Sip. “I guess—well, did Abby tell you about the incident at Summer’s school?”
Greg assumes he means the referral for Summer to see a psychologist. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, I guess I’m just worried. I mean, you’re around them together, does she—does Abby talk about Natasha a lot in front of Summer?”
All the time. “Sometimes,” Greg chooses. “Summer knows who her aunt is.” Is? He thinks. Should he have said was?
“Right. But it’s not like, scary stuff?”
Summer has memorized her address, their home phone number, Abby’s cellphone number, Greg’s cellphone number, her grandparents’ cellphone numbers. They have a safe word—mozzarella—so that, in case of an emergency, Summer can tell if the person is safe and Abby has vetted them ahead of time. Abby has told Summer that, if someone ever tries to grab her and she can’t run away, to sit on her bum, kick her legs, and flail her arms, making it harder for a person to get ahold of her. Told her that, if she’s ever placed in the trunk of a car, to try to kick out the tail lights. Abby wanted Summer to practice this maneuver, but Greg stopped her, saying Summer looked scared. Abby capitulated in the moment, but Greg would bet she made Summer rehearse it after he left.
Still. “She’s talked to her about safety. Stranger danger. That kind of thing.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Are you going to take her to a psychologist then?” Greg asks. It couldn’t hurt. But then, would it do any good? Greg saw a psychologist twice, about six months after Natasha went missing. About half an hour into the first session, he knew he was beyond help. The second session was just a formality to try to appease his mother. Back when his parents had separated, Natasha had suggested he see a psychologist—even offered him a name of someone a friend of hers had gone to. He’d torn the business card up in front of her, told her there was no way he was talking about his feelings with a total stranger. Now, he leans forward and takes another sip of his virgin Coke, feeling the saccharine guilt slide down his throat.
“I’m looking into it,” Cam says. “My fiancée says I should. She’s really pushing me on it.” He rolls his eyes. “You know, women. No matter what you do, you’re doing something wrong.” Cam has already drained half of his beer. “You want to order food?” he asks Greg. “Wings? Onion rings?”
“Whatever,” Greg says.
More small talk. Cam flirts with the waitress, orders both appetizers when the girl can’t decide which to recommend. Cam tells Greg that Summer refuses to take the training wheels off her bike, which Greg already knew. That Jessica wouldn’t let Summer paint her bedroom orange, which Greg also knew. That he wants Summer to come to Kelowna with him and Jessica for the August long weekend, but he thinks Abby is going to say no. “I think Summer would love it, though,” he says. Not true. Summer has told him she doesn’t want to be away from Mommy for so long. But it’s probably easier for Cam to just blame Abby. The food comes. Cam is doing all the talking. He’s ordered another round of drinks. Greg’s stomach acid grumbles, hisses. Has he even eaten today?
Cam talks with his mouth full, complains that his fiancée is controlling and wants him to set a wedding date. Why propose, Greg thinks, picking the batter off a limp onion, if Cam doesn’t seem to want to marry her? “That was the deal with you, too, right?” Cam says, red barbecue sauce on his upper lip as he sucks the meat off another chicken wing and puts the bone down on his plate.
“What deal?”
“You know, Natasha always pushing you to get married and stuff.”
Where has he heard this information? Abby? Her parents? The media? “She wanted to get married, yeah,” Greg concedes.
Cam raises his hands in a small surrender. “Hey, man, I’m with you. Why settle down, am I right?”
Cam is engaged, has a child. How is he not settling down? “I guess,” Greg says.
“Cuz you don’t want kids, right?” Cam asks.
Present tense, as though having kids is still a possibility for him. “No,” Greg said. Not anymore, anyway. When he was with Natasha, he wasn’t sure. Tash thought this ambivalence meant he just didn’t want them yet, but actually, he wasn’t sure if he wanted them ever. Sometimes now, when he babysits Summer and they play Yahtzee, or binge watch ’90s sitcoms, or make hot fudge sundaes, he thinks, I could have done this. Even, I could have liked this. Sometimes even, I would have liked this. But then, Natasha’s own mother had walked out after ten years. And never even called. So, who’s to say he wouldn’t have been an equally shitty parent? Can he steer Cam away from this conversation?
