Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “A lawman like you wouldn’t lie to impress a big-city girl, would he?”

  “If I knew stripes got you so hot and bothered, I would have told you I was chief of police,” he says.

  I shoot him a smile. “So what can you tell me about the case?”

  “What are you willing to do for it?”

  “Hopefully, not what you’re thinking.” It pains me to beg this asshole for information.

  “I’m offended that you think I’m so crass.”

  “How about making me an offer and we’ll see how crass you truly are.”

  Stef dashes out into the dining room with a broken, misshapen omelette smoking on the plate. What a complete mess. She’s failed miserably at presentation, but at least she’s used real eggs to make it. Although I’ve developed a strong antipathy toward her, I admire her spunk and determination. I have to remind myself that she’s a fifteen-year-old girl forced to work at four in the morning in a crappy diner run by her grandfather. She places it down on the counter and stabs a fork at me. I cut into it, blow on the chunk, and ease it gently into my mouth.

  “Pretty damn good, right?” she says proudly.

  Dalton reaches over with his fork, cuts off a piece, and takes a bite. “Not bad for a kid.”

  “I’m no kid, Dalton.”

  “It’s Detective to you. Show some respect for the law.”

  The girl rolls her eyes.

  “Besides, I was paying you a compliment,” Dalton says. “That’s a damn good omelette.”

  “I’m more interested in what Miss Universe has to say,” she says.

  “I’ve had better.” I push it away as if disappointed, but in actuality it’s a big improvement from the one I sampled yesterday.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that omelette.” She glares at me.

  “If you say.”

  “Okay, Miss Fancy-Pants, tell me what you don’t like about it.”

  “For starters, you didn’t whip the eggs long enough. See the discolored strands of yoke running through it?” I point out the striations in the egg. “And you added milk. That’s the worst thing you can do to an omelette.”

  Stef crosses her arms as a vein pulses on her forehead.

  “And you let the pan get too hot. See the brown spots on the bottom?” I lift it up and show her.

  “Okay, I heard you. I’d like to see you do better,” she says defiantly.

  I turn to the cop. “How do you like your omelette, Dalton?”

  “Love a good Western.”

  “How about we make a trade. I make you an omelette and in exchange you give me some information about the girl?”

  “Okay, but only if it’s the greatest omelette I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Trust me, you’ll think you went to omelette heaven after I’m through with it.” I turn to Stef. “Okay if I use the kitchen?”

  “Knock yourself out. And I mean that literally, b . . .” Did she just mutter bitch under her breath?

  I dash back to the kitchen and am horrified by what I see. It’s in such woeful condition that it makes me think twice about cooking here. Without a doubt, it’s the dirtiest, grossest kitchen I’ve ever come across. I debate turning and leaving, but the chance to learn something new about this murdered girl prevents me from doing so. I grab a dented frying pan, add a dollop of butter, and heat it up. After finding the whisk, I gently break four eggs into a bowl and then beat them until everything blends perfectly together. When the pan is sufficiently warm, but not too hot, I pour in the eggs. Using a wooden stick to agitate the curds, I work the pan until the omelette starts to set. Then I add ham, chopped onion, red and green bell pepper, salt, and pepper. I fold it over, give it a gentle flip, count to ten, and then plate it. Two slices of toast, buttered and cut diagonally, get placed on either side of the plate. After garnishing it with a twig of parsley, I walk back into the dining room and drop the plate on the counter so that it makes a loud clatter. The omelette is shaped perfectly and resembles a crescent moon. Whorls of steam coil gently up toward the water-stained ceiling.

  “Holy shit!” Dalton says.

  “You made that?” Stef says, staring at it in awe.

  “With my own hands,” I say. “Making an omelette isn’t exactly rocket science.”

  “Better taste it, Dalton, before you start getting all lovey-dovey,” she says.

  “How many times I got to tell you, Stef? It’s Detective Dalton to you.”

  “Stop bickering, you two, and dig in,” I say.

  “Oh my God! This tastes like a pillow in my mouth,” Dalton says. “It’s so light and airy.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Stef says bitterly before slinking back to the kitchen.

  “Where’d you learn to cook like this?” Dalton asks.

  “Just shut up and enjoy your omelette.”

  He takes a bite and then another.

  “You ready to make good on your promise now?” I say.

  “What is it you want again?”

  “How about taking me down to where the girl was murdered?”

  He stops chewing and stares at me. “Really?” He takes another bite with a piece of toast and appears to mull it over. “Okay, I don’t see why not.”

  “When can we go?”

  “How about this morning around eight? I have a few things to do beforehand.”

  I open my mouth to answer when the door opens and Stef’s mother walks in. Despite it being a long time since we’ve seen each other, I recognize her instantly. She’s even lovelier than when I saw her last. She looks in my direction, but I can tell she doesn’t recognize me. It’s only when she approaches the counter and sees the miniature tattoo of Hercules Knot on my inner wrist, that her face turns ashen and our eyes lock.

  She knows who I am.

