“I don’t know,” she said. “What difference does it make?”
I sighed. “It implies …” My gaze wandered to the corner. Jay stared. Our eyes locked. An image of the sheep’s bell dangling from a leather cord around his neck flashed through my mind
“It implies guilt,” I said.
The word hung in the air between Jay and me. I’d breached the wall of secrecy that surrounded him like a thorn patch. More than anything, secrets disconnect us from each other, from our own emotions, from our Higher Power. Now that I knew, Jay wasn’t alone, anymore.
He didn’t seem very grateful for it.
His lips pulled back in a feral grin. Flinging himself from the couch, he launched himself over the table, bringing Sue and me down in a crash. I fell hard, landing on my back, head thudding against the floor. Stars. Jay straddled me, his face contorted out of recognition in anger. He grappled for my neck, hands twisting around my throat, squeezing. He must have a thing for necks. Then, he got creative and set to banging my head repeatedly, rhythmically, against the cheap linoleum. His face, inches from my own, had reverted to an expressionless, business-like determination. I clawed at his face.
Sue, still crawling on the floor next to us, grabbed two fistfuls of hair and tried pulling him off. Jay’s expression never changed, but he did let go long enough to punch her in the face. Suddenly, a cloud of stinging wetness enveloped the three of us, leaving Jay and I screaming and Sue swearing.
I felt Jay being hauled off of me, and hands lifted me from the floor. Through streaming, burning eyes, I saw three guys and Rhonda sitting on Jay. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was crying and yelling, but that might have been because Rhonda was riding him like a bull and smacking his head with her now-empty, crocheted pepper spray carrier. Aside from crazy Rhonda, they had the situation under control.
I let someone lead me to the bathroom, where I joined Sue already at the sink. I was desperate to stick my face under the faucet to let the cool stream run directly over my eyeballs. My lids felt like they were swelling shut, but I vowed to pry them open with my fingers if I had to. Burning acid does not begin to describe the level of pain.
We had a bit of a tussle, because Sue apparently had the same plan. She was meaner, but I was younger and, having been directly in Rhonda’s spray line, infinitely more desperate. Eventually, we took turns in a cup-hands-and-splash rhythm.
After several minutes, and despite a strong resemblance to a Day of the Dead mask - swollen, savaged eyes, mascara smeared from eyebrows to chin, a snot-spigot for a nose - I wet a paper towel, and returned to the lobby.
The police had arrived and were attempting to establish order. Despite having cleared the room of on-lookers, chaos reigned. They’d managed to detach Rhonda from Jay’s back and even though he stood handcuffed between two beefy cops, he looked relieved. Rhonda, also handcuffed, thrashed back and forth between her own holders, attempting a stylized version of flying ninja-judo kicks, while trying to bite her captors. She looked like a serial killer-circus act.
And she certainly wasn’t representing A.A. very well.
Reminding myself that she’d just saved my life, I sighed, then trudged over to introduce the authorities to Jillian’s killer. Surprised them, too. They’d been betting it was Rhonda.
Whittaker 03.5 If Nothing Changes Page 3