and responsible.
Now I watched as he got dressed, his expression changing from troubled to doubtful to firm and back to troubled. His face was so expressive as he fought with himself, I'd have known something was amiss even if I couldn't feel it from his emotions. He was gnawing on his lip, too.
I tried to sound casual as I asked, "You sure? You seem kind of bothered about something. Was it the dream?" This would give him an out, if he really didn't want to talk about it. He did have bad dreams. I'd probably have worse ones if I'd faced the "compassionate" and "modern" mental health treatment he had.
He hadn't actually needed mental health treatment; he'd needed training and education about his gifts, not drugs and counseling that told him it was all in his head, and being put in a facility. He'd needed information about how his clairvoyance worked and what he could do — and couldn't. It was terrible that he still sometimes felt responsible when he couldn't predict everything, but his power wasn't nearly strong enough for that. It was probably fortunate for him that it wasn't; he'd probably have been drafted into some kind of high-stress government work if it had been.
Now I watched him struggle with himself about what to share with me, and I felt a growing panic I tried to keep from letting him see. I wasn't sure what was coming, what it meant, or if it hurt him to have that responsibility on his shoulders. Most of all, I felt powerless to help him.
None of his visions had ever failed to come true. Even though they didn't always mean exactly what he thought they meant, they were always literally true. And while his uneasy feelings weren't specific, they were a legitimate guide that something was wrong. Now he was having some kind of deep uneasiness, and even if it wasn't a vision (he hadn't lied to me earlier), there was something he was struggling to tell me — or not.
Finally he looked up at me, coming to a decision. He finished buttoning his shirt and faced me squarely, his clear blue gaze still troubled, but a decision reached. He would not back down now. He would tell me the truth.
I sat up, uncrossing my arms from behind my head. I was being lazy; there was nothing Kevin needed me for till later today, so why shouldn't I slouch around in my pajamas for a few more hours? More specifically, in my boxers.
"It's . . . an uneasy feeling about you," he admitted, his eyebrows quirking apologetically, a humble little tilt down to his chin. "I — I don't know what, exactly, but I feel like . . . like you're going away for now." He closed his mouth tightly, very tightly, clearly struggling not to let it tremble.
"Hey." I hopped up and went to him, and put an arm on his. "I'm—"
"It's okay." He waved me away, covering his face loosely with one hand to shield the emotions. "I'm fine. Let me finish."
I stood back, regarding him. He didn't want me to touch him now? That had never been a problem before — and I do mean never. Was he bracing himself for my "disappearance"?
That had to do with a vision of his that hadn't come true . . . yet. He was convinced I would leave someday, and that he'd be looking for me, unable to find me, desperate for me to come back. The knowledge of it tormented him sometimes. He'd interpreted the vision to mean I was going to leave him — but sometimes I wondered if it meant a kidnapping or something like that.
I couldn't imagine ever leaving Ellery. Yes, I was afraid of loving him so much, but I seemed to be doing it anyway. I was leery of trusting, but I couldn't let him go, either. And if commitment unnerved me, I was still pretty much living with the man and sharing my whole life with him.
No, I couldn't imagine giving up what we had any time soon. All of my adult life I'd hoped, longed for, and desperately wished I'd find someone who loved me for myself, who wanted to keep me forever, and who didn't get fed up with me the moment the more obnoxious sides of my personality emerged.
Ellery seemed to be that man. Although I was afraid sometimes that it wouldn't last, he'd done nothing to let me down, and had so far accepted every part of me that I'd dared show him — and some that had slipped out without my permission. He just liked me, and kept on liking me. I could always tell, and that hadn't changed.
But he was afraid I'd leave him someday, for at least a while, though he claimed we'd still be together when we were both old men. I believed it, even though I didn't let it influence me too much. I mean, if I let a vision change my choices, that might change something, right? Anyway, I didn't want to get married before I felt ready. Then it wouldn't seem real, more like a cheat, as if I was giving a vision power over the decisions that had to be real, and from the heart.
I might have been a real sleep-around guy for, well, all of my adult life, basically up till now, but that didn't mean I didn't take marriage seriously. I wouldn't get married unless I was sure. And six months, even of the best relationship in my life, and a very happy one, just wasn't enough for me to be sure . . . not sure-sure. Vision or no.
Now I looked at him, trying to read him. He looked at me with a resigned, helpless expression that also showed how much affection he held for me.
"I just hope it's not dangerous," he said softly.
My phone rang.
We both jumped a little, and he cast me a concerned look. I gave him a bug-eyed look, and then scrambled to answer it. "Hello? Who is this?" The number was unfamiliar. And then I spat, "How did you get this number?"
