But back to the hospital. I spent six weeks there, learning to walk again, talk again, be Casey Duncan again. Except I never really was. Not the Casey Duncan I'd been. There are two halves of my life: before and after.
Four days in a coma. Six weeks in the hospital. Blaine never came to see me. Never even sent a card. I'd have ripped it to shreds, but at least it would have acknowledged what happened. He knew, of course. Diana had made sure of that, contacting him while I was in emergency. He hadn't asked how bad I was. Just mumbled something and hung up.
When I'd seen him run away in the alley, my outrage had been tempered by the certainty that he would get help. Even as the blows had started to fall, I'd clung to that. He must have called the police. He must have.
The last thing that passed through my mind before I lost consciousness was that I just had to hold on a little longer. Help was on the way. Only it wasn't. A homeless guy cutting through the alley stumbled across me, hours later. A stranger--a drunk stranger--had run to get help for me. My boyfriend had just run.
Blaine did need to speak to the police after I woke up and had told them what happened. But in Blaine's version, he'd created the distraction. I'd been escaping with him, and we'd parted at the street. The muggers must have caught up and dragged me back into that alley. If Blaine had known, he'd have done something. To suggest otherwise, well . . . I'd suffered head trauma, hadn't I? Temporary brain damage? Loss of memory? Clearly, I'd misremembered.
I didn't call him when I got out of the hospital. That conversation had to happen in person. It took a week for me to get around to it, because there was something I needed to do first. Buy a gun.
Blaine's routine hadn't changed. He still went jogging before dawn. Or that was what he'd say if he was trying to impress a girl: I run in the park every morning at five. It wasn't completely untrue. He did go out before dawn. He did run in the park. Except he only did it on Fridays, and just to the place where he stashed his drugs. Then he'd run back to campus, where he could usually find a few buyers--kids who'd been out too late partying, heading back to the dorms before dawn, in need of a little something to get them through Friday classes.
I knew the perfect place for a confrontation. By the bridge along the riverbank, where he'd pass on his way home. The spot was always empty at that time of day, and the noise of rushing water would cover our discussion.
Cover a gunshot, too?
No, the gun was only a prop. To let him know this was going to be a serious conversation.
I stood by the foot of the bridge. He came by right on schedule. Walking. He only jogged where people could see him.
I waited until I could hear the buzz and crash from his music. Then I stepped out into his path.
"Casey?" He blinked and tugged at the earbuds, letting them fall, dangling, as he stared at me. "You look . . ."
"Like I got the shit beat out of me?"
"It's not that bad."
"True. The bruises have healed. There are only ten stitches on my face. Oh, and this spot, where they had to shave my head to cut into my skull and relieve the bleeding." I turned to show him. "Plus a few teeth that will need to be replaced after my jaw's fully healed. My nose isn't straight, but they tell me plastic surgery will fix that. They also say I might walk without the limp if I work really, really hard at it."
He listened, nodding, an overly concerned expression on his face, as if I were an elderly aunt detailing my medical woes.
When I finished, he said, "You'll heal, then. That's good."
"Good?" I stepped toward him. "I almost died, Blaine. I had to drop out of police college. I'm told I'll never be a cop. That I'll never move fast enough. I might never think fast enough."
Another long pause. Then, "I'm sorry this happened to you, Casey. I gave you a chance to run."
"No, I let you run. You did, and you never even called for help."
"That's not how I remember it." He pulled himself up straight, ducking my gaze.
"No?" I said. "Does this refresh your memory?"
I took the gun from my pocket.
I'd envisioned this encounter so many ways. All those nights, lying in a hospital bed, fantasizing about it, I'd realized I didn't want him to break down and beg forgiveness too quickly. I wanted to have to pull the gun. I wanted to see his expression. I wanted him to feel what I'd felt in that alley.
Now I pointed the gun at him, and he blinked. That was it. A blink. Then his lips twitched, as if he was going to laugh. I think if he had, I'd have pulled that trigger. But he rubbed his mouth instead and said, "You're not going to shoot me with your training weapon, Casey. You're smarter than that."
