Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Bet­ter cont­rol them, you me­an.”

  Falk spre­ad his thumbs and shrug­ged, as if to say Wha­te­ver wit­ho­ut ac­tu­al­ly sa­ying Wha­te­ver.

  Not bre­aking eye con­tact, I re­ac­hed out and slid my cal­cu­lus text­bo­ok in front of me. “I ne­ed to study.”

  “Of co­ur­se.” He pla­ced the lap­top back in its ca­se and zip­ped it. “Best of luck with all of yo­ur en­de­avors, es­pe­ci­al­ly in the co­urt­ro­om.” He jo­ined his part­ner at the do­or. “And ple­ase gi­ve our re­gards to Lo­gan, along with our mes­sa­ge.”

  My bra­in felt jumb­led with all the new in­for­ma­ti­on. “What mes­sa­ge?”

  “Get out.” He til­ted his he­ad and of­fe­red a joy­less smi­le. “Or we’ll ta­ke you out.”

  I spent the next half ho­ur cal­ling for Lo­gan, but he wo­uldn’t ap­pe­ar. When my thro­at star­ted to hurt, I pho­ned Dylan.

  He pic­ked up on the se­cond ring. “Hey, Aura.”

  “Tell Lo­gan to le­ave.”

  “Why? When?”

  “Whe­ne­ver. Af­ter the tri­al at the la­test. If not, the Ob­si­di­ans are go­ing to lock him up for be­ing a sha­de.”

  The­re was a long pa­use. “How do they know?”

  “His sub­po­ena tag must ha­ve a de­tec­tor on it. I’ve be­en trying to re­ach Lo­gan, but he won’t ans­wer me. So you ha­ve to warn him.” I hur­ri­ed thro­ugh a shor­te­ned ver­si­on of Agent Falk’s spi­el.

  When I was fi­nis­hed, Dylan sa­id, “Um, what did the­se Ob­si­di­an guys lo­ok li­ke? Black uni­forms, ha­ir­cuts li­ke Moe from the Three Sto­oges?”

  “Ye­ah, why?”

  “They just pul­led up in front of our ho­use.”

  My he­art thum­ped. “Is Lo­gan the­re?”

  “No. I’m by myself.”

  “Then let them in. They won’t hurt you, but don’t piss them off, okay?”

  “Got it.” His vo­ice held a qu­i­et strength, gi­ving me a twin­ge of pri­de.

  “And ple­ase-tell Lo­gan I lo­ve him.”

  Dylan hung up. I clic­ked off the pho­ne, set it on the tab­le, and sta­red at it, li­ke I used to do whi­le wa­iting for Lo­gan to call me. So­me nights he’d for­get, con­su­med with his mu­sic, and I’d go to bed won­de­ring if he wo­uld ever be all mi­ne.

  So­on he wo­uld be no one’s.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I sat on the wit­ness stand, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to scratch the mad­de­ning itch un­der my knee ban­da­ge. I’d lo­oked out at this co­urt­ro­om from the adj­acent trans­la­tors’ se­ats co­unt­less ti­mes over the last few ye­ars.

  But this ti­me I was spe­aking for myself.

  A red light abo­ve each do­or sho­wed that the Black­Box had be­en dep­lo­yed. Lo­gan wo­uld stay away un­til it was his turn to tes­tify. Then he wo­uld be sum­mo­ned with the qu­artz disc con­nec­ted to his sub­po­ena “tag.” My toe slid over the notch on the flo­or whe­re the disc wo­uld be in­ser­ted.

  Dylan had pas­sed on the Ob­si­di­ans’ war­ning to Lo­gan, who ap­pa­rently had fal­len very qu­i­et, then spent the rest of the night alo­ne in his old ro­om. He knew that as long as he was tag­ged, the Ob­si­di­ans co­uld de­ta­in him at any ti­me.

  Gi­na ap­pro­ac­hed the stand in her pe­ri­wink­le su­it, her eyes be­aring the usu­al kind chill. The jud­ge and jury knew I was her ni­ece, so she had to be ca­re­ful not to lo­ok li­ke she was cod­dling me. I’d se­en her com­pas­si­ona­te-cru­sa­der co­urt­ro­om ro­uti­ne many ti­mes, but had ne­ver be­en the so­ur­ce of her am­mu­ni­ti­on.

