by Riley Scott
“Quiet down back there,” Wes yelled. “These cells are monitored and you don’t want all those shenanigans to show up in court.”
To his surprise the statement seemed to quiet Trent down for a minute. He craned his neck, listening for any retort. When none came, he leaned back in his desk chair, cradling his neck in the crooks of his arms.
“Play it by ear, Luke. That’s the best advice I’ve got.”
“I’m fuckin’ innocent!” Trent’s wailing started up again and Wes sat up in his chair.
He wanted to drive his fist through the wood on the table in front of him. The kid had been shouting the same damn thing all night. So had his never-fail family. They’d been there to seal up an alibi that he had been having dinner with them—something a little too far-fetched to be believable since he’d been seen at the bar all night.
Nonetheless, they swore by it. His stepmom has even gone so far as to talk about how she was able to smell the booze on his breath, but he stopped by for meatloaf anyway. Trent continued to scream and rattle the bars on his cell. Wes let out a heavy sigh.
“Look, Luke,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night around here. Please take a break and go downtown. You can go get some dinner, stop by your house and take a short nap and come back in later. There’s no sense in both of us being here.”
“No sir,” Luke protested. “I’m fine. I promise. I’ll stick it out with you.”
“No need. I insist. I’ll take a break after you do. Only one of us needs to be here.” Luke frowned as Wes practically pushed him out of the door. Truth was, he had no idea whether or not they both needed to be there. This was the first time they’d had someone in lock up for anything other than driving home from the bar after a couple. Regardless, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have his deputy a little more rested, a little more levelheaded. As it was now, the kid looked strung out—no doubt from the most emotional night on the job any of them had ever had.
Once Luke was out of the office, he opened up his notebook again. Like the rest of them, he wanted to be damn sure they had the right guy. Not only would it bode badly for the town if they kept the mayor’s kid under lock and key if he was innocent, but it would also create a realm of sheer terror if people found out the real killer had been amongst them for the day and a half after his first kill was discovered.
His entire body convulsed as he looked again at the crime scene photos. No matter how many times he viewed the photo of Chloe Stanton’s slain body, it would never cease to sicken him. Lying facedown on the floor, she was found in a pool of her own blood, stabbed multiple times, with a fractured jaw. She was a tough one, though. He looked at the picture, noting the streaks of blood where she had dragged herself along the floor, apparently after the killer had left her house. There she had dialed 911 on her own and died with dispatch still on the line.
Closing his eyes tightly, his fingers shook around the edges of the photograph he still held. Instead of seeing Chloe like that, he wanted to remember the happy-go-lucky girl who had befriended his daughter in kindergarten, the spitfire she was in high school, the woman he pulled over for speeding once a week.
A single tear slid down his cheek as he contemplated all of their encounters. It had only been three days since he had pulled her over after he clocked her going eighty in a fifty-five. They had laughed and joked, she told him about the week’s work on the ranch and promised to slow down, even though they both knew it was a pretty little lie. That girl had a way about her, though. Her down home charm, her humility, and her willingness to help anyone out made her stand out even in an area known for its compassion, friendliness, and outgoing nature. She was a gem, and whoever did this to her deserved the harshest punishment available.
He had often echoed and believed the sentiments others expressed about her lifestyle being difficult to accept. Growing up in this area, it wasn’t something people just accepted. Nonetheless, he had never faulted himself for loving her as a person and silently disapproving. But as he stared back at the picture of her in her weakest moments, he felt the wheels in his head begin to turn, questioning everything he ever believed.
He couldn’t just go alongside believing that she was different, that something was “off” about her, and then be enraged when something like this happened. He could see the parallels between the culture they had created and the path that was paved for something like this to happen. If someone is constantly viewed as less than, as a category all their own, it makes them vulnerable.
“We could have done more,” he whispered, this time allowing more tears to fall. He balled his fists and dried his eyes. He couldn’t cry here. He hadn’t cried in over a decade, and here he was breaking down when he was supposed to be the tough guy. But they came anyway.
He just couldn’t understand. He couldn’t piece it all together. What had she done? What was her crime? Why did someone so full of life have to die?
Setting the file aside, he stood, willing his lungs to fill and his breathing to return to normal. Looking down the dark, narrow hallway, he silently promised himself he would do everything in his power to ensure Trent Westwick rotted in a cell for this.
* * *
Blood orange, streaked with yellows, pinks, and blue filled the evening horizon, and the smell of cattle lingered in the heavy, humid air. This was home, but it no longer felt like it. Bill Stanton removed his hat and looked up at the sunset. He glanced down at the spot beside him and pictured his little messy-haired wild child bouncing up and down next to him.
“It’s so pretty, Daddy,” she’d coo in her sweet little twang. “Lift me up so I can see too.” He’d grab her around the waist and hoist her up onto his shoulders, completely wrapped around her little finger and willing to do anything she asked.
