Shallow River

by H. D. Carlton

  “River?” Mako says again, sounding impatient.

  “What? What do you want, Mako?” I return his impatience tenfold.

  My finger is bleeding, my hands are still shaking, and I’m on the verge of tears.

  “You left without a word and haven’t answered my calls for the past two days. Did you think I wouldn’t be worried?”

  “Yes, actually. I did. Rest assured, I’m fine.”

  He sighs. I ignore it as I rush to the bathroom to find the peroxide and a band-aid. I pour peroxide on it and inspect the wound. It’s pretty superficial, but deep enough to cause a scar. Now I definitely won’t be able to hide my mistake from Ryan.

  I rinse off the blood and wrap a band-aid around it tightly.

  “You don’t sound fine.” I pause, watching the last of my blood circle down the drain.

  “I was fine until you called.” Truth.

  Ryan has reverted back to his old self. Loving. Sweet. Thoughtful. And my fear of him is tentatively retreating. He hasn’t shown his dark side to me since the day I came home, and it’s to the point where I’m questioning myself—thinking maybe I just overreacted. It’s hard to picture in my head when he’s being so loving now.

  He bought me yet another new phone, fired the secretary he cheated on me with and brought home champagne to celebrate. I nearly drank the whole bottle and let him fuck me in the ass that night, despite my bruised and broken body. I covered my ashamed tears with the symphony of his snoring.

  Regardless, we're on our way back to being happy again. Or something like that. I’m still healing, and he’s taken good care of me so far. He’s made it clear as long as I’m a good girl and don’t fuck up, he’ll continue to take good care of me. He promised.

  “I’m just worried about you, River,” he says lowly. His deep voice resonates through me.

  “Well do us both a favor and stop.” I hang up and immediately delete the call from my log.

  Then, I go and grab some super glue. Maybe he’ll appreciate the effort to fix my mistake.

  THE MUG RESEMBLES JAGGED rocks smashed together like crooked teeth; the ragged edges held together with shitty glue that will melt in the dishwasher within seconds. It resembles me. Just a bunch of mismatched pieces barely holding it together.

  This mug can never go in the dishwasher again. I should’ve put it in there in the first place, but cleaning helps me calm my mind. Dusting the ceiling fan blades would’ve been less risky, but the dust makes me sneeze, and fuck it, who cares if I sneeze because pretty soon I’ll be trying to keep the blood from coming out of my nose instead.

  And worst of all, now I'm doomed to a lifetime of hand washing it. It's a guarantee that I'll break it again. The broken pieces will break into tinier pieces over and over until eventually, it'll be too far gone to piece back together again.

  I might as well be staring into a crystal fucking ball.

  I sigh and carefully set the mug on the dinner table. My hand shakes from the anxiety blooming inside me. Ryan’s going to kill me. If he tries, I’ll flick the cup and it’ll fall back apart, then stab him in the jugular with his favorite mug. Poetic.

  Maybe I should just let him kill me. Though the bastard will surely make me suffer first. Can’t be much worse than what Billy has already done to me. And those will be my last words too. He wasn't the one to truly break me.

  The door opens and I hear Ryan's feet shuffling across the gray hardwood floors.

  “Babe?” he calls from the living room.

  He sounds like he's in a good mood. Maybe he won't be mad.

  My body knows I’m telling myself lies and the anxiety worsens.

  “In here,” I answer, the tremble in my voice prominent. Damn it.

  With each footstep, my hands tremble harder and grow warmer with sweat. I sit on my hands to abate the shaking.

  He walks in the dining room, his face pinched in confusion.

  “Why are you in he—” he pauses when he sees my crime in front of me. And the murder weapons are nestled nicely under my ass cheeks.

  His face blanks, straightening into a perfectly calm mask. The scariest one of all.

  “What happened?” he asks, his voice devoid of emotion.

  I blow out a shaky breath. “I was washing it and it slipped from my hands,” I explain quietly. A wobbly, uneven smile skitters across my face. “It adds character, don’t ya’ think?”