"Did I mention I had to drop out? This isn't my training weapon. Now, I want you to think hard, Blaine. Think back to that night, and tell me again that you let me run."
"Oh, I get it." He eased back. "You want me to confess on some hidden tape so you can--"
I yanked off my jacket. It wasn't easy. My left arm was still in a cast, and my shoulder blazed with the simple act of tugging off clothing. But I got it off, and I threw it at him.
"Check for a recorder. Pat me down if you want. I'm not taping this. It's for me. I want to hear you tell the truth, and I want to hear you apologize."
"Well, then you're going to have to pull that trigger, because I don't have anything to apologize for. We ran, and you must have doubled back."
"For what?" I roared. "What in fuck would I double back for?"
"Then they must have caught you. You were too slow--"
"I did not run! You know I didn't. I grabbed him, and you were supposed to pick up the gun he dropped, but you ran. Like a fucking coward, you ran, and you didn't look back, and I nearly died, and you never even called the goddamned hospital to see if I was okay."
"You are okay. Look at you. Up and about, waving a gun in my face. Well, actually, I'm not sure I'd call that okay. I think you need help. I always did. You're messed up, Casey. I bet a shrink would say you have a death wish."
I went still. "What?"
He shifted forward, as if he'd just remembered the missing answer in a final exam. "You have a death wish, Casey. What normal girl wants to be a cop? Does that martial arts shit? We get mugged in an alley, and I'm trying to play it cool, and what do you do? Grab the guy. Hell, thank God I did run, or I'd have had the shit beat out of me, too."
I hit him. Hauled off and whaled the gun at the side of his head. He staggered back. I hit him again. Blood gushed. His hands went to the spot, eyes widening.
"Fuck! You fucking crazy bitch!"
"We were not mugged," I said, advancing on him as he backed up, still holding his head. "You were selling dope on some other guy's turf. Apparently, you knew that. You just didn't give a shit. I grabbed that guy to save your ass, and you ran. You left me there to die!"
"I didn't think they'd--"
"You left me there."
"I just thought--"
"Thought what? They'd only rape me? A distraction while you escaped?"
He didn't answer, but I saw it in his face, that sudden flush right before his eyes went hard.
"It was your own fault if they did rape you," Blaine said. "You couldn't leave well enough alone. Now give me that--"
He lunged for the gun. I shot him. No thought entered my head as I pulled the trigger. It was like being back in that alley.
I saw Blaine coming at me. I was already pointing the gun at his chest. So I pulled the trigger.
The end.
CHAPTER THREE
"And he died?" the therapist says.
I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up. Her expression is rapt, as if she's overhearing a drunken confession in a bar.
"And he died?" she prompts again.
"I called 911 on his burner phone. By the time I got through, he was gone." No, not gone. Dead. Use the proper terminology, Casey. Don't sugarcoat it.
"What did you tell the operator?"
"Dispatcher," I say, correcting her automatic
ally. "I said I heard a shot, and I raced over to see two men fleeing the scene. One had a gun. I gave descriptions roughly matching two of the guys who beat me. I said I was going to follow them to get a closer look. She told me not to, of course, but I was already hanging up."
"You'd thought it through."
Her tone should be at least vaguely accusatory. Instead, it's almost admiring. She's been abused in some way. Bullied. Harassed. Maybe even assaulted. She's fantasized about doing exactly what I did to whoever hurt her.
I can't even take credit for "thinking it through." A situation presented itself, and I reacted. One therapist explained it as an extreme response to the primal fight-or-flight instinct. Mine apparently lacks the flight portion.
"What did you do with the gun?" she asks.
"I wiped it down and threw it in the river. It was never found."
"Have you ever pulled the file? As a cop?"
She doesn't even bother to say "police officer" now. All formality gone.
"No, that could flag an alert," I say. "It didn't happen here anyway."
"Was his family really connected? Like capital F family?"