  “Let’s be­gin with the events early in the eve­ning of Fri­day, Oc­to­ber eigh­te­enth. Did you see Lo­gan Ke­eley im­me­di­ately af­ter the con­cert?”

  I to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, trying not to think abo­ut the re­por­ters and blog­gers in the pac­ked co­urt­ro­om. I vo­wed not to lo­ok at the smug CEO of War­rant Re­cords, sit­ting at the de­fen­se tab­le in an ex­pen­si­ve su­it.

  “Yes,” I told her in a cle­ar vo­ice. “I saw him go backs­ta­ge with Mic­key to me­et with the A and R reps from the two re­cord com­pa­ni­es.”

  “When did you see him aga­in?”

  “Abo­ut half an ho­ur la­ter.” I fol­ded my hands in my lap to ke­ep them from fid­ge­ting with my blo­use.

  “And then whe­re did you go?”

  “Back to the Ke­eleys’ ho­use for a party. It was his se­ven­te­enth birth­day.” Aunt Gi­na had as­ked me to men­ti­on that fact, to add sympathy. A mur­mur from the jury box con­fir­med that this had be­en a go­od ploy.

  “How wo­uld you desc­ri­be Lo­gan’s de­me­anor at the party?”

  “I’d ne­ver se­en him hap­pi­er.”

  Gi­na bo­wed her he­ad for a mo­ment to let my sta­te­ment sink in. A soft blond curl fell over her che­ek.

  “How much al­co­hol did you see him con­su­me?”

  “I saw him drink three pints of Gu­in­ness, plus part of a fo­urth pint. Then he had abo­ut half of a mi­xed drink cal­led Li­qu­id Stu­pid.”

  The crowd re­ac­ted to this with scat­te­red tit­ters.

  “Yo­ur Ho­nor, a samp­le of Li­qu­id Stu­pid was left on the de­ce­ased’s nights­tand.” My aunt ret­ri­eved a she­et of pa­per from her tab­le. “A pre­vi­o­us wit­ness, a fo­ren­sic ex­pert, has aut­hen­ti­ca­ted this ex­hi­bit, al­re­ady ad­mit­ted in­to evi­den­ce. The Li­qu­id Stu­pid subs­tan­ce was es­ti­ma­ted to be one hund­red eighty pro­of. Ni­nety per­cent al­co­hol, mo­re than ten ti­mes the strength of be­er. The­re we­re al­so tra­ces of co­de­ine fo­und in the so­lu­ti­on. The fo­ren­sic ex­pert conc­lu­ded that this con­coc­ti­on wo­uld ha­ve se­ve­rely im­pa­ired the judg­ment of a one-hund­red-fifty-po­und man such as the de­ce­ased, es­pe­ci­al­ly one who had al­re­ady con­su­med mo­re than fifty oun­ces of be­er.”

  The jud­ge pe­ered thro­ugh his re­ading glas­ses at the she­et of pa­per. “Yes, this has be­en ad­mit­ted al­re­ady. Ple­ase con­ti­nue.”

  Gi­na as­ked me, “What did Lo­gan do af­ter he drank the Li­qu­id Stu­pid?”

  “We went to his ro­om.”

  Her vo­ice was gent­le but firm. “For what pur­po­se?”

  My sto­mach flut­te­red, and I to­ok anot­her de­ep bre­ath. “For the pur­po­se of sex.”

  I he­ard a ton­gue click. One of the jurors, an ol­der wo­man, sho­ok her he­ad. For the most part, tho­ugh, the crowd se­emed un­sur­p­ri­sed.

  Gi­na was un­fa­zed by my se­mi-smart-ass res­pon­se. “And did you ac­hi­eve this pur­po­se?”

  “No.” I tri­ed not to so­und de­fen­si­ve.

  “Why not?”

  I he­si­ta­ted, ho­ping that the ro­of wo­uld ca­ve in or ali­ens wo­uld va­po­ri­ze the co­urt­ho­use in the­ir ef­fort to con­qu­er the pla­net. Anyt­hing to ke­ep from sa­ying it.

  “Aura? Tell us what stop­ped you from con­sum­ma­ting yo­ur re­la­ti­on­s­hip.”

  “The al­co­hol had ma­de him… um… He co­uldn’t.”

