by Neliza Drew
“But I stupidly thought that was over when I was an adult. I thought since I lived on my own, that since I had a job and a car and control, that I could try dating. Not hooking. Dating. I thought I could go out with guys who seemed nice. I thought if I followed all the rules, that if I ate something light, didn’t drink alcohol, didn’t do any drugs, didn’t stay out too late, didn’t wear the wrong thing, didn’t lead him on… I thought…” I stopped. I was breathing heavily, like I’d been sparring, and I wondered what the hell Tom was thinking on the other end of the line.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said in his old cop voice.
“That’s what I’m telling you. Don’t go treating me like one of your old victims. It’s not like that.”
“I know that.”
“Then say it. Say it’s stupid. That it was a dumb idea. That there shouldn’t need to be rules. That I never did anything wrong. That it was the one time I didn’t deserve it and wasn’t asking for it.”
“Davis—”
“I know what I was before, Tom. I know the speeches and I know…” I panted until the urge to break passed.
“You think taking responsibility makes you—”
“He drugged me, Tom. I drank too much damn water with dinner and I had to pee. He ordered us coffee. Coffee, Tom. And I was stupid enough to drink the damn coffee. So, the girl who gave blow jobs to a sheriff to keep her mom out of jail at thirteen? She got raped by the Ken doll-looking frat boy with the fucking dimples.”
I could hear his breathing on the other end, but he said nothing.
I swallowed. “And Ryan took care of me when the asshole dropped me off, groggy and confused. Ryan took me to the clinic that Friday morning.”
“I’m so sorry, Davis.”
“Don’t give me that shit. Ever. You know as well as I do the person who bumped my car did it because it was mine. It wasn’t an accident. Ryan lost control of that car because I couldn’t afford new tires. And he drowned in an icy drainage ditch because of me. That’s how I repaid him. That’s how I proved my friendship to him. Three days after he took me to the clinic. I never pressed charges against the frat boy. I never found Ryan’s killer.”
“He died less than two days after you were hit. Are you telling me all this happened in one week? In one weekend?”
“I had to work Friday night. My head still hurt. By Monday night, everything, everyone, was gone.”
“And you blame yourself for not knowing how to handle it?” He sounded mad, incredulous. “Are you kidding me, Davis? Who the hell would know how to handle that?”
“I should have. Isn’t that what my whole fucking childhood should’ve been training for? If I couldn’t handle it, who the hell could have?”
“No one, Davis.”
I was shaking. Tears streaked my face and my nose was clogged with snot and self-hate. “I ran, Tom. I ran from Jackie and her problems followed me. I ran when Charley… We always ran. I woke up and Ryan was dead. I was missing a big patch of hair. I was stuck in casts. Doctors were talking rehab and therapy. There was a news story around that time about tourists getting killed in Miami.”
“I remember that.”
“I owned nothing, so I stole a wallet. And I ran. I went to Miami because I wanted someone to finish the job. I wanted to be the next lost, dead tourist. And I couldn’t even manage that.”
“Davis—”
“I abandoned Lane. I thought because she had a roof, because we sent money, that it’d be okay. How stupid could I be?”
“Are you going to let me help?”
“You are.”
“Why did you have me dig this up? Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Of course, Davis.”
I shook my head into the phone. “No, you wouldn’t. Not really. Who would? I know what I heard that night. If Eric reported that car stolen in Wilmington that morning, he didn’t drive the car that night.”
Tom waited.
“Lane met Vince Zellner at the hospital that week.” I looked around the car like it might have an escape hatch I hadn’t noticed before. “He’s the voice I heard. In the woods, next to the parking lot. He’s the one who killed Jackie.”
“And you never said anything.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement, but I heard the weight of all my guilt in it.
“I need you to tell me the truth. Did I screw up Lane worse by running?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Did I make it worse by not telling anyone what happened? Would anyone have even believed me? Fuck, I barely believe me.”
I hung up and rested my head on the steering wheel of Mabel’s old Buick. On the seat next to me sat copies of newspaper reports, receipts, and a sack of clothes designed to make little girls look like twenty-somethings. I pulled out the receipts and laid them out by date, let a map form in my head. Every few days they passed through Newport and stayed at the Hostess House on an account registered to Allister Connolly.
I stared at the name and called Nik.
“Hang on a sec, sis.”
I stared at the dash. “I think I fucked up with Lane.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember before I moved to Florida? How I lived in Boone for a while? And then I didn’t?”
“Yeah.” Her voice sounded strained and distant.
“What if William Guthrie is dead because I didn’t die five years ago?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Davis?”
“I don’t know.” It was possible I was losing it.
“Then at least explain what you just said.”
“I kept too many things locked up in my head for too long, and I’m afraid now that I need them they’re all false or fabricated or rearranged. And if I can’t figure it out, I can’t make things right.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Last night.”
“For how long, Davis?”
“I don’t know. An hour or two.”
“And the night before?”
“I drove.”
I could almost hear facial expression through the phone. “Okay, let’s start over now that I know why you aren’t making any sense.”
