by Kate Gable
After that, it got worse. We didn't talk. I know that he went on that date. I don't know what happened, but then an ex-boyfriend of mine from college asked me to meet up.
I haven't seen him in years and I ran into him going on a run just like this. I told him yes.
I don't know what I would have said if Luke and I were actually together, but now I wonder.
Nothing happened with Mark. Of course, he wanted something to happen, but I stopped it.
Now everything that was so right with Luke, seems off somehow.
Wrong.
Off-kilter.
I walk most of the way back, half limping from the stitch in my side. The music blasting in my earphones is no longer enough to take my thoughts away from where they have drifted.
This is why I work so much. This is why I don't like to be alone with my thoughts.
It's easier to just be somewhere else.
It's easier to think about something than my own problems.
I get back to my apartment building, gasping for air. I ran the last half a mile, pushing myself hard through the pain.
My lungs are screaming and yet, no matter how many breaths I take, none are enough.
A loud motorcycle roars by me, deafening me.
Hasn't he ever heard of a muffler? I say silently to myself, annoyed with the noise that I have to put up with living in the city.
You'd think that after all of these years I'd be used to it, but I'm not. There was a time when I craved all of this.
I moved to New York and then to Los Angeles. I couldn't be more excited to get away from the cramped, small town where I grew up.
It all felt so stifling and claustrophobic.
Everyone knew your business no matter how much you tried to keep it to yourself. If I ever did anything wrong, I was certain that all my mom's friends at the school would tell her.
For many years, my mom worked as a librarian at the Big Bear High School. She wasn't a teacher, thank God, but she was there and she knew exactly what was going on. Worse yet, she knew every one of my teachers.
They were friends. They went to potlucks. They went to their kids’ birthday parties.
So, when I was getting out of line, when I spent most of my days lying, sneaking out, and hanging out with people I wasn't supposed to, she heard all about it.
My mom still works at the high school. Only part time now.
The library position was downsized. It’s not like a high school needs a librarian, right? She has picked up a few shifts at the public library in town, minimum wage work, no benefits.
This isn't a big city library. She could probably make more waiting tables, but that's not what she has her Master’s in. She's the type of person that likes to correct people's spelling, emails, and text messages. She acts like she doesn't mind the low salary, but I know that it gets to her.
I climb up the stairs to my apartment. I notice that I need to ask my landlord to paint my front door.
The green paint is chipping on the side, making it look rather shabby and not at all chic. I put my key in the door and as soon as I open it, I see her sitting on the couch, sobbing.
4
Sydney Sutka and I have been friends for a few years.
She has a graduate degree in psychology and she hasn't taken the most conventional route to become a police officer. So, we connected immediately.
Her thick, dark hair rolls in waves with each sob. I rush over to her and put my arm around her, hugging her tightly.
I ask her what's wrong over and over again, but every time she comes up for air to say something, she loses it and gets choked up.
I pat her back, trying to calm her down.
"I think he's cheating on me," Sydney says through the sobs.
This takes me by surprise.
Patrick Flannery, her fiancé, is about as salt of the earth as one gets. He's an FBI agent from a nice family, with three or four siblings. His parents have been married for years and all of his siblings are, too.
When the two of them got together, I figured that would be it for her. They'd be happily together for years to come and I'd be their sad little friend who could never find the right guy to date.
"What makes you say that?" I ask. "Why do you think he's cheating on you?"
She shakes her head trying to get it out, but she still needs more time. After a few more gulps of air, she finally looks up at me with her big almond eyes, wiping the mascara under her lids with the back of her hand.
"I found the secret folder on his phone,” she whispers. “He gave me the password and he wanted me to text someone back when he was driving. Then when he was taking a shower the other day, his phone was there and I had the password so I just looked. It was a joke at first. I was just curious. I didn't expect to find anything."
I nod and rub the small of her back.
"I had no idea that I was going to find something. I had no idea that... God, I'm such an idiot."
She takes her head and begins to cry again.
I ask her for more details.
She explains that apparently she found a folder with pictures, explicit ones of different girls from different sites.
I ask her if maybe they are just pictures of porn stars: no one specifically, no one important.
“No, I thought that, too, but I kept looking and saw pictures of him with them in a hot tub,” she says, pulling out her phone. “I just can't believe that I was so stupid. I sent a bunch of them to myself. Look!"
We start to go through them.
In the first one, Patrick has blurry eyes, clearly intoxicated, sitting in an enormous jacuzzi with two girls kissing each other and him.
There are a few other guys there as well and it looks like Vegas in the background.
There's a video of him playing pool and slapping the girl's butt while they both grind against each other.
There's video of him, naked, drinking champagne off of her naked breasts.
"When was he doing all of this?" I ask.
“I don’t know. He said he was working a lot more than he was. I'm just such an idiot."
"Listen, you know he's an FBI agent. He's good at lying."
"I should have known. I'm a cop," Sydney says. "I was going to marry this guy. I was going to have kids with him. I mean, I thought that I actually found a decent person."
