by Paula Cox
“That is new information and we’ll take it into consideration,” he says flatly.
“Do you always talk in rhymes?” I spit, anger gripping me again. “By the way, where the hell is Good Cop?”
McCrary ignores my question, doesn’t even seem to register that I’ve spoken. “Do you find it at all odd that the explosion in your apartment happened mere minutes after you vacated the premises?”
“Well, I . . .”
In truth, I haven’t given much thought to the explosion. Every so often I’ll think, somebody planted a bomb in my living room. But I’m not a police officer or a firefighter and I’d assumed they were dealing with it. And, anyway, I had insurance and work and Brody to occupy my thoughts. Perhaps it was foolish of me not to give any thought to it, but I had other things on my mind.
“I don’t know,” I say, voice weak. “Really, I have no clue.”
“Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?” McCrary says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We are trying to figure out who would want to kill you so badly that they’d plant a bomb in your apartment. You have no enemies. You’re well-liked. Why would somebody plant a bomb in a barista’s apartment? That is the question to which we keep returning. But we can’t find a suitable answer. The only one that makes sense is that you planted the bomb in an effort to garner more affection from Mr. Brody Ellison.”
My mouth falls open. I know that I need to speak, but no words come out. If I was soaring with happiness before, now I feel like Officer McCrary has shot me clean out of the sky with a high-powered rifle. With an effort, I close my mouth. I glace at the pool of water on the floor, lips so dry I think about lapping it up like a cat for a mad moment. What the hell is going on?
“Is it true that you have a crush on Brody Ellison?”
“A crush? He’s my . . .” Boyfriend, I was about to say. But is he, even now? We’ve shared. We’ve made love. We’ve grown closer. But he hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend, I reflect, hasn’t even hinted at it. “I don’t think I have to discuss this with you,” I say. “In fact, I don’t think I want to talk to you again, ever, without a lawyer. If you think I've committed a crime, you have to read me my rights. I get to ask for a lawyer.” All those late night marathons of CSI were worth something.
McCrary rises to his feet. “Very well,” he says. “We’re not charging you. You’re free to leave. But we do ask that you don’t leave town. That wouldn’t be pretty for anybody involved.”
“I can go?”
“Yes.” McCrary gestures at the puddle of water. “Be careful on your way out. You’ve made quite a mess.”
He watches me with cold unfeeling eyes as I gather up my things and march to the door. I’m about to leave when I turn and face him. I look him dead in the eyes. “I didn’t do this,” I say. “I didn’t do any of this. I want you to remember this moment, Officer McCrary.” My voice rises in pitch, fills the small room, but I don’t fight it. “I want you to remember this as the moment you accused an innocent woman, a woman who almost choked to death in a fire and a woman who was made homeless by a bomb.”
Before he can reply, I throw open the door and pace out of the station. I suck in fresh air and turn my face up to the sky, closing my eyes, letting the sunlight glow red against my eyelids.
The world has gone crazy, I think. A fire. An explosion. And now they think I had something to do with it! What is going on?
I open my eyes, shake away my thoughts, and walk toward the bus stop.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Darla
I sit on the bus and try to stop my teeth from chattering.
I feel cold and on-edge, as though at any moment the bus could explode in a fiery ball of pain and smoke and madness. I glance across at the old woman sitting to my left. She leans over her handbag, chin resting on her chest, breathing softly. She looks back at me out of the corner of her eye.
“You look worried, child.” She looks impossibly old with her thin gray hair and her wrinkles and her long spider-leg hands, but her voice is clear. “Is something wrong?”
We’re the only passengers on the bus. We’re in a tomb, I think.
“No,” I mutter. “I’m okay, ma’am.”
“What a polite young creature!” the old woman guffaws. She lifts her head and blinks at me. One of her eyes is partially white and creamy. “I used to worry about this and that, that and this, but now all I worry about is this and this. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” I mutter.
“Kids!” the old woman grumbles. “Listen, when you worry about this and that, you get distracted from this. What I’m saying, girl, is that you should let your worries go for the rest of the day. That will wait until tomorrow. This can be enjoyed this evening. Eh? Do you understand? Wait, do you have a this?”
Brody, I think. At least I still have Brody. Brody will stand by me.
“Yes, I have a . . . friend.”
“And this friend—does he have a cock?” The woman grins wickedly.
“He’s a man, yes.”
“Then he’s your this!” she exclaims, giddy. “I have a prescription for you, child. You have to go to this man and forget about all your worries by being with him. Okay? Do you understand? Am I making myself clear?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. I look out the window and press the stop button. “Have a good evening, ma’am.”
“And you, sweet child!” the old woman calls after me.
I get off the bus a couple of blocks from Brody’s apartment building. As I walk down the street, I think about the old woman’s words. Maybe on any other day I’d dismiss them as the ramblings of a mad old crone, but today, after being harassed by the police and accused of things I haven’t done, I consider them. Think about this. She means focus on Brody, I think. Lose yourself in him tonight. Forget about all your problems. Create a bubble around his apartment which nothing can penetrate. Be alone with him. Be happy.