  The snic­kers spre­ad thro­ug­ho­ut the co­urt­ro­om. I grit­ted my te­eth, ha­ting Mr. and Mrs. Ke­eley for ma­king me tell the world. Ins­te­ad of be­ing fa­mo­us for his mu­sic, Lo­gan wo­uld go down in pop cul­tu­re his­tory as the Ghost of the Guy Who Co­uldn’t Get It Up.

  “Then what hap­pe­ned?”

  My ga­ze drop­ped to the flo­or. “I was mad at him. I told him he was stu­pid.”

  Gi­na up­ped the ur­gency in her to­ne. “How did he res­pond?”

  “He al­most pas­sed out, but then he sa­id he knew how to fix it. He sa­id he was go­ing to ta­ke a sho­wer and wa­ke up.” The words ca­me fast now, tumb­ling over one anot­her. “So he went to his dres­ser and got a pac­ka­ge of so­met­hin
g he sa­id was sham­poo. And then he left, and the next ti­me I saw him, he was-he was a ghost.” My vo­ice hal­ted. “He was de­ad.”

  I hadn’t cri­ed du­ring any of our re­he­ar­sals, tho­ugh Gi­na had told me that te­ars wo­uld be a ni­ce to­uch. I’d ob­ses­sed over cho­osing the right words and emp­ha­si­zing the right syllab­les. In re­he­ar­sals, this tes­ti­mony had be­en a per­for­man­ce.

  But now it was re­al. Lo­gan was go­ne. And I was stan­ding in his bed­ro­om all over aga­in, with my shirt back­ward and in­si­de out, se­e­ing him in vi­olet, fe­eling my world shat­ter in­to so many pi­eces that se­venty-six days la­ter, I was still pic­king them up.

  Even now, each eye re­le­ased only a sing­le te­ar. They drib­bled down my che­eks, so slowly they se­emed to be ha­ving a re­ver­se ra­ce, se­e­ing which co­uld ta­ke lon­ger to fall.

  “No furt­her qu­es­ti­ons, Yo­ur Ho­nor.”

  “Yo­ur wit­ness,” the jud­ge sa­id to the de­fen­se at­tor­ney.

  Har­ri­et Sto­ne ap­pro­ac­hed from my right, spi­ked he­els clic­king on the hard­wo­od flo­or. Twi­ce be­fo­re I’d trans­la­ted for ca­ses in­vol­ving Sto­ne’s cli­ents. She didn’t even try to hi­de her dis­da­in for ghosts, which me­ant trans­la­tors got a do­se of it too.

  I wi­ped my che­eks and fa­ced her with my last bit of strength.

  “Thank you for tes­tif­ying, Ms. Sal­va­to­re.” She glan­ced at my aunt, then at the jury, as if to re­mind them I was re­la­ted to the pla­in­tiff’s at­tor­ney. “The de­ath of yo­ur boyf­ri­end must ha­ve be­en a dif­fi­cult or­de­al.”

  I sa­id not­hing, sin­ce it tech­ni­cal­ly wasn’t a qu­es­ti­on.

  Sto­ne but­to­ned her su­it jac­ket, a scar­let that bro­ught out the blush on her sharp, pa­le che­eks. She was from that ol­der ge­ne­ra­ti­on of wo­men who tho­ught we­aring red-and sho­ul­der pads-ma­de them lo­ok mas­cu­li­ne and the­re­fo­re po­wer­ful. At le­ast to­mor­row she’d ha­ve to put on anot­her co­lor, sin­ce Lo­gan wo­uld be in the ro­om.

  “Pri­or to the night in qu­es­ti­on,” Sto­ne as­ked, “had Lo­gan Ke­eley ever con­su­med al­co­hol to the po­int of un­cons­ci­o­us­ness in yo­ur pre­sen­ce?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many ti­mes?”

  I crin­ged in­si­de at the hurt this wo­uld ca­use his pa­rents. “Fo­ur ti­mes.”

  “What we­re his last words to you?”

  I grip­ped the smo­oth wo­oden arms of the wit­ness cha­ir. That me­mory be­lon­ged to me and Lo­gan, and this wo­man wan­ted to ste­al it. Ta­int it. And what wo­uld it pro­ve?