  He stares at the mug. My heart drops when a smile spreads across his face. I don’t know what that smile means.

  “You went through the trouble of gluing it back together again?” he asks, his darkened eyes lifting to meet mine. A tremble rocks through my body.

  “Yes.”

  “How long did it take you?” he asks.

  Why, is that how long you’ll torture me for, sweet Ryan?

  I shrug a shoulder. “A couple hours.”

  He walks over to me and leans over slowly. I feel his lips press against the top of my head. I hadn’t realized my shoulders were to my ears until I force them to drop. I’d rather not show how nervous I am. Men like Ryan feed off fear like sharks in a tank full of blood.

  His hands slide up my back and to my shoulders. He starts to massage them and a groan releases from my throat before I can stop it.

  “Hey,” he whispers soothingly. “It’s okay. Accidents happen. I think it’s cute that you put in the effort to fix it.” He ends the sentence with a short laugh and drags his fingers over the jagged edges.

  “Honestly, it makes me so happy you went through the trouble. I didn’t think I could love you more.”

  I want to cry. Here I was, building myself up for a beating, so sure he’d hit me. Instead, I was just being dramatic. If he’s not mad over his favorite mug being broken, then I hadn’t been giving him enough credit.

  Deep down, I believe Ryan does love me. Love is something otherworldly. Something entirely potent and powerful that it makes you do crazy things. Like hit them. And stay when you’re hit. It’s an emotion that no one person will ever be able to define. There’s no saying how love should be. One person thinks loving someone means accepting their flaws while another might think loving someone means trying to help them change for the better. Who’s to say who’s right?

  All the problems we’ve had has been partially my fault. He’s not the only one to blame. Clearly, looking at the eyesore of a mug in front of me proves that.

  “I felt so bad,” I say, nestling my head into his stomach. His spine straightens as he lifts his hands from my shoulders to my head, gripping me tightly into his body.

  “You should,” he whispers. My throat dries. “But you tried to fix it. That’s what matters.”

  A tear slips from my eye. I nod my head and squeeze my eyes shut so no more mistakes slip through. I don’t want him to see me so weak.

  “Is dinner made?” he asks.

  My eyes snap open, widening into discs. Oh my god. I spent so much time trying to fix the goddamn mug, I forgot about dinner. He always comes home to dinner. He looks forward to it every night after working at the firm all day.

  I clear my throat. “I figured we could do pizza tonight since I got sidetracked.”

  Ryan’s hand tightens in my hair, tighter and tighter until strands begin to break away. Stabbing little pinpricks bloom throughout my scalp. I bite my lip to hold in the whimper.

  Just as suddenly, he releases me, leaving my head spinning and my stomach in knots. “Sounds good, baby. Let me know when it’s here.”

  He walks away without another look back, his body moving languidly out of the kitchen as if he’s going on a midnight stroll on the beach.

  Another tear slips through. I wipe it away quickly and pick up my phone.

  I’m ordering fucking cinnamon sticks now, too.

  Eleven

  Mako

  “YOU WANT TO EXPLAIN to me how your hair ended up wrapped around Greg Barber’s finger?” I ask, my fingers threaded together tightly as I lean towards the woman sitting before m
e. ‘Woman’ is a generous word considering she looks like a half-dead wraith.

  “Who?” she snarls, shooting me a dirty look.

  “Froggy,” I supply. Recognition lights up in her dull brown eyes. It’s sad to say that there’s only a thin layer of life that separates her eyes from Greg’s.

  “My hair wrapped arou… is he dead?” it takes her all of three seconds to conclude why I’m asking. I pull out the crime scene photos and lay them out in front of her as an answer. Her eyes widen and horror washes over her face. Slowly, her shaking hand picks up the picture showcasing Greg’s chest with the word ‘Ghost’ carved into it. The picture rattles in her pale fingers, while her other hand covers her open mouth. Red paint colors her nails, nearly chipped completely away.

  “Do you know who would do this, Ms. Franklin?”

