Deja New

by MaryJanice Davidson

  He greeted her with, “I don’t even have to ask. It’s all over you. In particular, your face.”

  “In particular, you’re right. Though I think you’re guessing.”

  “Uncle Dennis was a wall.”

  “Yes.”

  “A scowling, stubborn wall.”

  “Times ten. Yes.”

  “But on the plus side, the weather was beautiful.”

  She burst out laughing, she couldn’t help it. “It’s raining, you goofus.”

  Jack shrugged and pushed a hand through his fringe in the zillionth attempt to keep his (sun-streaked shaggy brown) hair out of his (dark blue) eyes. The top of his head came to the bridge of her nose, when ten months ago he was only up to her chin. Their mother, in a rare moment of levity (and connection to Planet Earth), swore she could actually hear Jack growing at night.

  “Like I said: It was all over your face.”

  She dumped her purse on the counter, took a whiff. “Such crap.” O heavenly air, redolent with the scent of brownies from Jack’s Pinterest board. “I’m the poster child for inscrutable. I take you at poker almost every month.”

  “Yeah, when we’re playing poker, a game where a straight face is a necessity. We’re not playing now. You just trudged into the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t trudge. I slunk. What’s that smell?” Because now she could smell something beneath the brownies. Something dark and disturbed, a scent that had no place in any kitchen.

  “Well. Mitchell made brownies.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Right? So after I put the fire extinguisher away—we need another one, by the way—I made brownies. They’ll be out in twenty. And I’m making that frosting you like.”

  “With the honey?” She made no effort to keep the hope out of her tone. It wasn’t like they were playing poker, right? She loved Jack’s just-for-warm-brownies frosting and she would never apologize for that, dammit.

  “Absolutely. Just as soon as I clean the eggs out of the toaster.”

  “He tried that again? That’s our third toaster!”

  “This season,” Jack added. “Target loves all our asses.”

  “You’re all horrible and thoughtful,” she managed.

  He blinked at her in his slow, sweet way, like an owl in an apron. Slow in this case was the opposite of an insult. Jack was always careful, even in the midst of plotting—and often masterminding—whatever Drake madness was on the agenda. “Yeah, well. You know. Family, right? It doesn’t have to suck all the time.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” She toed off her flats and thought about what that could really mean. “Maybe going to ICC today accomplished something after all.”

  “Yeah?”

  Let it go.

  Give it up.

  Live your own life.

  Be happy.

  “Yeah. It might be time to just . . . not give in, exactly . . .”

  “Angela, there’s nothing wrong with focusing on yourself for a change. You’re almost thirty—”

  “Hey! Years from now.” Five, in fact. Half a decade. Way far away from now.

  “And you’ve spent half that time digging through old police files and driving at least one cop into retirement—”

  “Do not get me started on Detective Kline, and I didn’t drive him anywhere.”

  “You skipped prom to track down a witness—”

  “Just the junior prom. They were going to hold it in the gym, for God’s sake. I didn’t want to wear a formal dress in the same room where Chucky Lewitt threw up. And where Ron Milman threw up. And where Jill Barrett got a nosebleed. And where thousands of kids have sweated over the years. Just . . . ugh.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Jack allowed. “But now there’s a new guy on the case, so you’re all over the files again, you’re bugging the same people again, you’re tracking down the same witnesses again, you dragged—uh, invited—Archer back home for another frustrating ultimately useless visit. And through it all you’ve looked after all of us and Mom, too, which frankly must be exhausting—it sure looks exhausting—and all this in the face of Uncle Dennis’s total refusal to help you with any of it.”

  “Why are you narrating?”

  Jack gave her what he thought was his severe glare, which meant his regular stare while wrinkling his nose. This accomplished nothing except making him look like a vaguely alarmed rabbit. “My point is, it’s not giving up. It’s moving on. And there’s not a single one of us, Uncle Dennis included, who would ever dare blame you for it, judge you for it.”

  “But the bottom line—”

  “Bottom line is, no one’s gonna call you a quitter. And if anyone did, I’d lace their brownies with drain cleaner and then I’d get really creative.”

  She stared at him. He stared back with another slow blink, unwrinkled his nose, then turned to the cupboards and methodically began pulling ingredients for brownie frosting. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember you’re only sixteen,” she said to his shoulder blades.

  “We’re all older than we are,” he replied, without turning around, which shouldn’t have made sense but did. “Heck, Mom lost the love of her life, and we—”

  “What?” That was wrong. Her parents had been fuck buddies, not soul mates. When Emma turned up pregnant, Donald did the right thing and married her. Angela had always been a little embarrassed that she was six months older than her parents’ marriage. “That’s not quite right, Jack.”

  “Oh, c’mon, they were all lovey-dovey all the time back in the day. Don’t you remember?”

  No. And you’re the one who doesn’t remember. But why shatter an illusion? “Well, they were passionate, that’s for sure.” Lots of squabbles. Lots of arguments that flared into fights that flared into slamming doors, sometimes a car roaring out of the driveway. But Jack had been little more than a baby then, it was no surprise he didn’t remember it the same way.