  Then I re­mem­be­red so­met­hing Aunt Gi­na had on­ce told me: A go­od law­yer ne­ver asks a qu­es­ti­on she do­esn’t al­re­ady know the ans­wer to. Lo­gan must ha­ve be­en as­ked this sa­me qu­es­ti­on du­ring his de­po­si­ti­on.

  “Ms. Sal­va­to­re? What did Lo­gan say to you just be­fo­re he wal­ked off to the bat­h­ro­om?”

  I spo­ke to the far wall of the co­urt­ro­om. “He sa­id, ‘Wa­it for me, Aura.’”

  Sto­ne cros­sed her arms and tap­ped her pen aga­inst her si­de as she pa­ced. “And ha­ve you?”

  My pul­se sur­ged. I hadn’t ex­pec­ted the­se qu­es­ti­ons. “Ha­ve I what?”

  “Ha­ve you wa­ited for him? Ha­ve you be­en in­vol­ved with Lo­gan sin­ce his de­ath?”

  “In what way?”

  She stop­ped pa­cing. “Ha­ve you spent ti­me with him in yo­ur bed­ro­om?”

  “Yes.” I was not get­ting in­to spe­ci­fics.

  Sto­ne ap­pro­ac­hed the wit­ness stand, clo­se eno­ugh that I co­uld smell the ha­ir spray ke­eping her black bun sle­ek aga­inst her scalp. “What did you do with him on the­se vi­sits?”

  Blo­od rus­hed to my fa­ce. Lo­gan, you didn’t. Not that he wo­uld’ve had a cho­ice. Ghosts can’t lie.

  I ope­ned and clo­sed my mo­uth, then sa­id, “We tal­ked. Lis­te­ned to mu­sic.”

  “That’s all?”

  “So­me­ti­mes we wo­uld re­ad.”

  Gi­na sto­od. “Obj­ec­ti­on, Yo­ur Ho­nor. I fa­il to see the pur­po­se in this li­ne of qu­es­ti­oning.”

  Sto­ne spo­ke di­rectly to the jud­ge. “I’m trying to es­tab­lish the fact that the so-cal­led vic­tim has led anyt­hing but a tra­gic exis­ten­ce sin­ce his de­ath. Ac­cor­ding to Lo­gan Ke­eley’s de­po­si­ti­on, he has wal­ked the stre­ets of Dub­lin, at­ten­ded nu­me­ro­us con­certs for free, and spent many a night in­dul­ging in se­xu­al play with his li­ving, bre­at­hing gir­l­f­ri­end.”

  The crowd gas­ped. Even Me­gan put her hand to her wi­de-open mo­uth. I co­uldn’t lo­ok at Lo­gan’s pa­rents.

  “Ple­ase con­ti­nue,” the jud­ge sa­id, spe­aking lo­udly to res­to­re or­der.

  “Isn’t this true, Ms. Sal­va­to­re?” the law­yer as­ked me, arms fol­ded in what lo­oked li­ke tri­umph.

  My hands had go­ne cold and my fa­ce red-hot. I ste­adi­ed my bre­ath and slowly drew my palms over my che­ek­bo­nes to co­ol them. They co­uld try to hu­mi­li­ate me, they co­uld try to sully my me­mory of Lo­gan, they co­uld try to turn what we had in­to so­met­hing sle­azy.

  But I wo­uldn’t let them.

  “That’s cor­rect,” I sa­id in a strong, ste­ady vo­ice. Be­fo­re she co­uld ask for de­ta­ils, I threw them at her. “I to­ok off my clot­hes and I to­uc­hed myself. We spo­ke to each ot­her, we pre­ten­ded, we ma­de it as re­al as it co­uld be.”

  The law­yer un­fol­ded her arms and tug­ged down her jac­ket as she strut­ted away from the wit­ness stand. “Thank you. No furt­her qu­es­ti­ons.”

  “Lo­gan’s not su­ing you,” I blur­ted out. “His fa­mily is, so even if he’s ha­ving a go­od ti­me-and you might want to ask him abo­ut that-”

  Sto­ne tur­ned qu­ickly. “Yo­ur Ho­nor-”

  “-they’re in mo­re pa­in than you can ima­gi­ne.”

  “Yo­ur Ho­nor, I ask that the­se re­marks be stric­ken from the re­cord as non­res­pon­si­ve.”

  The jud­ge ban­ged his ga­vel. “The wit­ness may step down.”