He sighed and reminded himself those days were long gone now, as were the days where she’d join him in this spot after work as an adult. Sunsets were always her favorite. And even by six years old, she had learned the importance of this evening ritual with her father. They’d sit out here, watch the sunset, and talk about life. It had always been that way, especially after her mother died when Chloe was just eight years old. Left with only each other, they’d sit for hours on end, talking about life. He credited those rituals for the ease and openness they had always shared. When she had admitted that she liked girls, he already knew as much. And it never changed the way he looked at her. He wished he could have said the same for everyone in this town who wanted to change her. Sure, there had been times he had wished an easier life for her. But he wouldn’t have changed who she was, and that fact changed nothing about the purity of her heart.
There were too many questions and far too much hurt in his heart to do anything else for the day. His old body ached from being on his feet all day. Though they had told him to go home, he hadn’t been able to until now. He had walked the layout of Chloe’s house at least a hundred times, searching for something concrete to lock the Westwick boy up for good. Aside from tire tracks that could have easily come from his lifted Duramax and a man-sized hole broken into the French doors at the back of Chloe’s house, there was nothing other than evidence pointing to a large person who drove a truck. He had searched for something that might give him some sort of closure. It wasn’t working. Nothing had helped.
He pulled out his phone and thought about giving Ryan another tongue lashing, but the boy had stopped taking his calls. It was worthless anyway, and he’d just be projecting his problems at someone else. He might have been a crappy ranch hand, but the worst he had done was lose his temper at the workplace on an ill-fated day. He knew that as much as that kid could run his mouth, he wasn’t capable of this.
Was he? Nothing was certain anymore. This world was a place he no longer recognized. He stuffed his phone back in his pocket, pacing a few steps before sitting down on the tailgate of his truck.
His mind raced, showcasing a sea of faces. Were any of them capable of something like this? Answers wouldn’t come.
&nb
sp; He glanced upward and watched the sunset for his girl.
In due time, he planned to stop by Amy’s Place. That girl had more to say than she had let on today. And after years of meeting Chloe’s “good friends,” he knew more about her than she probably realized. Regardless, he wanted to talk to her and find out what she might know. More than that, he wanted another glimpse into the insight of one who knew his daughter well.
As the last bits of sun faded into darkness, he sat in their sacred place, hung his head, and gave in to the tears that had been welling up all day.
Chapter Six
Surrounded by pillows and cushions, it felt like the couch had engulfed her. But Amelia didn’t care. This was her only safe haven. It was the one place untouched by Chloe. Even here, thoughts refused to cease, regret refused to be pushed below the surface, and nothing seemed as it once was. Everything was different. Everything was a memory. Everything reminded her that it could have just as easily been her.
Maybe Chloe had been right to live her life so loudly without fear. But it hadn’t gotten her very far. Her closet lacked the comfort that she had previously found in it, though. It was a scary, dark place of fear, one of infinite cowardice. Had she been able to live as boldly as Chloe, maybe Chloe wouldn’t have died alone. Maybe she wouldn’t have died at all. If there was even just one more in Knell, maybe that would have reduced the stigma.
She couldn’t say for sure, but she also couldn’t dispute it. Rising from her spot, she paced around the living room, stopping to tap her foot anxiously. There was no peace because there was no closure. That was true, but it was far deeper than that. There was no peace for her specifically, because it had been days and Chloe’s service was tomorrow, and Amelia had been stubborn in her refusal to admit to anyone aside from Chloe’s dad that the pair were even friends.
Giving in to the need to listen to a song that might come close to expressing her feelings, she flipped through her iTunes until she found one she wanted to hear. Connecting to her Bluetooth speaker, she let the sounds of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” fill the air. With each haunting lyric, she felt the cracks in her heart deepen, until tears fell freely. As the song came to a close, she grabbed a tissue and tried to clean up her crying mess. She braced her hands on her knees and forced her breathing back to normal before she stood. She looked up at the painting on the far wall, a girl staring at her reflection near a riverbank. It was one she had cherished for years, but now she stared at it anew. She, just like the girl, was searching for answers and knew they may never come.
Had it been love? Was this heartache she felt because it was love? Or was it merely because she was grieving and felt a lifetime’s worth of guilt?
Walking over to the mirror on the wall, she looked at her reflection. Her eyes were the same green they always had been, but she didn’t recognize the girl staring back at her. She looked older, more jaded, and far less put together than she ever had. This shred of a human wasn’t who she was raised to be.
Rising from the depths of her soul, she felt the scream boil up in her before it belted out, ripping across her throat and out into the open as she reached up and punched through the mirror, no longer wanting to look at herself.
Blood dripped down her arm and shards of glass now lay strewn about her living room, but she didn’t care. She had far bigger worries than a stain on the carpet. Walking to the center of her living room, she looked around her house. She had nowhere to go, no one to talk to, no way to make this hurt less. Out of the corner of the eye, she caught sight of the business card laying on her end table. Still covered in blood, she walked over to it and picked it up.
“Texans for Equality,” she read aloud for probably the eightieth time that day and let out a long breath. It could be worth a shot, but calling that number might mean outing herself. She flicked the card back and forth between her fingers, contemplating the idea.
