by Mira Gibson
“What aren’t you telling me?” she pressed.
“Benjamin’s out of the picture and that’s all you need to know.” Again, she offered the mirror to Mary. “This cocaine isn’t going to blow itself.”
Apprehensive, Mary stared at the thick line of white powder, catching her own reflection in the glass. When her friend nudged it closer, she relented, taking the mirror and watching her blue eyes shift unsteadily on either side of the white line.
“You’re not going to freak out this time,” Roberta said encouragingly. “We’ll just do a little and sell the rest.”
That wouldn’t be how this would go, but Mary pretended she didn’t know that, took the rolled dollar bill that her friend was handing her, and snorted the line.
She heard squealing and realized it was her, as she pinched the bridge of her nose, stomping her foot, completely forgetting the mirror on her lap. It clattered to the floor, kicking up cocaine like a miniature blizzard. Roberta was rubbing her shoulder, brushing her hair behind her ear—breathe, just breathe, you’re good—and gradually Mary opened her eyes, brain zinging and senses surging, acutely aware of everything except for how cold it was in the shed.
As Roberta took her turn, forming a line of coke across the mirror and placing her rolled bill to her nostril, Mary felt the rush gradually washing away and a gentle warmth sweeping through her in its place. Her thoughts softened. Memories she had kept walled off peeked at her, no longer menacing, but light and easy, digestible.
It was moments like this she could let herself think about Candice, the disturbed mind of her younger sister who looked like an angel. Kendra was no longer dangerous territory, though it wasn’t lost on her that she was traveling a similar road, stealing away to do drugs so the constant pain wouldn’t eat her alive.
When Roberta was finished taking her bump, she licked the mirror and tossed it on their pile of drugs, freeing her hands. She wrapped an arm around Mary, closing the gap between them, and draped her hand over Mary’s thigh, her friend’s face so near hers she could feel the heat rolling off Roberta’s cheek.
Her friend shifted, angling the cool tip of her nose against Mary’s temple, and whispered, “Do you love me?”
Mary nodded, breathing the word, “Yes.”
Being held in Roberta’s arms, sensing her friend’s craving, knowing what she needed, what she was angling for, caused a terrible conflict to worm through Mary’s chest.
Slowly, Roberta grazed her nose across her cheek in lazy, wanton circles and soon her lips were brushing the broad canvas of Mary’s porcelain skin—the curve of her cheekbone, the valley beneath her lower lip—until finally she eased her mouth against Mary’s, not a kiss, but the softest human touch.
THUD.
Mary startled, eyes locking on the door. It had sounded like a car door slamming shut.
Suddenly, Roberta dropped to her knees and began frantically grabbing and throwing the baggies into her purse.
Outside, boots stomped through the snow.
“Fucking shit,” Roberta hissed, desperately wrangling the drugs. “Jake must have seen my car outside.”
Panicking yet hoping it might not look as bad as she thought, Mary scanned the shed trying to see it with fresh eyes—random drug bags peppered across the wooden floor, Roberta scrambling around on her hands and knees, baggies spilling out of her purse almost as quickly as she shoved them in. The mirror was dusted, cloudy with cocaine where it lay on the ground. And yet, as bad as it clearly seemed, it wasn’t worse than the fact that she was standing here.
Jake Livingston did not like her.
He pounded on the door. “Roberta?”
Again, Roberta hissed, “Shit,” snapping her eyes at Mary.
Dashing around the room, Mary collected the uncooperative baggies, plucked up the mirror, and stuffed them into her pockets, as her friend swallowed hard and shouted, “I’ll be right out!”
“What the hell are you doing over here?”
She feigned an answer that to Mary didn’t sound quite right. Roberta was too jittery to play this off. But just as Mary walked towards the door, ready to fall on her sword for the both of them, her friend grabbed her shoulders and began shoving her towards the window.
“Just go,” she whispered, hoisting the rusted thing up. A sharp gust of wind blew in. If it was cold, Mary couldn’t feel it.