  6

  NADIA TIES AN APRON AROUND HER WAIST WHILE KEEPING HER EYES glued to me. After downing the dregs of his coffee, Dalton introduces me to her before heading out to his cruiser to resume catching speeders and saving cats. We agree to meet back here in the parking lot and then take his cruiser down to the crime scene.

  “What are you doing back here, Lucy?” Nadia whispers. Her Greek accent is barely noticeable.

  “It’s complicated,” I say. “I’m amazed that you recognized me.”

  “We dated for three years and have known each other a lot longer. And how could I forget the secret tattoos we got on our wrists?”

  “Symbolizing our undying love and commitment?”

  “Exactly. And look how that turned out.”

  “Do you know how much it bothered me that we had to keep our relationship secret?”

  “It was a different time. This town wasn’t ready for a couple of misfits like us.” She smiles in that girlish manner I’ve always loved.

  “It’s one of the reasons I left.”

  “My family was right off the boat from Greece, and you know how traditional my parents were.”

  “They wanted you to marry a nice Greek boy.”

  “And you were the furthest thing from a nice Greek boy.”

  “Seriously, Nadia, you look wonderful.”

  “Not as good as you. You look absolutely ravishing.” She stands back to take me in, grabbing a few strands of my hair. “When did this happen?”

  “After I got out of the army.”

  “No one here will even know you.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you all these years.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “It broke my heart when you upped and left without even a good-bye.”

  “I had no choice. Fawn Grove was suffocating me,” I whisper. “Besides, we both knew we had no future together.”

  She shrugs and leans into me. “Look at you, girl. I can’t believe you’ve returned home after all these years.”

  “Temporarily.”

  “How does it feel to be back?”

  “Weird.” I notice the diamond ring on
her finger. “I really missed certain things about this place while I was away. Like The Galaxy’s double cheeseburger.”

  “How about we sit in one of the booths and catch up on things.”

  I suddenly feel like crying for no apparent reason. “I can’t right now.”

  “That’s all right, sweetie. We can do it some other time.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring up Jaxon while I’m home.”

  “Of course. He’s in the past now. Just know that I’m here for you if you ever want to talk about him.”

  “I have all these confused feelings swirling inside me now that I’m back. It might take a while to get adjusted.”

  “Most people in town believe you were killed over in Afghanistan.”

  “They’re partially right.”

  “How bad were you hurt?”

  “Lost both legs below the knee.”

  Tears fall from her eyes, and she grabs a napkin and dabs them away. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I suffered a breakdown while living in New York City and couldn’t work anymore. That’s why I returned to Fawn Grove. To get my shit back together.”

  “Is there any chance you might stay longer?”

  “Don’t really know just yet.”

  “You must think about that attack every day of your life.”

  “Three soldiers were killed and two others were badly wounded. But that wasn’t the cause of my breakdown.”

  A customer walks through the door and sits at the counter.

  “Can we talk about this later?” she asks, grabbing a mug and the pot of coffee. She pours the man a cup before returning to where I’m sitting.

  “As long as we don’t bring up the past. That’s my only rule.”

  “Of course.” She pauses a few seconds before saying, “I overheard you saying that you’re going somewhere with Dalton.”

  “He’s taking me down to the spot where that girl was murdered.”

  “But why?” She looks startled.

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Dalton’s not really changed since you left, except now he’s a cop. I don’t trust him, and neither should you.”

  “I despise Dalton, but I can handle him.” I stand to leave. “I have to go home and change before I meet up with him.”

  “I’m warning you, Lucy. He’s still a snake.”

  I laugh. “And snakes never change their stripes, right?”

  “Right. And don’t let him fool you into thinking he’s sympathetic to the plight of these immigrants. He’s totally against them settling here and will tell anyone who will listen to him.”

  “Then why is he assisting the state police on this case?”

  “Supposedly, he’s the only cop in the department who received homicide training at the academy,” she says. “I just want you to watch yourself around him.”

  “Don’t worry, Nadia, I’m a big girl.”

  “I worry about you. I have ever since you left town without even a good-bye.”

  “What you should really be worrying about is the state of this diner. It used to be so wonderful. How could your father let it get in such a sorry condition?”

  She glances around. “I agree that it needs some freshening up, but my father’s a stubborn man. If only he made a few changes here and there he’d be able to attract more customers.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Nadia, but this place needs more than just a good freshening up. This diner needs a complete overhaul.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” she says as two old women file into the diner. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  The sky is still dark when I go outside, stars twinkling in their murky tar sheets, the crescent moon hanging low enough to touch. I rest my head against the steering wheel and try hard not to cry. I never anticipated feeling such powerful emotions upon seeing Nadia. Whether it’s my fragile mental state or the possibility that I still love her, I don’t really know. But seeing her after so many years apart has affected me in unforeseen ways.

  After a few minutes, I glance in the rearview mirror and notice that my mascara is streaking down my cheeks. I’m like a goth girl caught out in the rain. I speed away from The Galaxy. Surprisingly, I feel like I have a renewed sense of purpose now that I’m back in Fawn Grove.