  “However they were, it’s sure moot now. But thanks,” she said. “For all of it. I’ll— You’ve given me something to think about.” She could already feel her mind probing the idea of closing the file on her father’s murder, this time permanently, like a tongue poking a loose tooth. Leave it alone? Or poke at it until you couldn’t stand it any longer, and then just pulled the fucker out?

  “I’ve also given you brownies.”

  “Yes! My eternal gratitude is yours.”

  “I’d rather have ten bucks.”

  She snorted. “I’m not paying a family member for baked goods made with ingredients I paid for.”

  “Cheapskate. Speaking of family . . . Where’s Archer and the woman he was incredibly fortunate to knock up, ensuring she’ll hang around for at least eighteen years?”

  “Jesus.” From insightful young adult to thoughtless teenager in less than ten seconds. A new record! “She has a name, Jack.”

  “I know. Her name’s the Mangiarotti of Insighters. But who has time to say all that? It just makes everything take longer, starting with the ‘Happy Birthday’ song.”

  “It’s disturbing that you’ve given this so much thought. I think they’re still in the car. Leah wished to, um, discuss . . . uh . . . Archer’s habit of . . .”

  “She’s busting him for rolling through stop signs!” Jack’s blue eyes lit up. “And you left? You should have gotten it on video.”

  “Pass. I think it’s their first big fight in a while. And it just whipped in out of nowhere. Makes me wonder if . . .” She cut herself off. She’d wondered if it was pregnancy hormones, to be honest. Leah had gone an alarming shade of red and laid in to Archer, who’d sat frozen in the driver’s seat like a deer hypnotized by semitruck headlights, but that was as patronizing as it was pat. Besides, Archer did run stop signs. Constantly.

  Before she could pester Jack to just hurry up and make the frosting already—and
also she had dibs on the bowl—the back door was flung open and in marched Leah, Archer in her wake.

  “It’s physics, you gorgeous dolt! Stopping is stopped. Movement is movement.”

  “It’s basically the same thing,” he protested. To his credit, he wasn’t whining. Much.

  “Do you not understand basic physics?”

  “He doesn’t,” Jack stage-whispered.

  Leah made a sound Angela couldn’t place at first: the combination of a yelp, a giggle, and a shriek of rage, all while simultaneously grinding her teeth. “How are moving and stopping the same instead of being, oh, I don’t know, total opposites?”

  “This really isn’t a big deal.”

  Oh-ho. Rookie mistake, Arch. Heck, even Jack knew that, and he was in high school.

  “Do not presume to tell me that flagrantly frequently flouting the law—”

  Flagrantly frequently flouting, can she say that three times fast? I can’t even think it three times fast. Fragrant flou— Nope. Not even once.

  “—is not a big deal. Especially given what we’ve been up to today. We just got back from seeing your severely incarcerated father and your go-to move once we left was to break the law? How did I miss the fact that the father of my child has a criminal mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Archer admitted. “I did help you kill a guy, remember. After your dead mom hired me to spy on you.”

  Argh, don’t bring that up! I warned the Horde not to ever bring that up!

  “It’s been his go-to for years,” Jack broke in, possibly to shift the subject away from murder, or to stick it to Archer. Though there was no reason it had to be one or the other. “You know he did that the day after he passed his driver’s test, right? Think about that for a second: The guy didn’t even have the laminated license yet, yet his thirst to flout the law was that strong. Tragic.”

  Leah jabbed a finger in the boy’s direction. “This brother or cousin of yours is helpful and makes a great point!”

  “I have a name,” Jack huffed. “It’s Arianna Kissmybutt. The second ‘t’ is silent.”

  “Get bent, Arianna,” Archer snapped.

  “Whoa! Do you kiss my mother with that mouth?”

  Archer turned back to his fire-breathing fiancée. “Leah, you’re acting like you’ve never been in a car with me before.”

  “Ha! I wish. And putting up with something isn’t the same as condoning it.”

  “Those two things? Are exactly the same thing,” Jack pointed out.

  “Jack, enough,” Angela muttered. “This is not the time to instigate loved ones into a full-blown WWE wrestling match.”

  “That’s never true, cuz. Particularly now. It’s the perfect time.”

  “I’m telling you right now, Archer Asshat* Drake, I’m not tolerating your— Oh shit!”

  Wow! So irked she can’t even finish sentences now! She just randomly swears. Jack was right: I should be filming this.

  Leah had frozen in place, then looked down and grabbed her belly with both hands like she was trying to tickle herself. When she looked up, she looked astonished and thrilled and afraid. “There it is again! I felt her, she’s kicking!”

  “You can tell it’s a foot?” Archer managed to look impressed and puzzled at the same time.

  “Well, kicking or punching. It sounds malevolent if it’s a punch, though, so I’m not sure that’s fair.”

  “Wait, what do you mean ‘again’?”

  “I didn’t know for sure the first time,” Leah replied defensively. “I’d just had a lot of ginger ale. I didn’t want to jump the gun.”

  Ginger ale = maybe not a kicking or punching baby. Got it.