“What about you?” she asked, swinging her leg over the ledge.
Roberta pushed her out and she fell with a plop into the snow.
The last thing Mary saw was her friend’s hand waving her off. Then snow fluttered from the roof on impact of the window closing.
She was quiet about getting to her feet and dusting snow off her jacket. She kept crouched, as she made her way around the back of the shed, ducking under frozen sapling branches so they wouldn’t whip her face and lifting Hemlock fronds so the sharp needles wouldn’t slap her.
When she came to the road, she kept to the shoulder as unpleasant as it was to trek through the dirty snow.
She was a long way from Center Harbor.
Dusk was settling over Messer Street, casting the snow-lain scenery in an eerie light. She wondered what would become of her night, where she would go and what she would do, now that Roberta was...
She winced for her friend and prayed for Jake to be merciful once more. If Mary was on thin ice with Cody, the ice had long since cracked beneath Roberta’s feet as far as Jake was concerned. It gave her hope, however, that Gertrude remained oblivious.
Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she debated calling Hannah. She had already fed her sister a line about babysitting until eleven-thirty and it wasn’t until hours of groveling had passed that Hannah had finally agreed, not thrilled about her working so late on a school night.
She wished Rose was still alive. The woman enthralled her and wouldn’t hesitate to bail her out.
Her heart was fluttering—thin, tacky trembles that didn’t feel strong enough to keep her alive. A sudden rush of dizziness reeled through her head and she stumbled, tripping then righting her balance. She stilled, knees bending softly, hands stretched out as though the ground were moving beneath her feet.
Was this the coke or was she under a siege of grief and mourning and fury that the woman she had come to admire and respect and maybe even love—those red fingernails that turned magically nude in the light of day, the devious glint in her eye that came with her every smile, the way she painted lipstick over her mouth, sitting at the vanity while draped in silk, lingerie peeking out where her robe had slipped from her shoulder...
How the fuck could Rose be dead?
A car horn bleated behind her and when she glanced over her shoulder, trees whirling all around her, she saw Roberta’s Audi puttering to a stop.
“Get in,” she called out through the open passenger’s side window. Leaning over, she popped the door, as Mary, dumbfounded, stared at her. Roberta’s smile seemed effortless. “Cocaine is a tool to get us in the right frame of mind so we can do what we have to.” She lifted her brows as if soliciting agreement then ordered. “Get in. They’re waiting.”
Chapter Seven
Tucker felt like a sandbag on her hip—heavy and malleable, his head resting on her shoulder, his legs dangling freely, slush dripping from his boots onto the laminate flooring that was pretending to be oak as badly as the precinct counter she was nearing. The receptionist behind it didn’t pivot in her chair or lift her gaze, but kept her phone braced between her ear and shoulder, her mouth pulling down at the corners as though the person on the other end had just ruined her morning.
Holly jutted her hip, jostling Tucker back into position before he could slip down her leg. His little fist was entwined around the thin, silver chain she was wearing—Rose’s necklace—causing the metal to cut into the side of her neck.
She felt anxious just being here and sensed her luck might fast run out when it came to dodging police questions. She might not get away with supplying minimal answers this time. She
was antsy to get this over with and walk out of here unscathed. Getting to the precinct had been enough of an ordeal.
Her nephew had thrown two fits before she’d managed to get him out of the house. The first had involved his socks or rather his refusal to wear them. When he had reached a certain decibel, shrieking his protest at a frequency that rattled her brain, she'd caved and he immediately sobered up. The contrast had been so stark that she had stared at him in astonishment. The next outburst had revolved around his breakfast, which she soon learned should’ve been Cheerios. The scrambled eggs and buttered toast she had prepared were so offensive, Tucker responded by shoving his plate off the table. The toast had tumbled, leaving a trail of crumbs after bouncing against the floor and the eggs had landed in a globular heap, both of which he found amusing enough to give up his tantrum in exchange for wild laughter. By the time she had deposited him in the passenger’s seat he was conked out, exhausted, and Holly hadn’t been too far behind. Spilling into the driver’s seat, her hand had gripped to the steering wheel for balance, as the morning paper—the article she had read, as engrossing as it had been alarming, the phone call that had followed resonating the news—weighed on her mind like an albatross.