She says it as if this is an episode of The Sopranos.
"I guess so," I say, which is a lie. I know so. The Saratoris aren't major players, but Blaine's grandfather Leo is definitely part of the Montreal organized crime scene.
"Don't you worry they'll find out and come for revenge?"
Every day of my life, I think, but all I grant her is a shrug.
"Biggest therapist fail ever." I down a shot of tequila two days later, my first chance to have a drink after work with Diana. "I might as well have confided in that chick over there." I point at a vacant-eyed girl in the corner. Hooker. Crack addict. If she's old enough to be in a bar, I'll turn in my badge.
"Remind me again why you put yourself through that," Diana says. "Oh, right. You're a sadist."
"Masochist," I say. "Also, possibly, a sadist, but in this situation, it's masochism."
She rolls her eyes and shifts on her stool. She's already sitting on the edge, as if placing her ass--even fully clothed--on the surface might result in lethal contamination. At least she's stopped cleaning her glass with an antiseptic wipe before drinking from it.
Another shift has her sliding off the stool, and she does a little stutter-jump to get back on, tugging down her miniskirt as she does. One of the guys across the bar is checking her out. Or he's checking out her hair, blond with bright pink tips. He squints, as if suspecting he's had too much to drink. They don't see a lot of pink hair in here.
"So how was work?" I ask. Diana is in accounting. Her exact title seems to change by the month, as she flits about, not climbing the corporate ladder, but jumping from rung to rung, testing them all for size.
"We're not going to talk about your therapy session?"
"We just did."
I down my second shot of tequila. The bartender glances over and jerks his thumb at the soda fountain. It's not a hint. Kurt knows I have a two-shot limit. I nod, and he starts filling a glass.
"So work . . . ?" I prod Diana.
Her lips purse, and that tells me that's not a good question. Not today. I just hope it doesn't mean she's been demoted again. Lately, Diana's career hopes seem to all be downward . . . and not by choice.
"Is work . . . okay?" I venture.
"Work is work." She gulps her drink, and there's an uncharacteristic note of bitterness in her voice.
I try to assess her mood. We haven't always been best friends. In high school, it'd been on and off, the ebb and flow that marked many teen friendships. It was the attack that brought us closer. She'd stood by me when all my old friends shied away, no one knowing what to say. After I shot Blaine, she'd found me frantically changing out of my blood-splattered clothing, and I'd told her everything, and that cemented our friendship. Forged in fire, as they save. Fire and secrets.
"Let's talk about something else," I say. "Did you bump into that guy at the coffee shop? The musician, right?"
She shrugs and runs a hot-pink fingernail around the rim of her martini glass . . . which is actually a regular whiskey glass, but it's currently holding a lemon-drop martini. I know she has something to say. Something about therapy, I presume, but I pretend not to notice, as Kurt brings my Diet Coke.
"You staying till closing?" he asks me.
"Maybe."
A smile lights his eyes. When I stay until closing, I usually end up in the apartment over the bar. His apartment.
"You should," he says. "Looks like you could use a break."
I'm sure he's about to make some smutty suggestion about ways to relieve my stress. Then his gaze slides to Diana, and instead he heads off to wait on another customer. He thinks he's being discreet, but Diana knows about us, and she's just as horrified as he suspects she'd be. Diana does not approve of casual sex, especially not with an ex-con bartender who works at the docks by day. She has no idea what she's missing.
Normally, she'd make a smart comment as Kurt walked away. But tonight she's lost in the mysteries of her lemon drop.
"You okay?" I ask.
"It's . . . Graham."
"Fuck," I mutter, and sit back on my stool.
Graham Berry is Diana's ex-husband. Respected lawyer. Community pillar. Also one of the most goddamn brilliant psychos I've ever met. He knows exactly how to stalk and torment her while keeping his ass out of prison. Restraining orders? Sure, we can get them. But any cop who's spent time in SVU knows they're as useful as cardboard armor in a gunfight.