  “In that case, I’m thrilled you’re temporarily gas-free.” Archer reached out and pulled Leah to him, which was tricky since she was still frozen in the act of tickling herself and she’d set her feet.

  “Hey!” she snapped, but let herself get grabbed. “You’re not off the hook, you scofflaw bastard.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He gave up on the hug attempt and patted her stiff shoulders instead. “You’re totally right, my first instinct after leaving a prison should not be to rack up misdemeanors.”

  “That’s all I was saying.”

  “Because things are different now.”

  “That’s all I was saying, too!”

  “I’m agreeing with you.”

  “And apologizing.”

  “And apologizing,” he soothed.

  “Because you were totally in the wrong.”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “And this isn’t about hormones!”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s great you two made up,” Jack said, “but this is boring now.”

  Archer by now had sort of snuck an arm around Leah’s shoulders in a stealth side hug, which didn’t prevent him from frowning at the youngest Drake. “Why aren’t you making frosting right now? Those brownies are brazenly naked. C’mon, Leah, let’s lay—”

  “Lie,” she corrected.

  “—ourselves down and marvel at your lack of gas.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Irrelevant!”

  Angela watched them go, not a little jealous. Not about the baby—there wasn’t a single detail about pregnancy that didn’t sound ghastly and she was in no hurry to experience any of it. But she was definitely envious of Archer’s connection with Leah. They’d fallen in love while protecting each other. They had taken life, then made it. Made a person. Well, they were working on a person. They were workshopping a person. And yes, it was overly simple but no less true: Things were different now.

  “So I can’t,” she finished aloud.

  She heard twin clicks and saw Jack was fitting the beaters into his hand mixer. “Yeah, figured you’d see it that way.”

  “What way? I didn’t let any details drop.”

  “Didn’t have to, because you were thinking the same thing I was. You don’t want another generation of Drakes growing up in ICC visitation.”

  “Damn right I don’t.”

  “Not that we did because Uncle Dennis usually wouldn’t let us visit, but you get what I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re still in.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re all still in.” He thumbed the power button and started whirring cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and vanilla together in the bowl.

  “Yes!” she shouted over the mixer. “And you are way too young to have that much insight into people!”

  “And I barely put any effort into it!” he hollered back. “Think about that!”

  “I can’t! It’ll keep me up at night!”

  Newly energized, and not yelling over the hand mixer, Angela headed for her laptop. There had to be something there. Or something that was already there would lead in a new direction. If not at first glance, maybe later tonight. Or later this week. Either way, her self-indulgent daydream was over, and it was past time to get back to work.

  She’d come back later for the bowl.

  FOURTEEN

  “I picked up the mail.”

  “Okay,” Angela replied absently, engrossed in the minutia of legal jargon.

  “You didn’t have anything. Just some catalogs.”

  “Thanks for the update.”

  “So. How was . . . everything? Um . . .”

  Angela looked up. It had finally happened, the thing she had long foreseen: Her mom had forgotten her only daughter’s name. Dammit! Jordan wins the pool.

  “Angela,” she prompted.

  “I know that,” the older woman snapped. “For heaven’s sake.” She was standing in the doorway to Angela’s office in her long yellow robe, the one Jordan and Paul insisted made her
look like a sleepy banana. Her short brown hair, streaked with silver, was damp from her pre-bed shower and she was in fret pose number two: one hand on her hip, the other reaching up to fiddle with the neckline of her nightgown (also pale yellow, so sleepy banana—times two).

  Huh. Six p.m. already? And did she just snap at me? Careful, Mom. You’ll sound engaged. What’s next, raising your voice?

  Mom coming in (well . . . not exactly in, since she almost never crossed the threshold) was a rarity. To be fair, all the Drakes respected Angela’s office, formerly her father’s office.

  At first she’d kept it as a shrine: leaving his diplomas up, never switching out the old pictures of his kids and nephews, working around his paperwork rather than filing his away to make room for hers. She saved the chewed pens. She didn’t empty the recycling. She left his coffee cup on the desk blotter for more than a year, and finally threw it away (coffee, she had learned, gets cold, scums over, shrinks, gets sludgy, gets moldy, and eventually disintegrates, ruining the cup in the process).

  Now, years later, the room was well established as her office, everything in recycling was something she’d put there in the last two weeks, she drank hot chocolate and rinsed her mug every night, the bite marks on her pens all corresponded to her teeth. She’d kept her dad’s diplomas up, but placed hers just beneath his, and as each brother/cousin graduated, she put theirs on the ego wall, too.

  Everything else was hers: the laptop, the files, the printer that was broken and the printer that wasn’t, the accordion Post-it notes Paul liked to steal, and, to her amusement (some of her clients were old school), the fax machine.

  She’d gotten her bachelor’s degree in paralegal studies, then sat for the NALA* and was certified by the Fourth of July. The certification was Mitchell’s idea: He’d pointed out that since she spent most of her free time researching their dad’s case, which led to other cases, why not get paid for it? “You aced everything,” he pointed out, “because by the time you got to college you’d been doing it for ten years. There’s gotta be jobs out there that fit those parameters. Also we’re out of milk.”