The Bad Break

by Jill Orr

  I punched at his name in my Favorites section and waited for him to answer as I followed the gray BMW down the dirt road.

  “Hey Riley,” he said, his voice sounding perfectly casual.

  “Hey. Just got done with work and I was thinking of heading over. What’re you doing?”

  Short pause. “Just driving home from work.”

  He sounded normal, but then again he’d been an undercover agent. He practically lied for a living. “Okay, cool. Will you be home soon? I’m not far . . .”

  “Uh, yeah.” His voice was losing some of its coolness. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “How’s the traffic on I-95?”

  He paused, this time longer. “Um, you know . . .” In that moment I felt certain Jay was driving the car in front of me. And what was worse was that I was sure he knew that I knew it. It was time to end this.

  I stepped on the accelerator until I got right up on the tail of the BMW and laid on the horn for about ten seconds. As expected, I heard the sound reverberate through the Bluetooth. My pulse raced. “You’re following me?” I shouted.

  “Riley, let me explain—”

  “No need,” I said, slamming on my brakes to turn around. “I think I understand perfectly.”

  There are a lot of good things about driving a used Nissan Cube. It gets good gas mileage; it’s one of only three in Tuttle Corner, so I could always find it; and, after my beloved Honda Fit was blown up a few months ago, it was all I could afford with the insurance money. The downside of driving a used Cube was that it was not the best for outrunning a BMW.

  After I turned around, Jay starting calling me repeatedly, which I completely ignored. I was livid. I knew he had been worried about me going out to the Nichols house, he’d said as much right to my face, and even though I told him I could handle it, it appeared as though he had appointed himself my security detail. It was beyond insulting.

  Jay caught up to me right before I was going to turn from the gravel road back onto the main one and pulled his car in front of mine. I had no choice but to stop, my blood boiling at the gall of this man—who not only clearly didn’t trust me, but who was now going to force me to talk to him when I so very obviously didn’t want to. But with literally no place to go, I put my car into park. He got out and walked toward me. I craned my face to the passenger window, refusing, princess-like, to even look at him.

  “Riley,” he said through the glass. “Open up, let me explain.”

  I turned my shoulders even farther away from the window to make the point that I had no intention of speaking to him.

  “C’mon . . .” His voice sounded as soft as one could sound when needing to project through a car window. “Please.”

  I didn’t move.

  He walked around the front of the car to the passenger side. So of course I turned my shoulders one hundred and eighty degrees the other way. He pivoted, midstep, and came back around to the driver side. The headlights from my car illuminated his path from one coast to the other. I switched them off and felt a surge of satisfaction when I heard him knock his knee on the Cube’s left front bumper.

  Now back at the driver’s side window, he leaned his face close to the glass. “Okay, fine. Have it your way. I’ll talk from here. You can listen.”

  I kept up my campaign of silence, arms folded tightly across my chest.

  “I did go out to the Nichols house this afternoon, but I only did it to make sure you were okay.”

  At least he had the decency to not lie to me.

  “I was worried about you. When I got back to the office I ran Bennett Nichols’s name through the system and found out he has a record of assault. The thought of you going out there alone . . . well, it gnawed at me. So I thought I’d go out there and be nearby, you know, in case you needed me or something.”

  Bennett Nichols had a record for assault? I’d have to remember to check that out later, when I wasn’t in a big old fight with my boyfriend.

  “Why didn’t you just call and tell me that?” I yelled through the window, still not looking at him.

  “Because I didn’t want to interfere, as crazy as that sounds.” He put a hand up to the window. “Will you let me explain . . . please?”

  I hesitated and then rolled down the window. About three inches. “Talk.” I said, my eyes focused straight ahead.

  I heard him sigh, whether it was out of exasperation or relief I didn’t know and didn’t care. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve seen people do some really messed-up things when they’ve felt threatened. My job . . . well, let’s just say it exposes me to the worst of human nature. I was worried about you, that’s all. Maybe I overstepped—”

  “Maybe?” I snapped

  “I did overstep.”