  7

  WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? I THINK AS I PULL THE L.L. BEAN boots up over my prosthetic feet. Will I be able to survive the morning light without suffering from an anxiety attack? Breaking down in front of Dalton is the last thing I want to do. I don’t want him to write me off as a silly, frivolous woman not deserving of his attention. Another pretty face in town who thinks she’s better than everyone else. I need to project strength and confidence in his presence. I can’t let on that I suffer from a variety of ailments or that I’m totally repulsed by the mere sight of him.

  Big Russ is sitting in his plaid recliner when I arrive downstairs. He’s listening to the radio and reading the local newspaper, his thick legs covered in corduroys and stretching horizontally over the footrest. With his thick mustache and full head of auburn hair, he looks like an alpha walrus at rest. He lowers the paper and seems to study me at length. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been a man of few words.

  “Heading out?” he asks in his familiar low growl.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a few things to do.”

  He stares at me with a pensive look.

  “Thanks for letting me stay here, Russ. I know it’s been an imposition having me.”

  “No imposition at all. You’re family.”

  “I know it must be weird.”

  “I can deal with weird,” he says. “Besides, I should be the one thanking you.”

  “Thanking me?” I laugh. “For what?”

  “For your service to this country. You’re a true-blue patriot and an American hero. They don’t give Purple Hearts to cowards.”

  His words of praise both surprise and embarrass me. I never heard as much in New York City because no one ever knew about that part of my life, and I was happy that way.

  “If you ever want to talk about what happened since you left here—”

  “Trust me, I don’t!”

  “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he says.

  “Thanks, but I won’t change my mind.”

  “If you say.”

  “If you want what’s best for me, you’ll also not bring up Jaxon in my presence.”

  “Mum’s the word, then,” he says, lifting the paper so that it hides his square face.

  “Can I ask you a question, Russ?”

  He lowers the paper, this time so that only his eyes can be seen.

  “Do you think that Afghani girl was killed by one of her own?”

  “Of all the crazy questions.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s all I’ve been thinking about as of late.”

  “Why in the world would you think about that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe coming home and seeing how much everything has changed here has made me curious.”

  “My belief is that that girl was killed thousands of years ago when they started fighting in that region.” He lifts the paper back up, signaling that this discussion is over. Clean and simple: classic Russ. The sound of a piano concerto wafts out of his radio and fills my ears.

  I head back upstairs to my room to grab the keys to the truck. In the hallway I hear voices coming from inside Brynn’s room. Although I know I shouldn’t be spying, I can’t seem to help myself. I move quietly until I’m standing just outside her room. The door is slightly ajar, allowing me to overhear Wendy and Brynn’s conversation. Maybe this will be a way for me to learn something about Br ynn.

  “I know it’s been hard having her here, but you need to try to be nice to Lucy,” Wendy says.

  “How can I be nice to her when she spends all of her time in her room?”

  “Lucy’s family. Besides, she has some issues she’s trying to
work out.”

  “What about our issues? Everyone in this family has problems they’re trying to fix.”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen her in some time,” Wendy says. “I used to send her photographs of you when you were little, and letters describing how wonderful you were.”

  “Were? As in the past tense? Really, Mom?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you’re still wonderful. You mean the world to us, honey. Your father and I would do anything for you.”

  “I know.”

  “So just do me this one favor and be nice to her.”

  Brynn laughs. “What makes you think I’d be mean?”

  “You do have your mood swings. I know that you’re a teenager and all, but sometimes I worry about you.”

  “Well, don’t worry yourself over me. You’ve got enough to deal with, with your own health problems. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll treat Lucy as if she’s a queen.”

  “Thank you, honey. I love you so much.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  “Your father and I are so proud of the way you’re handling everything.”

  “I try my best,” Brynn says. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll wait until Lucy feels better before I start making conversation with her.”

  “That’s my girl. I have to go downstairs now and fold laundry.”

  Wendy begins to wheel herself toward the door. I tiptoe toward my room and quietly slip inside, keeping the door open so I can make sure to see when she leaves. At the top of the stairs, she positions her wheelchair onto the lift. When the chair is secured, she pushes the button and the lift slowly descends. I grab the keys to the pickup and wait a few minutes so they don’t suspect me of listening in on their conversation. Then I head out so I can meet up with Dalton.

  8

  DALTON PULLS UP NEXT TO MY PICKUP FIVE MINUTES BEFORE WE’RE supposed to meet. I’m wearing jeans tucked into boots and a black peacoat with thermally insulated gloves. My hair is tied into a ponytail and I’m donning my best diva sunglasses. Fortunately, the light has yet to bother me, but it’s still early. I slip into his cruiser and do a double take upon seeing him. He’s dressed in a suit coat and tie and looks far too GQ for a small-town cop. Is he doing this to impress me? So why, to my chagrin, do I feel so thoroughly impressed?