“I’m pretty sure the man who shot me the night Jackie died lives here now.”
“If you knew who shot you, why the hell didn’t you ever tell anyone?”
“I couldn’t talk for days. And then I didn’t know what to say anymore. It sounded too crazy. It still does. No one could have believed me. No one ever did.”
She was silent, probably remembering how I didn’t call her for two years after that night, how I’d refused to talk about it.
“Nik, I’m sorry. I shoulda-coulda-woulda, but how do I fix it now?”
“How do you go back in time and get yourself killed?”
I could picture the exasperated look on her face. The one mixed with sadness because she was trying to come to terms with the inevitable. The one I’d caused too often.
“Because what you’re telling me is that the solution to everyone’s problem is a time machine and a magic bullet.”
“Less-magic bullet, if you want to go with the doctor’s theory.”
“Call me when you’ve had some sleep.” She sighed and hung up. Nik’s version of tough love.
I stared at the phone and thought about the name on the receipt. I’d have to get Nik’s opinion when she didn’t think I’d gone Charley.
Chapter twenty-five
Nik was right. I needed sleep.
I also needed clothes, so I stopped at an outlet on the edge of town and picked up some jeans, shirts and more running gear. Back on the road, I got as far as Jacksonville before my eyes glazed over. Thoughts of a decent shower started winning out. Jacksonville had quite a few crappy motel choices, since few upscale tourists decided to visit a Marine base or its surrounding strip clubs, pawn shops, used car lots, and chain stores. I found a place that charge
d by the night or hour and, for the most part, looked like the kind of place nice, respectable young women would avoid. It was nicer than my first apartment in Miami, and probably safer, so I paid for the night with cash.
The man at the desk didn’t seem concerned. Neither did the guy puking on his shoes next to the door of my room. The second guy did, however, offer me some of his cheap whiskey. I declined.
The bed smelled like mildew and stale sweat but most of me didn’t care that much. I put my gun in the nightstand drawer with the Bible. Dirt and decay drifted through my memory. I shivered and put that thought back in its box.
After I showered, I cleaned up my scrapes and bruises. I didn’t do as good a job with the bandages as Craig. Basically, I wrapped everything in medical tape and toilet paper. When I caught myself staring at my old scars, I went to find a shirt.
I needed to call Craig and try to make amends, but it seemed too late for apologies. It wasn’t too late to call my supposed boyfriend Matt. His long hours and lack of imagination were as attractive as his boyish nerdy looks.
He answered in good spirits. Restaurant noises were apparent in the background, despite it being almost eleven. “I won a huge case today, Davis.”
“Sounds great.” It didn’t, really. The normal me I’d tried so hard to be had peeled away, like a costume left on the floor after a night of Halloween partying.
“I was going to take you to dinner but you weren’t here.”
“Did you take Chloe?” His paralegal did a tremendous amount of research for less pay than I knew she could get from someone like Dick. Then again, she didn’t have to work with Dick. For his flaws, Matt certainly wasn’t as volatile as Dick.
“I’ll take her to lunch tomorrow. Where are you anyway?”
I gave him the abbreviated, G-rated version of my past few days.
“Did you want to talk about it?”
I thought about what I could say about my family that someone like Matt would understand. The conversation, the tinking of glasses and silverware, the laughing all seemed like artifacts from some other time and place I’d been. “No. Not really.”
“I miss you.”
“Same here.” Another of my lies. I found I missed the person I’d been with him more than I missed him. And yet, he hadn’t just been another john. I’d tried. Just, not hard enough. Or maybe it wasn’t a skill I could learn.
I hung up stared at the wall. I should have been sleepy, but I suddenly wasn’t.
I went to my bag and pulled out some gym clothes. After I warmed up, I worked on some combinations, fighting opponents in my head, my memory. When I finally stopped and sat on the bed again, exhausted, my head felt clearer.
I wiped sweat off my brow and emptied the faux Coach tote I’d found in Charley’s car. Most of the clothes were short skirts and dresses. Nothing stuffed in a bra. Everything smelled like sex and sweat and cheap deodorant.
Memories of strange men in small rooms, backseats, truck cabs, alleys. My breath caught and I threw the clothes across the room.
At the bottom of the bag, another receipt caught my eye. The Summer Winds Motel in North Myrtle Beach. Dated in late November, the low price wasn’t shocking, but still brought me back to the days spent scraping together enough for another night in some cheap, out of season, bad neighborhood, rundown, bullshit place we’d landed only to leave town in days or weeks in search of another. Places that smelled like the one I stood in. Places that smelled like despair and home.
I looked at the signature. Allister Connolly.
My watch said it was just after eleven. That meant it was still early enough in Phoenix. I plugged in my phone to charge it and called Nik back.
“Don’t tell me you slept.”
“What does the name Allister Connolly mean to you?”
“It doesn’t.” She sounded annoyed. “Wait, Allister?”
“I found it on a bunch of receipts in Charley’s car.”