“No,” she said, tossing it onto the table and gritting her teeth, only to have a vivid memory of her refusals to Chloe flash into her mind.
Gripping the side of the table for stability, she grabbed the card again and dialed the number before she could talk herself out of it again. Her breathing was ragged and sweat dripped down her palms, causing her to drop her cell phone from her hand. Taking another breath, she picked it back up and placed it next to her ear.
It rang and she thought she might vomit. She wasn’t ready for this—for any of this. It rang again and she heard Dominique’s voice fill the line.
“Hello?”
She dropped the phone again, this time running to the kitchen as though she had seen a ghost.
“This is fucking stupid,” she said aloud to herself, making her feel even crazier. Forcing one foot in front of the other, she made her way back into the living room and scooped up the phone, only to find the line dead.
With a sigh, she plopped onto the couch in defeat. There was no way she could call again, just as there was no doubt Dominique would think she was as batty as anyone around here did after witnessing her behavior the past three days. Regardless of whether or not she had a vessel into which she could pour her woes—be it Dominique or someone else—she was going to have to get it together. She had no other choice. Life had to go on, no matter how badly this all hurt right now.
Perhaps she just needed to find something normal—anything normal to do. Dinner.
Normal people had dinner. She hadn’t in three days. In fact, she couldn’t remember eating anything since the brisket she had cooked for Chloe, and she didn’t really even eat that after their argument. She mentally flipped through a menu of possibilities, based on the staples she knew were still stocked in her kitchen cabinets. With each option, her stomach flipped.
Her phone buzzed on her lap and she jumped. It shouldn’t scare her as much as it did. After all, it had been ringing off the hook most of the week, with her dad mainly just checking to make sure she was okay. It was as if he had some kind of parental insight she couldn’t define. She had promised him she was fine and that she didn’t want to talk. Other than that, her phone had been silent. Not a single call, although her only friend in the world was dead.
She stared at the phone, an Austin number flashing across the screen. She reached up to swipe ignore, but her fingers worked against her, swiping to answer the call.
“Hello,” she said, her words tumbling out at rapid fire pace. “Is this Dominique? I met you at the coffee shop. This is Amelia—Amy—from Amy’s Place.”
“Hi Amelia…or do you prefer Amy?”
“Um…” She paused. No one had actually ever asked her that question. Whether she needed to turn over a new leaf or needed some sort of separation from her identity, she answered boldly. “You can call me Amy.”
“Well it’s nice to hear from you, Amy.” Dominique’s tone was so even and peaceful. Amelia felt her breathing return to a semi-normal pace. “I was hoping you’d call. What can I do for you?”
What could she do? Amelia could list a million things, but none of them were truly plausible. “What if you just tell me what it is you can do? That way I can figure it out. I don’t actually know what to say or what it is that I need.”
“I can listen,” Dominique said. “We can talk about things. I can meet up with you and we can sit together in person if you’d like. I can help you sort out what you might be feeling. If you have a different approach and want to look at things based in the work my organization does, we can look at those options. It all depends on what it is you prefer.”
“Okay.” Amelia let out a sigh. “I honestly don’t know what to talk about. I guess I somehow stupidly hoped you had some kind of magic cure.”
“Unfortunately in grief, there is no magic. There is no cure. There are simply things you can do to make sure you’re on a healthy path of healing.”
“What kind of things?” Amelia paced around the living room, finally opting to sit on the back of the couch and dangle her feet over the edge.
“Talking, for sta
rters.”
“I don’t know what to talk about.” She bit her tongue to keep from babbling. Truth was, she knew exactly what she didn’t want to talk about. But she also didn’t know how to say that. She’d only ever told Chloe.
“Well, let’s start with this,” Dominique said. “Let’s meet up tonight. It’s only six o’clock. Let’s meet up. I’ll buy you dinner, and we can talk.”
“No,” Amelia said. Her voice had been abrasive, so she took a deep breath and continued. “Sorry. I don’t really want to meet up in public.”
“I completely understand. Sometimes being in a public place adds undue pressure to the situation. Where would you like to meet up?”
Once again, without even realizing it, Dominique had managed to calm Amelia in an instant. “My house,” she heard herself saying, before she truly processed what she was agreeing to.
“Text me the address and I’ll head over,” Dominique said. She never missed a beat, and Amelia had to wonder what kind of woman just agreed to come over to a stranger’s house. Before she could judge too harshly, she remembered she was the one who had asked for this encounter, in her personal space.
She looked around and her jaw dropped. If this woman wasn’t going to think she was a complete slob, she had work to do. And she had to do it quickly. Scrambling, she leapt off the couch and began shoving things into the hall closet, under the couch, and wherever she could stash them away in a hurry.
* * *
The burgundy curtains swayed in the air conditioner, making Dominique question everything she knew. This hotel was one step away from being the roach inn, and she was out of her element. She—an out lesbian—had just agreed to go to a stranger’s house in a small town in which someone had just recently been killed for being an out lesbian! In addition to that, she was the only Hispanic person she had seen in the entire town. She was too many kinds of different for a place this white, hetero—a place this much like Mayberry.