  Using the ed­ge of the wit­ness box, I drag­ged myself to stand. Then I po­in­ted to the War­rant CEO. “You to­ok him from us! Ghost or not, he’s still de­ad.”

  “Step down now, miss,” the jud­ge bar­ked. “You are re­le­ased.”

  I al­most scof­fed at his cho­ice of words. Re­le­ased in­to what? A de­eper le­vel of hell?

  Inste­ad I stra­igh­te­ned my su­it and sa­id, “Thank you,” be­fo­re ret­ri­eving my crut­c­hes.

  “Fur­t­her­mo­re,” the jud­ge sa­id, “the jury will dis­re­gard tho­se re­marks.”

  “Thank you, Yo­ur Ho­nor,” sa­id the de­fen­se at­tor­ney, with a fa­ke swe­et­ness that al­most ma­de me cho­ke.

  As I hob­bled away from the wit­ness stand, I held my chin stra­ight and high, me­eting no one’s ga­ze-not Gi­na’s, not even Me­gan’s.

  I was truly alo­ne now, so I might as well get used to it.

  By the end of the day, the news and ru­mors had spre­ad to every cor­ner of the In­ter­net, or so it se­emed. I tho­ught abo­ut chec­king a few Japa­ne­se web­si­tes to see how they trans­la­ted the phra­se “ghost fuc­ker.”

  “By the ti­me scho­ol starts aga­in next we­ek,” my aunt sa­id on the dri­ve ho­me, “they’ll ha­ve for­got­ten all abo­ut it. The­re’ll be so­me new scan­dal, you’ll see.”

  I lo­oked out the si­de win­dow at the he­avy whi­te clo­uds and pra­yed for a na­ti­on­wi­de bliz­zard that wo­uld knock out all po­wer and pho­ne li­nes. Or at le­ast clo­se scho­ol for anot­her two we­eks.

  Then I sent a text mes­sa­ge to Zac­hary.

  ALL OUT OF PATIENCE YET?

&nb
sp; “I’m pro­ud of you, kid,” Gi­na sa­id. “For the way you sto­od up for yo­ur­self. And the way you told the truth. I’m su­re it wasn’t easy.”

  “You knew, didn’t you? Both si­des get to lo­ok at the sa­me evi­den­ce, right?”

  “I re­ad Lo­gan’s de­po­si­ti­on. I ne­ver ima­gi­ned they wo­uld use”-she wa­ved her hand li­ke she was swat­ting a gnat-“that part of it.”

  “Any ot­her surp­ri­ses I sho­uld know abo­ut be­fo­re the de­fen­se starts the­ir si­de to­mor­row?”

  “I don’t think so. You don’t ha­ve to co­me. Yo­ur part is over.”

  “I want to he­ar Lo­gan spe­ak.” I ran my fin­ger along the rub­ber se­al of the win­dow. “It might be my last chan­ce.”

  “God wil­ling,” she sa­id un­der her bre­ath.

  I pre­ten­ded I didn’t he­ar her as my pho­ne vib­ra­ted with a new mes­sa­ge from Zac­hary. I ope­ned it, my pul­se skit­te­ring.

  NOT EVEN CLOSE.

  That night I lay on the co­uch, sta­ring at the dar­ke­ned Christ­mas tree. Aunt Gi­na al­ways in­sis­ted on le­aving it up un­til Epip­hany on Janu­ary 6, but we ne­ver tur­ned the lights on af­ter New Ye­ar’s Eve, so it might as well not ha­ve be­en the­re. It lo­oked sad, with all its de­co­ra­ti­ons slightly off ba­lan­ce. Even its plas­tic branc­hes lo­oked wil­ted.

  I was fi­nal­ly drif­ting off to sle­ep when a vi­olet glow fil­led the ro­om.

  I kept my eyes clo­sed to see how long he wo­uld stay. His light grew brigh­ter as he ca­me ne­arer, un­til it en­ve­lo­ped my en­ti­re world.

  “I don’t know if you can he­ar me,” Lo­gan whis­pe­red, “but I ca­me to gi­ve you so­met­hing. So­met­hing I sho­uldn’t ha­ve kept.”

  I al­most ope­ned my eyes then, but he shif­ted to my right, kne­eling or sit­ting on the flo­or by my si­de.