Tucker whined in her ear and began squirming so she lowered him to the ground, sensing he might flare up again if he didn’t get his way instantly. He rubbed his eyes groggily then smiled and the sight of him brought her a rush of calm.
But it was short lived.
The receptionist slapped her phone into its cradle, the gesture filled with good riddance, vibrating as if to shake off the long-winded, one-sided conversation she had just survived, and rose, meeting Holly at the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I got a call from Detective McAlister. He asked me to come in.”
The phone was back to her ear, her fingers hovering over the keypad. “Your name?”
“Holly Danes.”
The receptionist, who looked more suited to work in a nail salon than a police station, seemed to glimpse Holly with fresh eyes and a hint of pity shined through—no doubt viewing her in the context of her murdered twin—but she began punching in an extension and soon angled her shoulder, directing her words softly into the receiver. After nodding and buttoning a “Yes, Sir” into the exchange, the receptionist returned the phone, gently this time, and asked Holly to have a seat without any indication of how long it might be.
Tucker had been comparing his height to the counter, lifting and lowering his hand between the top of his head and the wooden lip, not so much measuring as sensing how he stacked up, and when Holly took his hand, encouraging him towards a bench across from the front desk, he boisterously demanded, “How high?” and didn’t blink until the receptionist cocked her brow.
“Do you like hot chocolate?” she asked in a singsong tone that told Holly the woman had zero experience with children. “I can get you a cup.”
It was a beat of furtive staring before Tucker decided he didn’t mind she had avoided his question. He nodded emphatically then buried his face under the hem of his aunt’s winter coat.
Holly thanked the woman and watched her tromp through the bullpen, swaying her hips as though she was the much-needed feminine touch around here, not that Holly saw any evidence it was appreciated.
When the receptionist rounded the corner beyond her view, Holly helped her nephew onto the bench and sat beside him, thumbing the hem of her coat where it met with the back of her jeans to be certain the bulge from her revolver was concealed.
She scanned the room, nervous all over again for how this might go. The bullpen was spacious, flanked with desks paired nose-to-nose—detectives facing their partners, cracking jokes and jabbing shoulders as if paperwork didn’t require their full attention, or so she imagined. Overall, the precinct seemed to have a folksy quality, both in decorum and staff. But realizing this only contributed to the tension tightening around her chest and her throat, she didn’t want to lose her edge or lower her guard. She couldn’t afford to soften, not after reading the Livingston article that had detailed, in gross accuracy, the manner in which Benjamin had been found dead.
After yanking up the emergency brake and cranking the temperature dials on the dash so Tucker wouldn’t catch cold, Holly had torn through the resort with such intensity that barreling into the lobby, rounding the front desk, and stalking up the hallway had been an absolute blur.
When she had barged into his hotel room—the gun cocked in her hand, her finger on the trigger, vaguely surprised he hadn’t locked the door—Benjamin had bolted upright in bed, urgent about getting the young woman’s mouth off his erection. Hustling her into the bathroom, as the girl used shallow, unperturbed steps, glaring at Holly over her shoulder like a posturing cat, irritated and in no way threatened by the intrusion, Benjamin hadn’t said a word. As soon as he’d shut the bathroom door, he lifted his hands, his gaze trained on the gun, and began spewing apologies.
It had only made her more furious. His complete abandonment of Rose, the way he had turned his back on her during their marriage, his avoidance of the house, of her sister’s body, the detectives, had given her no reason not to pull the trigger. And his apology, as frantic and pleading as it had been, had explained nothing.
She had ordered him to shut up and though he obeyed, he'd begun creeping towards her, easing one foot in front of the other so imperceptibly that when he lunged at her, darting his hands around hers, yanking the weapon upwards and twisting it out of her grasp, she hadn’t even sensed it coming.
The gun hadn’t gone off.