This is my reprieve, I reflect. If I did not have Brody tonight, I’d be forced to check into a motel and lie up, worrying, alone, cold. If I didn’t have Brody I don’t know what I’d do. Cry, maybe. I don’t like crying. It makes me feel weak and I despise feeling weak. But I’ve never been dragged like a criminal into a police station before, accused of setting fire to my place of work. When I think of it like that, it really does sound ridiculous.
But don’t worry about that now! I tell myself, as I round the corner onto his street. My heart feels lighter when I spot him, sitting on the steps of his apartment building. Just be with him! Just forget, if only for a little while! The old woman was right!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brody
“Hey, man.”
I grip my cellphone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hand. Marco’s voice, usually full of banter, is now oddly serious. He sounds like somebody doing a bad impression of Marco. I grit my teeth to stop my anger from bubbling up inside of me. She actually went to the police station, I think. She gave her report. Why would she do that if she wasn’t telling the truth? What the hell would she have to gain? They’re friends, aren’t they? Why would a friend make up a story like that?
“Man?” Marco says, voice uneasy. “Are you there?”
“Yeah,” I snarl. “I’m here.”
“Just letting you know that she’s given her statement. The police are going to take Darla in for questioning.”
“Right,” I mutter, feeling numb. “Okay.”
“Just thought I’d let you know.” Marco pauses. “Are you okay, man?”
“Okay,” I grunt.
“Hmm, okay, man.”
Marco hangs up and I pace up and down the gym room. Jonny came in a few minutes ago, looked at the scattered weights, and backed away when he saw the fury in my face. I remember the anger I felt when I stood at my apartment door and saw Julia and her skinny little friend sweating all over my chair. I remember how it felt like there was a knife in my gut, a twisting knife, a knife pushed
so deep it was touching my spine. I remember it because I feel the same sensation now. I keep telling myself that Tracey is wrong, or lying, but I think about the way Darla defended Carl and how sure of herself Tracey seemed. Suspicion rises in me like sick, acid in the back of my throat. I try and choke it down, but I fail and it sits there, poisoning me.
I glance up as Jonny reenters the room. “Hey,” he mutters, going to the bench. He ignores the cracked tiles and sits on the edge of it.
“Hey,” I mutter. I don’t stop pacing. I walk a circuit between one wall and the other, my hands fidgeting with each other, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth throb.
“Marco gave me the news,” he says.
“Right.”
“I just wanted to say, man—”
“Don’t,” I snap, wheeling on him. My tone is dark and my hands clench into fists without me telling them to. Jonny leans back on the bench and holds his hands up, shocked. “I don’t need to hear shit,” I go on. “Alright? Get it? I don’t give a fuck.”
Jonny sighs, climbs to his feet, and leaves the room. At the door he looks over his shoulder. I feel guilty when I see his face full of fear. It’s strange to see a man like Jonny, a tough scrapper sort of guy, look so scared. But if I look anything like how I feel, I must look pretty damn scary.
I throw myself on the legs machine and stare at the wall, trying to blot out my thoughts. But I keep seeing Darla, not the Darla I know but a twisted, mad Darla, setting fire to the Coffee Joint and hunched over a table, wires and circuitry and explosives on the table before her, preparing herself to blow her own apartment to smithereens. I want to push the thought away, laugh at it; it’s ridiculous. That’s what I want to think. I want to see Darla, with that sexy-as-hell kink in her hair and her bright green eyes, as innocent in all of this. But I can’t. I’ve been burned before.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. The fellas don’t talk to me more than they have to and that suits me fine. A few calls come in, but nothing major. I do my job, but all the while Darla is in the back of my mind, screaming like a siren. I remember how she looked on the floor in the basement of the Coffee Joint, vulnerable and lost, and I remember how she looks in bed, sweating, strong and independent and hotter than the fires which consumed her workplace and her apartment. And then I see her plotting and scheming, trapping me.
Which one is the real Darla?
I ask myself this question again and again on the drive home. I go up to my apartment and get changed, but then immediately come down and sit on the step. She’ll be here soon and I need to tell her—
Tell her what, though?
I swallow. I have to tell her that she can’t stay here tonight. I can’t handle it. The idea of sleeping beside her, being all lovey-dovey with her, having sex with her, is too much to take when I don’t know if the person I’m sleeping with is a bomb-maker or an arsonist; when I don’t know if the person I’m sleeping with ensnared me in a fucked up trap.
I feel like I sit here forever, but finally Darla appears at the end of the street. I feel a moment of weakness when I see her face. It lights up when she sees me. But then I remember how often Julia’s face lit up when she saw me, all the while cheating on me behind my back. I stand up, legs feeling like jelly, when she reaches me.
“Brody,” she smiles, sounding tired. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
She makes to fall into me, put her arms around me.
I take a step back, dodging her.