  It seemingly takes considerable effort for her to drag her eyes away from the picture and back to mine. The picture drops to the table.

  “No.”

  Just one word. Two letters. And a big fucking lie.

  It’s normal for people to be shocked, horrified, even disgusted by some of the crime scene photos.

  Linda Franklin is all of those. But she’s also scared.

  It’s not normal to be scared of the boogeyman if you don’t think they’ll ever come after you. Looks to me like the sex worker sitting across the table in our cozy little interrogation room has a reason to be scared.

  Amar is standing behind me, his hands in his pockets as he observes Linda.

  “Can you explain your hair, Ms. Franklin?” Amar prompts. Linda’s watery eyes glance up at Amar before settling back on the photos.

  “Am I goin’ to get arrested if I tell you I slept with him?” she asks, a bitter edge to her voice.

  “No,” I promise. We already know this woman is a sex worker, but we’re not here to arrest her for selling sex for money.

  She sighs. “I slept with him about a month ago. He paid me. I left.”

  “Do you remember the date and what location?”

  “I don’t know,” she snaps. “I don’t write down in my calendar what day I fucked who.”

  “A guess then?” I push.

  She huffs. “Maybe the last weekend of last month. Around the 25th or somethin’. At Harper’s Motel.”

  That’d put her at a few days, give or take, before he died. We’ll have to make a stop at the seedy motel they had sex in and see if we can catch them on any cameras. Pinning down all of Greg’s locations leading up to his murder is important. Anything in that timeframe could give us a clue as to who murdered him and why.

  “That’s the last time you saw Froggy? Was he acting out of sorts? Seem nervous to you? Did he say anything?”

  Linda starts shaking her head profusely halfway through my questioning.

  “No, no, and no,” she gripes with irritation. “I don’t know nothin’ about him or what he does. He didn’t say nothin’ to me except what he wanted me to do to him. That’s all.”

  “Ms. Franklin, your hair was wrapped around Froggy’s finger the day he was found dead. Based off what you just told me, you had sex with Froggy not too long before he died. Last time I checked, people don’t hold onto other people’s DNA. At least not without a reason.”

  “You sayin’ I killed him?” she asks incredulously, looking at me like I’m a complete idiot. It takes everything in me not to snap back at her. I take a deep breath through my nose, reigning in my frustration.

  “What I’m saying, Ms. Franklin, is you were either in contact with Froggy right before he died, or you were in contact with his murderer, who somehow got ahold of your DNA,” I explain slowly. “Both scenarios don’t look very good for you.”

  She crosses her arms defiantly and snipes, “I’d like a lawyer if you’re going to keep questioning me Detective Fitzgerald.”

  Yeah, saw that one coming.

  “FITZGERALD!”

  I turn my head from my computer to see Amar coming towards me, his face set in stone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Man’s here. Claims he witnessed Greg Barber’s murder.”

  I stand so fast, the chair I was sitting in nearly topples to the ground. Disregarding it, Amar leads me to what could possibly be our biggest lead yet. If this man witnessed Greg’s murder, then there’s a good chance he’ll be able to identify the Ghost Killer.

  The witness is standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets and an anxious look on his weathered face. Dude looks like he’s been through a war or two. Ragged, dirty clothes filled with holes and reek of stale piss and sewer water.

  I note each feature on his face, my eyes lingering on his own. Something about them gives me pause. He’s shifting on his feet anxiously, glancing around the precinct like he’s waiting for Freddy Krueger to pop out. Usually the case when civilians find themselves in a building full of law enforcement officers.

  When he sees me, he stills and slips a hand from of his pocket and holds it out to me for a handshake. I pause. Witnesses don’t usually try to shake my hand. Reluctantly, I slap my hand in his, the motion sending chills down my spine as I stare into his eyes. His squeezes my hand once before letting go.

  “Benedict Davis,” he introduces, his voice higher-pitched than I would’ve guessed.

  “Detective Fitzgerald. Follow me,” I say, nodding towards one our interrogation rooms.