“You going to eat that?” Cam gestures towards the last crusty onion ring on the platter. Greg shakes his head. “Cool,” Cam says, and puts the whole thing in his mouth. “You wanna play darts?”
How long is this night going to go on? “I’m not very good,” Greg says, “and I—”
“Me neither. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Yeah right. Greg excuses himself to go to the bathroom again. He didn’t eat very much, but he feels nauseous. In the bathroom, he kneels on the floor of a stall and attempts to vomit. Nothing comes up. He scratches at his elbow rash through his shirt.
By the time he makes his way back to the table, Cam is at the darts board, giggling with the waitress, who, Greg realizes, has been invited to play. Maybe he can make his exit, let the waitress distract Cam for the remainder of the evening. As he approaches, Greg realizes a tray of clear shots has been ordered. Cam holds one out to Greg, who shakes his head, feels another wave of nausea. “Gotta pace myself,” Greg says, and Cam shrugs, clinks shot glasses with the waitress, sucks back the booze. Cam scrunches up his face and snatches a slice of lemon up off the table, pops the juicy end into his mouth and then gives the waitress a citrus smile, the rind as his teeth.
“Your turn,” Cam tells Greg, and hands him a dart.
“How do you guys know each other?” the waitress asks.
Greg is about to say, friends of friends, but Cam interrupts—“Okay, get this, my daughter’s mother is the little sister of Greg’s ex-girlfriend, and she’s missing. Like, kidnapped.”
Fuck.
The waitress’s eyes bug out. “Are you kidding me?”
Cam nods, suddenly serious. “I know. Tragic.”
“Oh my God!” the waitress says.
“Six years ago,” Cam says, his eyes wide. “They still don’t know who did it.”
Greg’s stomach lurches. Natasha has become Cam’s pick-up line.
“Oh my God!” the waitress says again. “I hope they catch the bastard!”
“Me too,” says Cam, and puts his hand on the waitress’s shoulder, like he’s consoling her.
“I need another drink,” she says.
“Agreed,” says Cam, and the two reach for the tray of slimy shots, each tips one back.
Greg feels faint. His legs refuse to move. His tongue feels thick. Make it stop. “Show her a picture of Summer,” he tells Cam. Anything, anything to change the subject.
“Oh yeah!” Cam says, and slides open his wallet, procures Summer’s school picture, over which the waitress swoons. The waitress procures her own wallet to show Cam a picture of her nephew, but instead, encounters one of her ex-boyfriend.
“He dumped me last month,” she says. “I forgot this was in here.”
Cam suggests they pin it to the dartboard, give the asshole what he deserves.
“Yes!” the waitress exclaims. She and Cam do another shot. Isn’t she supposed to be working? Cam is looking a little stumbly as he aims his first dart at the boyfriend’s photo. The dart hits the wall. Cam laughs like this is hilarious.
“Your turn,” he says, to Greg, who manages to pluck the dart from Cam’s outstretched fingers.
Greg looks into the eyes of the ex-boyfriend, affixed to the dartboard with a thumbtack. Maybe the guy is an asshole. Or maybe not. Maybe Natasha’s parents have done similar things with Greg’s picture—at the very least, they’ve wanted to. Especially since the messa
ge board post. Who wrote that, anyway? Some twisted sicko looking to stir up trouble? What happens if Reuben finds something on the watch that he can link back to Greg? Greg must have touched that watch hundreds of times over their relationship, his fingers intertwined with hers, their wrists pressed up against each other. His lawyers have said that even if the cops pull Greg’s DNA from the watch, they won’t be able to argue anything other than casual contact. The watch could give them someone else’s DNA, they pointed out, could clear him. So far, though, Greg’s heard nothing in this respect. Not that Reuben shares details of the investigation with him. But if they’d detected DNA from an unknown, it would get back to him, wouldn’t it?
Greg could play one round, then say he’s beat, let Cam drink himself stupid with the waitress. Get into whatever trouble he’s going to get himself into. But Cam’s still Summer’s father.
“Come on!” Cam urges. “We don’t have all night!” He reaches over for another shot.