It was the captain, my old boss from the precinct. While I didn't think he was a bad person, that job had been a poor match for me, and we had a checkered history. I hadn't expected to hear from him like this, in my happy new life, and I didn't enjoy the surprise. I was scowling already, and reached up absently to rake fingers through my hair.
Meanwhile, Ellery had frozen like a rabbit, watching me. I had the feeling he didn't know what was going on, but he wasn't surprised. He hadn't seen me angry often. Now he was taking it in like it was important, like it mattered a lot that he understand if he could, and that he knew what I looked like angry. Was I frightening him?
"Durphy," growled the captain. "I got your number from the ESRB."
"Why?" I gripped my phone hard, not liking the memories his voice dredged up. Basically, I wasn't fit to work closely around criminals, having all their thoughts and feelings in my head while I was surrounded by distrustful, angry, and sometimes homophobic cops. I'd had no support there, and I'd gone to a dark place part of the time
.
It had been a relief to escape. The guilt trips the captain had laid on me — that I should be able to handle the work — hadn't helped. Yes, he thought I'd done a good job. Maybe I had. But what good would I have been if six months down the line I committed suicide because I couldn't hack it anymore, couldn't see any other escape? It hadn't gotten that bad, but I'd been on the road there.
He took a deep breath, as if steadying himself to talk to me. I often seemed to cause that need in authority figures — better than snapping at me, I suppose. Or raking me over the coals, or telling me what a piece of worthless scum I was. Still, I hated that feeling — that I was such an inconvenience and an irritant, and so irrational. Why couldn't I shut up and fit in?
Kevin never made me feel that way. He valued my differences, and, after working with Ellery for so long, he was especially attuned to the unique mental health challenges ESRB-ranked individuals might face. He and the rest of the Group had always bent over backwards to make sure I didn't suffer from overwork or a too-stressful environment.
The police station hadn't known how to do that, or even acknowledged that it might be necessary. I got paid for the job; I needed to work. Like a part of a machine, or an automaton, something without any annoying, sensitive needs of its own.
And I hadn't been able to do that — I'd never been able to do that.
It was one reason I'd spent a couple of years working as a private investigator. Yes, the hours and the pay had sucked, but I'd been my own boss, not continually disappointing anyone or letting anyone down, or having people I answered to furious with me. Sure, I still pissed people off, but they were usually the bad guys.
Thinking about those days made me think about the man I'd gotten to know as Jeff. He'd been a friend in those days, a friend I joked with and found incredibly hot. When we'd finally slept together, it had changed things. He had disappeared from my life, and I'd tried to pretend it didn't affect me.
Then, when I met him again later, it had turned out he was an undercover cop named Damon, and he was kind of a closeted asshole — homophobic and hateful. Yes, he wanted to sleep with me, but he also liked to put me down and sneer at me for thinking it could be anything more than a fuck.
He was the sort of guy I seemed to naturally attract most of the time, honey to their bees. I guess I sent out the wrong signals, or had incredibly bad luck, or something.
But, yeah, it still hurt when I cared about someone who turned out to be like that — hating himself but taking it out on me because I'd slept with him. It was all kinds of messed up.
And I didn't appreciate the reminder. Even the captain's voice made me think of that time and how miserable I'd been. Working at the precinct didn't make my top ten of life experiences. And Damon's attitude definitely put him in the bottom ten relationships or hookups — not that there used to be all that much difference for me.
In fact, he ranked slightly worse than my hookup with the history teacher who'd been into some pretty serious kink — without a lot of warning — and had literally shoved me naked into his closet when his roommate came home early. I was tied up and gagged, and had crouched there panting and sweating for a good forty minutes in the dark, hot closet before the roommate moseyed off and the professor could be bothered to untie me and hustle me out. Suffice it to say we did not go on a second "date." I'm all for trying new things, but there's new, and there's getting thrown into the deep end.
Now I had Ellery, I reminded myself, taking a deep breath and trying to contain my angry sarcasm. Whatever the captain wanted, I could tell him no, get off the phone, and get back to my new life. I took a deep breath, too.
"Why did they give you my number?" I asked, sounding nearly calm and more or less reasonable. As I did so, I thought of another ex, a really nice guy I'd gotten to know while getting certified by the ESRB. Colin had worked there, and he was a gentle, nerdily hot, tall and slim and sexy man. We'd had great sex; he'd really liked me. This was a case where I'd probably sabotaged the relationship. I wasn't good at opening up to him, letting him see the sides of me that weren't chipper and fun. I was sinking into depression, I lashed out at him, and he ended things.
It was for the best, I think. Sometimes I still had regrets there, though. This wasn't a case where I could just call him a jerk and move on with my life. I hadn't handled everything right, that was for sure. But he hadn't exactly wanted to stick around when the going got tough. I couldn't really have that in a long-term relationship, either, even if it wasn't as bad as being shoved into a closet or treated like scum.