  Benedict settles in across the table from me, linking his trembling fingers loosely. Amar resumes his position behind me, per usual. Something about sitting at the table makes him feel restless.

  “Alright, Mr. Davis, I hear you witnessed a murder. Can you tell me about it?”

  He clears his throat and shifts again. “I was on my way to the gas station for some cigs on 3rd street when I heard a commotion. Now usually I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but the screams coming from a kid were hard to ignore. Four men were huddled together under the train tracks. Two men were holding him down while another hooded man stood before them with a gun in one hand, a bloody knife in the other. Looked like some type of hunting knife or something.

  “I couldn’t see much, but I could see that the screaming man was covered in blood and pleading for mercy. The hooded man said something I couldn’t hear, raised his gun and shot the young male in the head. I ran after that, before they could spot me.”

  His shaking hands run across his head nervously, much like my own tic when I’m frustrated. His body and arms are constantly shifting, and several times he lifts his ass off the chair like he’s getting up, but then just sits back down nervously. It’s physically impossible for this man to sit still.

  “Why did you wait so long to report this, Mr. Davis?”

  He scoffs, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his head. If he wasn’t wearing a light jacket, I bet I’d see pit stains on his t-shirt. “Because I was terrified, man. I ran back to my house and basically waited for someone to come find me and kill me next. I was so paranoid; I didn’t leave my house until now. I figured if they were coming for me, they would’ve already popped me. So, I came straight here.”

  I mull over his story for a second. It’s consistent with where we found Greg’s body, and also how he was murdered. If the witness saw Greg’s body on the ground and bloodied, he must’ve caught them right after the Ghost Killer carved the word into Greg’s chest.

  “Can you tell me anything about any of the men? Features, what they were wearing, tattoos, any of the sort?”

  He swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, flinging off sweat in the process. “Uh… uh, yeah. The one guy holding down the… the victim was bald with some sort of tattoo on the back of his head,” he stumbles, his hands shaking. “I was too far away to see exactly what it was, but it looked like some sort of bird.”

  I grab the pen and pad from the table and jot down notes.

  “And the hooded man? Anything about him?”

  “It looked like he was wearing a silver watch. But I can’t remember m
uch else than that. He was dressed all in black and the hood covered his face.”

  Frustration bubbles inside me. It can never be as easy as seeing the killer and being able to identify them in a line-up. Being able to identify his minions is at least a start, though. Better than nothing.

  “Anything else about the other men?” I ask, glaring down at my notepad until the words blur.

  “The other guy was blonde and had a heavy gold chain around his neck. Like something you’d see on a gang member. He was…” he trails off as nerves seem to overwhelm him. He squeeze his eyes shut tight and runs a hand back and forth on the top of his graying hair in a panicked gesture.

  “Hey, hey, Mr. Davis. Relax and take your time. You’re safe here, nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

  He laughs without humor. “Yeah, that’s what all the cops say, man. Right before you get popped.”

  I lean my head down further to try and catch his eyes. When I do, I look for any signs of drugs. His eyes are slightly dilated, but that could be explained from the fear. It looks like he has a few sores on his face, but his face all-around looks like it’s been through the wringer. He’s not tweaking at the moment, but I’m not ruling out drug use completely.

  “Mr. Davis, would you be willing to testify against the murderers when caught?”

  He stops fidgeting and looks up at me, his eyes dilating further.

  “What if they send someone after me?”

  Likely to happen.

  “We’ll make sure you’re safe. Put you in witness protection.”

  The man looks down, seemingly to contemplate it. “There’s a serious killer on the loose, Mr. Davis. Which means he could come after anyone next,” I say, emphasizing my point. If the Ghost Killer doesn’t get put away, the man before me could be killed, too. Especially if he is involved with drugs.

  “Alright,” he concedes. “I’d feel more comfortable with a lawyer, though.”

  As much as I want to recommend my father, I know whose hands this is going to inevitably end up in. “I know someone who can help you.”