Greg aims at the board. Lets the dart loose. Misses.
CAM
CAM HAD FOLLOWED ALL OF HIS BROTHER’S TIPS FOR GETTING Greg to talk. Start with light conversation. Empathize. Make him think you’re on his team. Use alcohol to lower his inhibitions. Do something active so he’s focused on something else. All of these tactics are equally effective in seducing women.
And yet, he’s somehow ended up spending the night on Greg’s couch. His head throbs. He rolls over. This futon is so fucking stiff. Did he puke last night? He has a vague memory of the cold tile floor of Greg’s bathroom. And yes, there’s a garbage can on the floor in front of his face. And there —Greg’s cat, seated on a nearby Ikea chair, paws tucked under itself, glaring at him, not moving, but very clearly plotting Cam’s death.
Cam sits up, almost pukes in his mouth. More spotty memories—darts missing the corkboard; Greg helping him into a cab; the knockers on that waitress. Cam fumbles for his phone. There it is, on the floor beside the garbage can. He reaches for it; the cat’s eyes trace his movements.
Six texts from Reuben, two from Abby. Only one from Jess. Cam has cheated on Jess enough to know that you have to make up an excuse when you’re going to be out late drinking just in case. He’d told Jess he was going to hang with a buddy and possibly crash on his couch, drive home in the morning. Be safe. There was that one time he got pulled over and given a breathalyzer and blew just under the limit, so the cop had to let him off. He didn’t want to risk that again. Cam had no idea how late he’d be out with Greg, and thought maybe he’d head over to Abby’s afterwards. Jess’s one text reads, “Good night baby! I love you!”
Cam can only imagine Reuben’s texts—probably demanding answers, wanting to know why Cam hasn’t responded. It feels like he’s back in high school, slinking in the back door after a night of partying, his parents with their arms crossed, questioning where he’d been.
Or maybe Reuben thinks Greg has murdered Cam by stabbing him with darts.
Five minutes into his conversation with Greg, Cam knew he had nothing to do with Natasha’s disappearance. The guy was way too pansy. Cam has this thing where, when he’s watching Law & Order on TV, he can always tell who the killer is in the first fifteen minutes. It drives Jess crazy. She’s always saying, “Stop ruining it!” It’s not Cam’s fault if he’s smarter than her. Anyway, in Cam’s opinion, Reuben’s spidey sense about Greg are off. The killer is probably a total stranger, which is why nobody can solve it, because nobody knows the guy.
Cam shouldn’t have downed so many shots. But that waitress was so hot. Greg was drinking, too. How did they even get home? Where is Cam’s car? Where the eff is Greg anyway? Is he going to come strolling out in a robe and offer Cam some scrambled eggs or something? Cam needs coffee—badly.
Cam cranes his neck over the edge of the couch so he can see into Greg’s bedroom. The door hangs open; Greg is sprawled face down, one arm dangling off the side. No shirt. Does he have underwear on underneath that blanket? What if he sleeps totally naked? Is he going to wake up if Cam starts moving around? Is Cam just supposed to slink out like they just had a one-night stand and Cam doesn’t want to stay and cuddle? Should he just twiddle his thumbs until Greg wakes up so they can have an awkward goodbye? Or should he deliberately make noise but pretend it was an accident? Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m such a klutz.
Or…he could snoop around the house and uncover some dirt. Cam said he’d play undercover cop, so he might as well, even though he’s pretty sure Greg had nothing to do with Abby’s sister’s murder. Greg looks like he’s dead himself. This is going to be reeeeal easy.
Cam gets up off the couch, stretches, scrolls through his texts. Abby has sent him a couple about Summer. Well, their daughter may be the content, but Cam gets the underlying message. She wants him. She’s been texting him way more since they hooked up. Always about their kid, of course.
Cam texts her back:
not feeling well this am
need some sexual healing
can u get babysitter for summer?
will be it worth it xxx
Cam glances from the cat to Greg’s bedroom door. Greg still hasn’t moved. Cam walks slowly to the kitchen, and the cat’s eyes follow him. Here’s Greg’s mail—some envelopes opened, some not yet opened, spread out on the kitchen counter closest to the door, as though he dropped them on his way into the condo, hasn’t yet come back to open the rest. Could Greg’s credit card statement tell him anything? Cam slides the pages out of the envelope, flips to Page 1. Okay, so the guy has zero credit card debt. What a keener. He probably doesn’t have a rebellious bone in his body.