  “You’re damn right you did. Do you have any idea how insulting this is? Not to mention completely unprofessional!”

  Jay hooked his fingers over the window (I briefly considered rolling it up). “I’m sorry. I acted out of instinct and it was a bad call . . .”

  I didn’t know what to think. Was he really sorry or only sorry because I found out?

  As if he could read my mind, he said, “Riley, I’m really sorry.”

  The intensity of his voice, almost begging me to forgive him, washed over me, dampening the remaining sparks of anger. “You should be,” I said.

  “I am. Honestly.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I know. It was wrong. Let me make it up to you?”

  I turned to look at him properly for the first time since he walked over. He certainly looked sorry. And sincere. And super cute. And like he might have a few interesting ideas about how to make it up to me if I rolled this window down a little farther. And so I did.

  Hey Riley,

  Can I just say that I think we might have an almost psychic connection! I was thinking about u at the exact minute ur email came through. Crazy!

  Also crazy about ur man following u . . . I don’t love that, I’ve gotta b honest. But if he says he’s sorry then I guess it’s fair to give him another chance. Fool me once, u know what I’m saying! But if he does it again, I think ur gonna need to invoke the wise words from Hamlet, Act III, Scene III, line 87, and tell him, “No.”

  I’m sending u a link to a Bestmillenniallife.com podcast available for $1.99 on iTunes. This one is called GIVE IT UP and it focuses on how to learn to let go and live a more present, now-centered existence. But whatever u do, make sure u get GIVE IT UP from Bestmillenniallife.com and not another company because apparently, there’s another app with that same name that has quite a different message—haha lol!

  Anyway. Give it a try and see if it helps—$1.99 is a pretty small investment* in ur mental well being, right? Or u could also share it with ur guy and see if it helps him. Sounds like the dude has some control issues.

  xx,

  Jenna B

  Personal Success Concierge™

  Bestmillenniallife.com

  * I am obligated to tell you that the term “investment” here is used for promotional purposes only. Bestmillenniallife.com makes no claim that our products or services will directly result in any monetary gain. (Ugh, lawyers.)

  CHAPTER 19

  I woke up the next morning with Coltrane on my bed and Jay on my mind. After we’d made up, we decided to grab some dinner at Monroe’s, a bar in West Bay, rather than go home and cook as we had planned. We had a good time at dinner, and by the end of the evening I’d almost forgotten about the way it had started. I hadn’t stayed over at his place because Jay was working in the DC office again this morning and had to get up ridiculously early in order to make an early morning meeting. So instead of snuggling with Jay, I spent the night next to Coltrane, who—by the look of him, all coiled up like a large furry snake—was pretty happy with the way things worked out.

  I was still a little bothered by what Jay did, but I was trying to let it go. After all, he’d apologized and I believed he meant it. And b
esides, he’d only followed me to make sure I was safe, so in a way that was a good thing. I rolled over and said to Coltrane, “A boyfriend who cares about your safety is better than one who doesn’t, right, buddy?” He licked himself in response. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

  Ready for some caffeine and a dose of perspective, I got up, made coffee, and went online to read the morning’s obits. I read about a woman who died at the age of sixty-four after a long battle with breast cancer. It was filled with warrior imagery and metaphors about battles fought and ultimately lost—but interestingly, mourners were asked to make donations not to one of the many cancer charities, but to the Critter Connection, a nonprofit organization dedicated to the rescue and rehabilitation of guinea pigs. And then I read about the life and death of a Latino man living in New York City who started the first off-Broadway theater company to produce the work of Latino playwrights in English. His life had not been an easy one, according to his partner, but it had meant something to an entire community. Then there was the story of Galen McDougal, a former British MP who died at the age of ninety-two, a man described as “far too inquisitive for his own good” and “unembarrassable” by his friends and colleagues. He never married, had no children, but was said to have always worked hard for his constituents—that was his legacy. That, and an infamous recording of him singing Rupert Holmes’s “Piña Colada Song” at an office karaoke party back in 2004 that was referenced by three of the people interviewed in the obit. I guess you never know what people will remember you for once you’re gone.