The captain paused before answering me, like it was a loaded question. I found myself holding my breath. I always felt slightly off-balance talking to people over the phone, or using other long-distance forms of communication. For better or for worse, my talent was a part of me. I was used to reading people — their emotions and truthfulness (or lack thereof). I wasn't really sure what to make of people long-distance. I couldn't read them from far away. I wasn't nearly that powerful.
It wasn't something I always consciously relied on, but it was always there, part of my awareness. When it wasn't working because of long-distance, it felt odd, like one of my senses was muffled — like I was wearing a blindfold. I suppose talking over the phone for me is like what everyone else has to face all the time, navigating the maze of whether or not to believe what someone's telling you. But I'm not used to it, and it's always a very weird feeling for me.
The captain cleared his throat. (Was he holding something back? Embarrassed? Actually had a sore throat?) "It's about Damon Mercer," he told me gruffly. "I know he wasn't always very nice to you, but I think you'll agree he's no murderer."
"What?" "Not very nice" could be a bit of an understatement, and my complex feelings about the man didn't like having to rise to the surface with all these reminders, but what was this . . . a murderer? Damon? Nope. Not him. He'd been pretty much a white-hat even when he was undercover. Hadn't wanted to do anything too close to the legal border.
The man I'd known might have hated himself sometimes and taken it out on me, but he had a steely core of principle when it came to his job as a cop. He wouldn't lower himself to break it . . . especially to become a murderer. I was almost certain of it.
"What's he done, or been accused of?"
"He was working undercover to capture a drug kingpin. A woman was shot and killed in the course of the investigation, and his fingerprints are all over the gun. He was present at the scene of the crime, but he swears he was framed because they found out he was a cop. The evidence is bad enough that he's currently being held without bail. I know there's little love lost between you, but surely you wouldn't want to see a police officer framed.
"He was getting close to taking down part of a dangerous drug cartel. It's a black eye for the department, as well. I contacted the ESRB and asked them to pass your information along. They needed to know why; I told them. It's all right with them if you want to fly back and check if he's telling the truth. It gives us a legal leg to stand on for search warrants and questioning other people further, for one thing."
He took a deep breath and expelled it as if bracing himself for something rough. "And if he really did the crime — at least then we'll know, and we won't waste more man hours going to extraordinary measures to exonerate him. Because right now, it would take something of a miracle to change the way things are looking for Mercer."
"Even if it goes to trial, won't a judge and jury take the word of a policeman more than the people who framed him — if they did?"
"It's in the evidence, rather than specific testimony. But, no, I see no reason they should. The victim was on drugs, and Damon had been grooming her to give testimony. Her name was Yolanda Johan. You'll likely be seeing it in the paper soon, if you haven't already. Evidence strongly suggests she found out he was a police officer, and the next day she died in a violent manner from a weapon with his fingerprints all over it.
"He was seen fleeing the scene by credible witnes
ses and on a security recording from a restaurant. There is . . . strong evidence. And this isn't something we could sweep under the rug even if we wanted to. On top of that, the victim is an African-American woman who had hard breaks in her life, a three-year-old son, and was extremely photogenic. I'm not saying her looks should make a difference, but it usually does when the victim is attractive. The race issues are . . . complicated, with the police's history in the city where he was working. They don't have a good track record of dealing with African-Americans . . . much less those on drugs.
"That he's technically an outsider, that he's never shown the least bit of prejudice . . . that's not going to make a difference. Any jury is going to think there was a racial element, and an element of trying to protect himself undercover. Even if he spins it as self-defense, it won't make much difference. There was no way she could have overpowered him, and she had no weapon. It's a mess."
"So someone killed this woman, a mom, and now her son has to grow up without her, right?" I snorted. "I hope he does go to jail, if he did it."
"Yes," said the captain, latching on to the words gratefully. "If he did it. If he didn't, we don't want the real killer to get away, do we? So, if you can fly down and get a quick read on him, it would help us immensely in the investigation. The department will cover your expenses, of course, and any fee the ESRB deems appropriate for this consultation."
He sounded a bit like a stuffed shirt then, but I knew him well enough to understand at least some of how he was feeling. He was definitely desperate to call on me this way — and he seemed relieved I'd at least heard him out.
"You think about it, and see if you can clear it with your boss and your schedule," said the captain, talking quickly, as though he wanted to get in more words before I could say 'no' or hang up. "Call and we'll make arrangements, if you agree. But you need to decide soon. It's a pretty time-sensitive case . . . not just for the department or Mercer, but if we want any hope of finding out who really did this."
SURE (Men of the ESRB Book 3) Page 2