"I'm really sorry, honey. What happened when you found all of this?"
She shakes her head.
"Did you talk to him?"
"No."
"You didn't?"
"No. I just left. I couldn't handle it. I didn't want to have a fight. I had to go to work. I don't know. I just was so dumb. I guess I should have confronted him, but I needed to figure out my feelings first. I just can't believe that I was going to marry this person. Like, who is he?"
Sydney looks down at her one-carat princess cut diamond ring and pulls it off her finger.
When she throws it across the room, it hits the window on the other end. I want to tell her that she's overreacting and that she needs to give Patrick a chance to explain, but I don't want to. I don't think she is doing anything that I wouldn’t.
"Can I stay here tonight?” She sobs and takes off her boots.
"Yes, of course." I nod.
I head to my closet and give her a pair of the comfiest pajamas that I own. She changes right in the living room, and I turn away and go to the kitchen to pour us some wine.
I change as well and give her my robe. After we're both wearing the comfiest clothes we possibly can, all wrapped up in a cloud, with a glass of wine in our hands, she turns to me and tells me that she's sorry.
"For what? You have nothing to be sorry for."
She shakes her head and I wait for her to explain.
"I lied to you. I mean, not overtly, but I was such an idiot."
"What do you mean?" I ask, taking another sip.
The Chardonnay puts me at ease and I'm certain that whatever she's apologizing for hardly matters.
"When you found out that Thomas was cheating, I judged you. I thought to myself, there's no way that you couldn't know. I mean, you're dating someone, you're with him a lot. You have to know something, right?"
I hate the fact that she’s bringing up Thomas. I still feel raw about talking about him.
Thomas is a cop who works in my department. He’s someone I see on an almost daily basis. We dated for a while and I thought that we were going to be together forever. I never thought that way about anyone before.
In fact, reflecting back on that moment, I feel like a fool.
He made me laugh. We liked the same things. We hated the same things. We seemed to have a lot in common.
He asked me to marry him in a French restaurant and when he got down on one knee, everyone clapped and we got free dessert.
Then I found out the truth. He cheated on me and is having a baby with someone else.
From what I heard from the rumor mill at work is that she's a court reporter and he started seeing her about six months ago. At first it was casual and they were going to break things off, but then she got pregnant.
I guess they're together. The problem is not that he didn't want to be with me. The problem is that he led me on and didn't even bother to tell me the truth.
"When that happened to you," Sydney says, reaching over and taking my hand in hers, "I felt so bad for you. I was so embarrassed and just horrified, but I said to myself that could never happen to me. I would know that he's a cheater."
I shake my head and look away. It's too hard to look directly at her.
"You know what? You couldn't have known and I couldn't have known. I'm just really sorry that I was such a bad friend."
"You were not a bad friend." I squeeze her hand back. "We all think things like that sometimes and what's important is that you were there for me when I needed you. I did need you then and I'll be there for you through this."
"I just feel like such an idiot, you know?" She wipes more tears.
I nod.
"I mean, you told me not to date people in law enforcement and obviously we all know that because then you end up working with them, but with Patrick, it was different. You know, things clicked and his family was so nice and everyone is so happily married."
"Well, as far as you know," I joke.
She raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth to say something, but the words don't quite come out.
"Listen, we all want to know the truth about everyone that we're with and we think we do. Given the fact that we're detectives, we put additional stress on our ability to figure people out, but it's not that easy when your heart is involved. You couldn't have known anything about Patrick."
"I could have if I looked in his phone earlier,” she insists.
"Yeah, but then you wouldn't have trusted him and what kind of relationship starts out with no trust?” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “No, you have to give it a chance. In the future, you'll have to give it a chance as well. You'll have to accept that the next guy is telling you the truth. Otherwise you won't be able to move on, you know?"
"Is that what you're doing with Luke?" she asks.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
I wish I could tell her the truth. I wish I could admit that's precisely what I'm doing.
I'm just giving it a shot and I'm jumping in with both feet, but I have my doubts. I got upset with him for no reason at all.
My past and the fact that I've been hurt is all there. It's all coming to the surface at the worst possible time.
"I'm trying, you know?" I finally say. "You'll have to try, too, but not tonight. Tonight you just have to lick your wounds and try to figure out what you want to do.”
5
Sydney sleeps over in my living room after I make up the couch and we both wake up right before six the following morning. Before I get ready for work, normally I like to sleep in if I can, but today's not one of those days.
The sooner that I can get all of this taken care of, the sooner I can get back to trying to figure out what happened to Violet.
I have a few bagels in the pantry, along with jam and some vegan cream cheese.
"How's that going not eating dairy and meat?" she asks, spreading the cheese on her freshly toasted bagel.
"It's okay."
"Don't you miss it? Bacon, eggs?"
"I still have eggs," I admit. "I’m kind of trying to take it slow. I have dairy on occasion when I'm out, but I don't buy any to have at home. Easing into it, so to say."