She downs her martini and signals Kurt for a refill. Diana rarely has more than one, and when he comes over to deliver it, he gives me an Is everything okay? look.
"Rough day," I say.
When he says, "Maybe tomorrow will be better," I know he isn't talking about Diana.
"It will be," I say.
"Graham's in town," she blurts out when Kurt leaves. "He claims he's here on business."
"And he wants to see you, because he loves you and he's changed."
I look her in the eyes as I say this, steeling myself for the guilty flash that says she's considering meeting with him. Like many abusive relationships, theirs is a complicated one. He'd beat the shit out of her, and then he'd be so very sorry, and she'd go back to him, and the cycle would start again.
It's been two years since she left him and convinced me to move to a new city with her. I'd resisted, not because I was reluctant to help but, honestly, because I expected I'd relocate my life for Diana and then find myself alone in that new city when she went back to Graham. But I'd decided to give her one last chance . . . and she'd finally decided he'd had enough chances. She's been free and clear of him ever since, and now I don't detect any guilt in her eyes, any sign that she wants to see him.
"Okay, step one," I say. "You'll stay at my place tonight and work from there tomorrow. Call in sick."
I brace for her to suggest she stay longer. When her lease came due, she hinted--strongly--about moving into my place instead. She'd gotten very little in the divorce, having signed a prenup, and had long since run through it. The demotions haven't helped her ever-worsening financial situation. I'd pointed out that my single-bedroom place wasn't big enough, but still I feel like a selfish bitch. I help by footing the bills when we go out and "loaning" her bill money that I never expect to see again.
She doesn't suggest a longer-term stay, though, and I feel like a bitch for that, for even thinking it at a time like this, as if she'd manufacture a story about Graham to move in with me.
"With any luck," I continue, "it'll take him a while to track your home or work address, and if he really is on business, he won't be here long . . ." I catch her expression. "He's already found you."
"He--he stopped by the office. The usual crap. He just wants to have coffee, talk, work things out."
"And then?" I say, because I know there is an and then. In public, Graham plays the besotted ex-husband. But as soon as no one is around
. . .
"He waylaid me in the parking garage."
I reach for her wrist, and she flinches. I push up the sleeve to see a bracelet of bruises.
"Goddamn it, Di!"
She gives me a whipped-puppy look.
"Graham showed up at your office, and you didn't call me? You walked into the goddamn parking garage--"
"Don't, Casey. I feel stupid enough."
Her eyes fill with tears, and that's when I really feel like a bitch. Blame the victim. I hate it so much. But Diana never seems to learn, and I'm terrified that one day I'll get a call that she's in the morgue because she gave Graham another chance and I wasn't there to stop her.
"He's going to do it one of these days," she says, wrapping her hands around her glass. "You know he is."
I don't want to follow this line of thought, because when I do, I think of Blaine and how easy it was to kill him. I fear that one day I'll decide there's only one way to protect Diana. No, really I'm afraid she'll ask me to do it. I don't know what I'd say if she did. I owe her for keeping my secret about Blaine. But I don't owe her enough to repeat the mistake with someone else. Not even Graham.
"I've been researching how to disappear," she says.
"What?" I look up sharply.
"We could disappear. You and me."
I don't ask why she includes me. When she'd asked me to relocate and I'd resisted, she'd pointed out the ugly truth--that I'd had no reason to stay. That hasn't changed. I have a furnished apartment I've never added a picture to. I have a lover whose last name I've never asked. I have a sister I speak to three times a year. I have one friend, who is sitting in front of me. I do have a job I love. But that's all I care about. My job and Diana. The job is replaceable. Diana is not.
"Let's just focus on keeping you safe for now," I say. "Graham will give up and go home, and then we can discuss how to handle this long-term."
I put money on the table and catch Kurt's eye as he deals with a drunk. He mouths, "This weekend?" meaning he can see something's up and tomorrow probably isn't going to be better. I nod, try for a smile, and then turn to Diana and say, "Drink up, and let's go."
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