What about his more private things? His secret stash? Cam’s bedside table contains condoms; a picture of the first girl he kissed in junior high; a Michael Crichton novel—the sequel to Jurassic Park; a photocopy of his first paycheque; spare Euros from a high school family trip; his orange belt from karate from when he was twelve; that pair of cufflinks he thinks are ugly but has to keep because they are family heirlooms; a couple dirty magazines. From what he can see, Greg doesn’t have a bedside table. But he can’t see the whole room from here.
There’s a closet in the hallway off the main room. Maybe he’s one of those guys who keeps things in a shoebox tucked way at the top in a back corner. Cam once, way back when, asked Reuben whether it was true that murderers and rapists kept trophies of their victims. Reuben said, “Sometimes.” Cam eases open the closet door, hoping it won’t squeak. If it wakes Greg up, he’ll claim he was looking for his coat. Was he wearing a coat last night? Hmmm…
Anyway, Greg doesn’t wake up. And the closet is basically full of filing cabinets. Cam slides the top one open. What are these, articles? Nerdy science papers. Cam slides open the next two drawers. More of the same. Boring!
Cam slides his hand up to the top shelf, above where he can see, stands on his tiptoes and reaches back, gropes his hand blindly around until he hits the back wall. Nothing. His fingers come back dusty. No secret stash. Not even a shoebox of baseball cards or some hidden porn. Not here, anyway.
When Cam looks back, Greg hasn’t changed position, but the cat has somehow moved from its spot on the chair to the kitchen counter, beside Greg’s mail, without Cam having heard it.
What time is it, anyway? He could leave, but he has no idea where in the city Greg lives. He could be in some random suburb where it’s impossible to get a cab. Cam could walk until he finds a street corner with designated signs and then call a cab back to his car. There’s no point in being here anymore. Cam looks back at his phone. Maybe Abby has texted him back. She’ll know where Greg lives, maybe she could come get him. Maybe he’ll get lucky.
Three missed calls? In the last five minutes? Really? Cam checks—they’re all from Reuben. And several new texts, too.
CALL ME RIGHT NOW
I’M SERIOUS
Cam can practically hear his brother yelling at him. He’s way too hungover for this. Wait, are these texts from Reuben or Abby? Cam sees his message to Abby a
few lines above Reuben’s all caps.
His stomach sinks. Did he accidentally—
Ohhhhh shit.
REUBEN
CAM IS SLEEPING WITH HIS VIC’S LITTLE SISTER. AKA THE LAST known person to see her alive.
What a fucking idiot! Reuben’s hands shake on the steering wheel. He couldn’t sleep last night when he didn’t hear from Cam; and then this morning, when there was still no message, he couldn’t sit still. He nursed a black coffee and told Stacy he’d go get groceries just so he’d have something to do. It’s his day off—he just wanted to sit around watch TV, but Stacy planned this whole family outing, taking the kids swimming. He’d argued that they could wait a couple hours, go to the outdoor pool when it got a bit warmer. In the meantime, he’d go for a drive, clear his head. Come back with some apples or something. Anything.
He hadn’t even gotten to the grocery store when the texts came through, all in a row.
not feeling well this am
need some sexual healing
can u get babysitter for summer?
will be it worth it xxx
He had to pull over. His shithead little brother’s silver-platter life has no consequences. Reuben slams his fist down on the steering wheel and the horn blares.
He needs a beer. He needs a beer he needs a beer a beer a beer a beer—He has not had a beer—or any alcohol, for that matter—since his early twenties, since he joined the force. In college, he drank himself to the point of blackouts more than once until Stacy gave him an ultimatum.
He flings the driver’s side door open, gets out of the car. His whole body is vibrating. He could get suspended for this—or fired. Cam has thought this whole investigation is a cool game or something from the very beginning. Greg is a violent offender for fuck’s sakes. Reuben took a gamble and ended up making everything worse.
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