  I thought about Arthur Davenport and what people would remember about his life now that he was gone. It was clear that he was what most of us are in the end: complicated. He was obviously a hard-working physician who had touched many people’s lives through his work. But equally as obvious was that he also had some flaws that had gotten him into trouble—how much trouble was the question on my mind. Could one of Arthur’s many trysts been the reason he was murdered? There was the affair with Libby Nichols and the almost unbelievable implication about a relationship with the mayor.

  It was almost unbelievable because up until a few years ago, Shaylene Lancett was a single woman who owned a religious gift and book shop called Inviting Praise on the square in downtown Tuttle. Three years ago, she’d decided to run for mayor against Gary Dubois, who’d served as mayor for the three previous terms. Largely due to Mayor Dubois’s unpopular push to move the Johnnycake Festival to the fall, Tuttle’s citizens had voted Shaylene into office on a summer-or-bust corncake mandate. And so far, so good. She was generally considered a good mayor who didn’t rock the proverbial boat too much.

  Shaylene found love soon after taking office. She married Theo Gladstone just two years ago in a rather strange ceremony in Memorial Park. I knew this because my parents had been asked to play at the wedding (Shaylene and Theo’s wedding song was “The Rainbow Connection”—which is also the name of my parents’ band). I remember Mom telling me how the two of them met at special screening of the most recent Muppets movie during the summer family film series put on by the parks department. Shaylene and Theo were both of a certain age, both there alone, and both apparently huge Muppets fans. It was kismet. Their wedding had been Kermit-and-Piggy-themed down to the pink-and-green layer cake.

  The idea that Shaylene Lancett was some sort of murderous ex-girlfriend of Arthur Davenport was more than a little peculiar. Had Shaylene and Arthur Davenport dated at some point? Was it before she married Theo, or could this be yet another affair? Or was this just something Libby Nichols made up to throw suspicion off herself and her husband? Those were all questions that needed answers. Lucky for me I had an entire day with which to chase them down. I knew my mom and Shaylene had kept in touch, so I texted Mom to see if she knew anything about Shaylene and Arthur. It was early, but I knew my mom never slept past seven. She called me about three seconds after I texted.

  “Are you okay? Why are you asking about Shaylene and Arthur? What’s happening, Riley?”

  “Calm down, Mom,” I said. “I’m writing Dr. Davenport’s obit and I’m just fact checking a few things, that’s all.” That wasn’t true, strictly speaking, but Mom had been nervous when I made the move to the newspaper and I didn’t see any reason to worry her, especially while she was out of town.

  “Oh. Well, if you’re sure everything’s okay . . .”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m sure. What about Shaylene and Arthur?”

  “Funny you mention it, because there was some sort of issue between them,” she said. “I don’t know exactly what it was, I just remember Shaylene telling me right before the wedding that they’d been close, but he’d done something unforgiveable.”

  That sounded ominous. “And she didn’t say what?”

  “No,” my mom said. “I’d gone over to her house a few hours before the ceremony to go over some last-minute details and she was upset. She didn’t want to talk about it. One thing I can tell you is that she’s completely gaga over Theo. Can you imagine two people who love the Muppets that much finding each other?”

  We chatted for a while longer about how things were going on their road trip, and then she put my dad on the phone, who spent at least six minutes singing the praises of Craisins. “Have you ever had one, Riley? It’s like the raisin’s bolder, tastier cousin! I can’t believe I’ve lived fifty-six years without ever having had a Craisin. Now I’ve got bags of them stashed all over the place. I’ve got Craisins in the car, in my guitar case, in my dopp kit . . .”