"What about the meat?"
"Been having vegetarian burgers and some of that imitation meat, but no, I can't say I really miss it. I've been trying to eat more vegetables anyway, as well as beans and lentils."
"Well, you're a better person than I am.” Sydney smiles, taking a big bite of her bagel and wiping the corners of her mouth.
"You know, you can do it, too, if you want to."
"Yeah, I think I may, but not quite yet. I'm too stressed out by everything, if you know what I mean?"
"You have to do it at a good time in your life.” I nod.
"It's like making any other change. Speaking of that, how's the workout regimen?"
"Start and stop. I ran last night, but I didn't for a few previous days."
"Well, now that you're traveling so much between here and back home, I'm sure it's hard."
I wish that I could say that's entirely what's going on, but in reality, I'm just not really into it.
I'm hesitant to bring up Patrick, but I also feel awkward not saying anything, given the fact that the whole reason why she slept over is because of what happened.
"So, what are your thoughts about…you know?” I ask, trying to be as casual as possible.
"I don't know. I have to figure out a way to get my stuff out of that apartment.”
She shoves a quarter of the bagel into her mouth, chewing fervently.
"Are you going to talk to him?"
"I was going to. But now I don’t know. I keep going back and forth."
"What do you mean?" I ask. "Don't you want to just lay into him and have a big fight?"
"No, I don't."
I nod.
"I'm just exhausted. I'm angry and I mainly don't want to hear more lies. If he hadn't told me about it, I think he'll just make up some stuff. Tell me I'm wrong. I'm just over it. What can he really tell me? What can he really say? They are pictures of him and videos of him with all of these women. I mean, why did he do this?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug.
“Because he wanted to. He thought he could get away with it."
"I'm really sorry, Syd," I say, wrapping my hand around her shoulders. She just shrugs me off.
"Listen. Maybe I can change my mind about everything."
"You mean to go back to him?" I gasp.
"No, no, not that, but relationships are complicated. If I see him, I may yell at him, start a bonfire, burn his clothes. Now, that’s an idea! Will you help me go to our apartment and get some of my stuff?"
"Yes, of course," I say.
"Also, can I stay with you?" she asks.
"Of course. You don't even have to ask."
"Thanks. That's such a relief. That's the problem when you live with someone. You kind of have nowhere to go."
"You can stay with me as long as you want," I say. I give her another hug and this time she holds on.
I drive over to her apartment in my car. She drives hers and I help her load a bunch of things into my trunk and back seat.
She packs garbage bags full of her clothes and grabs a few fixtures and decor items from the mantel and the dining room table.
She also packs a box full of books from the bottom shelves of the bookcase, making the apartment look about as cleared out as you can with two cars of things.
We drive back over to my place and I quickly regret my decision in letting her not just stay, but move in.
When she asked, I thought that she would grab a suitcase or
two and live out of those until she found her own place, not actually pack up all of her stuff and move in.
It takes about four trips up and down the stairs to unload all of her stuff. I’m completely spent and it's not even eight in the morning.
"God, I need a nap," I say, sitting down on my couch for a moment and looking around with all of her things stacked in ugly piles in my living room.
"I'm really sorry about all of this," Sydney says, looking around as well and biting her lower lip. "I didn't realize that I took so much stuff."
I shrug. What else is there to say in this situation?
"I can go back."
"No, of course not, that's ridiculous. We'll figure it out. You can put some stuff in my room or when you find a new place, whatever."
I'm not particularly picky about my decorations and I'm not someone who uses catalogs to design my living space, but all of this clutter in boxes and bags gives me a bit of anxiety. I want to get out of this place as soon as I can.
Luckily, my phone rings. I don't recognize the number at first, but as soon as I answer, I know exactly who it is. His voice is frantic and out of control, just like it was yesterday.
It's Peter Millian, the father of the Marine in whose apartment we found the dead girl.
"He's using his credit cards," Peter says in a rushed, frantic way. "Detective Carr, did you hear me?"
"Yes, yes, I'm here. Who? Who's using the credit cards?"
"My son or maybe someone else using his credit cards?" he asks as if that thought just occurred to him. "I don't know, but I've been tracking them on my banking app and he's withdrawn $400 at three different ATMs about thirty minutes apart, just this morning."
"Okay, okay, that's good. Thanks for letting me know. Why don't you come into the precinct to show me what you found and we can contact the bank to get the footage, to see if it is your son."
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he says and hangs up.
"What's wrong?" Sydney asks as I turn the mood ring around my finger in circles. I fill her in.
"That's good, right? Maybe it's his son using the ATM."
"Yeah, it probably is. The problem is that I kind of feel bad for him,” I admit. “He's being very helpful and you know how this goes. It doesn't look good. His son probably killed her and maybe had some sort of psychotic break or whatever. His father is so certain that he didn't do it, couldn’t have done it, and he's doing all of these things to give us the evidence against his son. I'm grateful, as a detective, but my heart goes out to him as a fellow human being."