“As in Charley Allister?”
“And Kenneth Connolly Groves.” I said.
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”
“Really, Nik?”
“You know, Lane asked me about three years ago about our family tree. For a school project of some kind.”
“So you think it’s Lane?” I didn’t want it to be true.
“Charley isn’t that sly or clever.”
“What’d you tell her? About us?”
“What I knew. The Allisters disowned Charley when she married Ken. Edith Connolly kept in touch for a few years. Burt Groves, we never knew.”
I hadn’t thought about those names in years, more than a decade. “Do you think…Would she…?” I told her what I’d found. The car, the drugs, the clothes, the runaways, the receipts. I tried to keep it factual, to lay it all out and let her smarter-than-me brain connect the dots.
When I ran out of words, her silence filled the airways.
“Nik?”
“She used to call me Nikki. I used to call her Lanie. Sweetie. Bug. She always smiled when I called her Bug.”
“What happened, Nik?”
“I don’t know.”
“I didn’t mean to leave. I didn’t want to. You know that. Right?”
She sighed. “I’m not Lane.”
“We left her the house. I sent her money. Always. Even when I had none left for me. I never wanted you two…” The words stalled on my tongue.
“I’m flying out there.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question, Davis. The reason we survived our childhood is because we worked as a team. I have to wrap some things up here, but then I’m on a plane. Give me a day or two.”
“Nik, I still don’t know what’s going on. If anything happened to you, I couldn’t forgive myself. Especially not after everything else.”
“Whatever Lane’s been doing, it’s not your fault. And I’ll see you soon.” She hung up before I could argue again.
Chapter twenty-six
Friday, February 10
I slept fitfully and woke just after three, sweaty and panting.
I sat up and turned on the light. The dim bulb only illuminated the ugliness. I noticed the bloodstains on the hotel sheets and touched my shoulder. Red blood, white sheets.
Red on white. White, like snow.
I shut my eyes tight, but the after-images remained.
Jackie was crying. Her thin fingers covered her battered face. “He’s going to kill me. I know it. I just know it.”
I needed a run. I needed a mind-clearing, soul-reviving run. I needed to run until my legs gave out and my brain shut down.
Snow clung to her hair as I cradled her blond head in my arms, afraid to ask, but knowing the gist of it anyway. She sobbed and choked. Her bony shoulders shook.
I shook the image from my head, put on a hooded sweatshirt, and zipped the room key into the pocket of my capris. In the cold darkness of Jacksonville, nothing was open, but a few pawnshops still had neon dollar or gun-shaped signs lit in the windows. I took off at a slow jog north toward the creek.
Her body heaved against me, wrapped in a papery shirt, and I held her tighter, not sure what to say. Bruises and cuts were visible around her wrists, her collarbone, her face.
I picked up speed.
“It’ll be okay. I’ll keep you safe.” My words echoed in my ears.
But it wasn’t okay. It never got close again.
He was waiting for us even as I promised it.
I ran faster, jaw set, tears streaming in the cold.
I thought I knew what she would tell me if she could find the words. She never did. Even across the miles we drove from her friend’s dorm to mine.
I drew in cold air. Dark buildings and asphalt looked on, unconcerned.
She sat in my car, head in her hands. When he pulled up, she screamed, got out and ran across the parking lot toward the trees at the edge of the property, blond hair streaming behind her. I jumped out and ran after her. Snow fluttered around us. I noticed he
r limping.
I crossed the bridge and followed the road to the intersection of 24 and 17. Few streetlights and few cars. Just me and the dark and the cold.
He revved the engine of Eric’s Monte Carlo. Tires squealed and the smell of burning rubber mingled with wood smoke from nearby chimneys.
I followed Highway 24, panting from effort and emotion and the kind of exhaustion that could almost, but not quite, mask the pain or dull the memories.
She crested a hill at the end of the parking lot, slipped on an icy patch and fell.
The Monte Carlo bore down on us, aimed at her.
My feet navigated the cracked sidewalks, my legs exhausted but moving. Always. Still.
She tried to get up but she’d hurt her ankle, slipped on the ice, fell again. I was almost there. Almost.
She stood again and glanced behind her. Her features froze.
My lungs burned in the chilly air. I pushed harder as though that could change things. It never did.
I leapt, pushed her out of the way. Her light frame crumpled into a snow bank.
The Monte Carlo’s grill collided with my thigh. Pain. Blurred vision. Crunching metal, breaking glass, cracking bones. Helplessness. Flight.
A car passed on the opposite side of the street, near a closed-up steak joint. Three Marines hooted drunkenly from inside.
They were too young to be drunk legally. They were too drunk to be driving.
I landed several yards from her. It might as well have been miles. Pain and blood surrounded me. I tried to get up, but my limbs failed me. Blackness ringed my vision.
I turned at the next intersection and followed faint lights blindly.
She got to her feet again and tried to run, limping, crying. She glanced at me with a look that said she hoped I could still save her, that said I’d promised to save her. I wasn’t able.