  I love my father very much but finally had to cut him off. This kind of talk could go on for a while. “Okay, love you guys! I’ll see you when you get back, okay?”

  After about ten “I love yous” and “We’re so proud of yous” later I left for work with that feeling you get when you leave for the airport and you’re sure you’ve forgotten something critical. I had my purse and my laptop, so it wasn’t that . . . could it be somebody’s birthday? I mentally scrolled through my mom, dad, Dr. H, Tabitha, Ryan . . . nope . . .

  “You okay?” Flick walked up behind me and through the front door.

  “I think so.” Probably just a case of having too much on my mind, I thought. I set down my bag at my cubicle and followed Flick down the hall.

  As we walked into his office he said, “You’re not worried about Holman, are you?”

  The question actually made me laugh. Of all the things I might currently be worried about, Holman wasn’t one of them. “Uh, no.”

  He hesitated for a moment, and looked like he was working his way up to something. “Um, it’s none of my business or anything, but you and Holman . . . are you guys . . .?”

  Before he could complete the thought I jumped in. “Oh gosh no!”

  He flinched at my strong response.

  “I don’t mean to sound rude about it or anything,” I said, color rushing to my cheeks, “but we are just friends. Co-workers. That’s it.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Just wondering. It’s none of my business, I was just worried about you.” It was his turn to look embarrassed now. “Not that it’s my place or anything, but I was concerned—or maybe just curious, I guess.” Flick couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he had been standing in the feminine hygiene aisle at Landry’s.

  I felt a sudden rush of affection for him that I hadn’t felt in years. He reminded me so much of my granddaddy, even though they were opposites in many ways. Where Flick was gruff, Granddad had been even-tempered. The two of them frequently sparred over politics or sports or which was the best movie about real-life journalists. Granddad favored All the President’s Men, while Flick argued for Broadcast News, but their constant back-and-forth was a testament to their deep respect and affection for each other.

  “Flick,” I said, unable to keep the question at bay. “Do you miss him?”

  It only took him a half second to catch onto what I was talking about. He looked me dead in the eye. “Every single day.”

  We sat in sile
nce with years of grief around us, filling his small office with emotions that neither one of us was particularly good at handling. I took a deep breath and asked the question that had haunted me for the past five years: “Why didn’t you fight for him?”

  Flick’s eyes snapped up to mine, and I thought for a minute he was going to yell at me again. But he didn’t. He sat with the question for a good ten seconds before he answered. “Albert was my best friend in the world, and I would have done anything for him. Anything.” He paused, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. “And before he died, he asked me for something. He made me promise. And so I kept my promise even though it meant breaking your heart.”

  Tears blurred my vision; I blinked and one rolled down my cheek. “What do you mean?”

  “He asked me to keep you safe.”

  “What?” I asked, confused. “Safe from what, from who?”

  Flick shook his head. “I can’t say anymore.”

  “But you have to!” I felt the desperation of five years of unanswered questions building inside my chest.

  “If I told you, I wouldn’t be keeping up my end of the deal.” A sad, slow smile crossed his face. “But I want you to know that I’ve never given up on finding out what happened to Albert.” And then he gave me a look that I felt in my bones. “And I never will.”

  If he was still trying to find out “what happened to Albert,” that must mean he didn’t think it was a suicide after all. I knew it! I started to say this just as Flick’s phone rang and he picked it up. He nodded his head toward the door. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted him to tell me what he was doing, what he knew, what his theories were.

  He motioned with his free hand at the door. He wasn’t going to talk to me—at least not at that moment. I’d have to try again later. I stood up and walked out of his office in a daze. Why had Granddad asked Flick to protect me? And from what? And why had Flick kept this a secret until now? It was obvious Flick didn’t want to tell me, but eventually he’d have to. I’d find a way to make him. I wasn’t a kid anymore, I was a full-grown woman—a reporter, no less—who could handle whatever secrets Flick was hiding. And more than that, I deserved to know the truth.