Her expression changes. A look of betrayal takes hold of her features. “What the hell?” she says.
I feel as though there are two halves of me. One half wants nothing more than to laugh at Tracey’s claims and take Darla in my arms and tell her I would never believe the vicious lies. The urge becomes so strong I almost close the gap between us. But the other half remembers all too well how easily it is to get scorched when you’re too close to a person. I steel myself, force myself to stay where I am.
“I don’t think you sleeping over tonight is a good idea,” I say.
A lump rises in my throat. I push it down.
“What?” Darla mutters, shaking her head slowly. “What the fuck?”
Chapter Thirty
Darla
I back away from him, shaking my head in disbelief. He just looked me in the face and told me to go fuck myself, I think. He just pushed me away.
I back away until I am standing a few yards from him, and then I stop and study his face. His lips are twisted as though he can’t decide if he wants to be angry or sad. I wait for him to apologize, close the gap between us, and throw his arms around me. But he doesn’t. He just stands there trying his best to keep his face stern. I can see the chinks in his armor, the little flashes of feeling that shine through his expression.
“Brody,” I say. My voice trembles. I bite down, trying to make it steady. “Brody,” I repeat, but it still shakes. I give up on sounding calm and go on: “So I guess you’ve heard about the bullshit with the police, right? Did you also hear that the reason they think I did it was to get to you?” I laugh, hoping that he laughs along with me. But he doesn’t. “Don’t you see how stupid that is?” I exclaim. “Surely you see how stupid that is?”
“I can’t be sure,” Brody says.
“Can’t be sure?” I scream, letting fly my anger. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t be sure? You know me, Brody! We’ve spent . . . look how much we’ve been together over these past weeks! I’ve basically been fucking living with you and now you tell me you can’t be sure. Fuck!” Spit sprays into the air from my lips. I wave my fists wildly.
Then I pace right up to him so we are inches apart. I smell sweat on him, more sweat than usual, and I guess it’s not just from work. He’s just as nervous and torn as I am. Yeah, but I’m not the one throwing him out on the street.
I take a deep breath, trying and failing to calm myself.
“Brody,” I say. “I’m going to tell you right now, as clearly as I can. I had nothing to do with the fire or the bomb. Nothing at all.”
“Then why did you defend Carl?” he shoots back.
I blink at him. “What?”
“That afternoon the bomb went off, when Carl was skulking outside your place like a real weirdo, you defended him, Darla. I didn’t register it at the time. But I remember now. You said you were sure it wasn’t him.”
Is he fucking serious?
“Just because it wasn’t him,” I hiss, “it doesn’t mean it was me. Come on!”
I keep waiting for his resolve to crumble, for him to drop this mask and just be Brody. Brody, I could talk to, reason with. Brody, I could reach. This man standing before me, with his conflicted expression and his determination to brand me as guilty . . . not so much. Even so, I think I see him waver for a moment. His eyes widen slightly and he opens his mouth as though to talk. But then he squints and clamps his mouth shut into a hard-set line.
He seems miserable, like he doesn’t want to be doing this. And yet he is.
“Brody,” I say, trying one last time. “Please, for the love of God, listen to me. I. Did. Not. Do. It. Okay? I’m telling you the goddamn truth.”
“I want to believe you,” Brody says. “But I can’t. I can’t risk it.”
“Risk it?” I spit. “Risk what?”
“Risk it being true that you’re the one that did it.”
I take a step back and gaze up at him with dagger eyes. Rage and heartbreak surge through me like twin tidal waves. And then, before I think about what I’m going to do, I jump forward and slap him across the cheek. Slap, slap, slap. Three times, a flurry. Brody stands still, taking it. I hate how miserable he looks, as though he’s being forced into this. It’s almost like he wants me to hit him, wants to be punished for this absurd position he’s taken. He doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t cry out. He just stands there and lets me slap him. The only sign he’s even been struck is the redness of his skin.
“I need some clothes,” I growl, trying to make my vo
ice hard. I won’t let him see the pain he’s causing me, I think. I won’t give him the satisfaction. “Can you get me some clothes, please?”
“Oh,” he mutters.
“Oh?” I snap. “Oh, as in: oh, I’ve made her homeless for the night and now she’s going to have to catch the bus to a motel and use her insurance money and sleep alone? That sort of oh?”
He winces. He doesn’t turn to the door straightaway and I entertain the possibility that he might go back on all of it, even now. It’s too cruel. But then he turns to the door, unlocks it, and walks into the building.
I pace up and down the sidewalk while he’s upstairs. I think about all the times he and I have spent together, the little moments in bed, the quick kisses, the frantic sex, the slow, passionate lovemaking. I think about how excited I was, merely minutes ago, to come to him and forget about everything. I assumed he’d be on my side. I didn’t even question it. I grip my chest. My heart is beating quickly, like I’m winded. I close my eyes. Tears try to squeeze out of my eyelids. I force them down. Not yet, I think. Not until I’m out of here.