Confidently, he had demonstrated what little power she had, knocking the chamber loose and spinning the cylinder, holding her back with one hand braced around her throat and watching the bullets spill out, Holly taking swings at him all the while. She had failed to deliver one good punch, but tripped him, freeing her throat well enough to scream. She’d angled over Benjamin where he'd hit the floor. She had seen fear in his eyes, but it hadn’t been for his life. Rather, it was a look of sadness as though he knew a chasm stood between them and he had no way of mending it. Nothing would ever be the same.
Drained, Holly had given up. When she’d reached for her revolver, he didn’t hesitate, setting it in her palm. She felt hollow collecting the stray bullets.
Walking out to her idling Saab, she had hoped he would die.
But she didn’t kill him.
The receptionist was approaching, high-heels clicking over laminate, her tight skirt riding up, its hemline inching above her knees. She offered Holly a Styrofoam cup, steaming with hot chocolate. “I can keep an eye on this guy.”
“McAlister’s ready for me?” she asked, a sudden cramp in her stomach threatening her composure, though she kept her eyes on the steaming cup as she watched Tucker wrap his hands around it, careful not to let go until she was sure her nephew had a firm grip.
“He is,” she confirmed in a chipper tone. Whatever had transpired around the corner had lifted the receptionist into an entirely different mood. “Just go on back into Interview One,” she instructed. “Ask along the way if you’re unsure.”
Apprehensively, Holly got to her feet and wondered why the woman wouldn’t escort her. It wasn’t like she had asked directions to the bathroom at a truck-stop diner.
She made her way, crossing through the paired workstations where detectives seemed to have settled into their day, hunching over their desk phones and pouring over reports. Straight ahead was the Sergeant’s office according to the placard on the door. The window lining his wall was striped with aluminum blinds, though they were open, giving her an obscured view of his quarters, which appeared disheveled.
Hanging a right, she found a hallway. The first door on the left was open and as she neared it, she confirmed she had the right room, reading Interview Room One.
In an instant she felt claustrophobic. The windowless room couldn’t have been larger than twenty-five square feet. There was a narrow table in the cen
ter of the room, a single chair on one side and two on the other. Overhead, the florescent lights were buzzing, but it didn’t compare with the punch of her pulse throbbing in her ears.
She pulled out the chair opposite the others, assuming Cody and Lucas would sit across from her, and tucked herself into it, unnerved that the door was now behind her.
Cody breezed in, rounding the table and eyeing the manila-filing folder in his hands, the contents of which she feared to imagine. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he told her, closing the file.
“It’s-” Her voice sounded frayed so she cleared her throat. “It’s fine. I’m shocked over this, that article, the timing of it all.” At the sound of footfall behind her, she glanced over her shoulder and found Lucas stepping into the room. He offered her a grim smirk and she breathed, “Hello,” her voice once again sounding frail.
Cody seemed to linger beside his chair until Lucas had a seat after which he followed suit. Before either delved into questioning her, a silent conversation ensued where it appeared Cody was nudging his partner to initiate the interview, yet the exchange seemed tense as though Lucas might prefer to hang back and observe.
Despite this, he was the first to speak. “Clearly, we’re as thrown as you are. Since Benjamin was unreachable last night after his wife was found dead and it was an effort to locate him, we had a strong hunch he might have been responsible for Rose’s murder.” Lucas opened his palms on a shrug. “Now it would seem whoever killed your sister went after Benjamin, perhaps after Rose had been shot, or possibly before.”
Holly let out a shuttering breath, her gaze drifting to the table, the folder, and Lucas’s hands, which were now folded.
Using a gentle tone, Cody asked, “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“I really don’t,” she said, meeting his gaze. “If he was at the resort, then couldn’t you talk to Warren or Sarah? They had to have closely interacted with him, maybe they know something.”
“We are,” said Cody.
“When was the last time you saw Benjamin?” Lucas wasn’t just looking at her. He was watching her, scrutinizing her demeanor, expression, her every reaction, though it was subtle.