“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.” My heart quickened and slithered up my throat like an agitated python.
He took the seat across from me, his black suit and lavender tie too good for here. He stuck out like a penguin at a Bar-B-Que.
An incredibly handsome penguin. Do people fuck penguins? That seems ill advised, and yet …
Weeks of subpar sleep were creeping up on me and manifesting as slap happy absurdity.
“Something funny?” he asked.
I had not realized I was smiling. I really am losing my mind. “No, sir.”
“Please call me Dominic.”
“Yes sir … I mean, Dominic.” I put my fingers to my mouth to stop the goofy-ass grin.
“I hope you have been able to cope with the events of the last couple weeks satisfactorily.”
“Uh … I’ve been okay.”
“I notice you didn’t take any time off. I was frankly surprised that you came back so quickly.”
“I know, I just … feel better staying busy.”
“If you need more time, a week, a month, the offer still stands.”
“Thank you. Thank you for the flowers, too. They were gorgeous.” Oh my god, Hannah, stop babbling.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he said.
Yeah, teleport me out of this state. Maybe out of the country. Or off the planet. “No.”
He studied my face. “Let me know if you think of anything,” he said quietly.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Dominic.” He smiled. His teeth were the straightest I had ever seen.
“Dominic.”
And as abruptly as he’d arrived, he was gone. My stomach dropped a little. I told myself it was hunger and not disappointment.
“Hannah! What did he say?” Noelle’s head appeared over the cubicle. Would she miss me after I packed up and left? Maybe I would call her one day, years from now, from another state. From another life. More likely, I’d stare at her number and wonder what ever happened to her.
“Hannah?” She was watching me, eyebrows raised.
“He didn’t say much. Just wanted to remind me that I could take time off if I needed to. You know with all the … stuff that’s happened.”
“He came down here personally for that?”
“I guess.”
Noelle pursed her lips.
“He’s just being nice. He cares. He’s a good boss.”
“Yeah, he is. But the way he looks at you is a little more than standard employee appreciation.”
“It’s not like that.” But something flitted around in my belly as I said it. Excitement? Fear? Hope?
Noelle reached down for the owls and tapped Horny on the top of his fake head. “You still have these things?”
“Yes, I—” My sinuses tingled with something subtle and sweet and familiar. The back of my neck was suddenly very hot. “New lotion?”
Noelle put a hand to her nose, apparently unaware of the quaver in my voice. “Yeah, you like it?”
A hornet in my ear buzzed angry violent songs of love notes and cheating and perfume. Noelle had always put Jake down. Always tried to get me to go out, knowing it would make him angry, knowing it would pull me away from him. Because she was … what? Sleeping with him? But that didn’t make sense.
“Hannah, you okay?”
“I—” No. “Not really. I feel sick.”
“I know you’ve had a rough few weeks, but come out with Thomas and me tonight. Jim will be there too. Maybe it will get your mind off of everything.”
“I can’t.” Last time I went out, someone filleted my boyfriend.
“You’re going. Don’t leave me with two strange men at a dark Greek restaurant.”
Sweat leaked from under my bra and trickled down to my belly button. “I can’t, okay?” But uncertainty nagged at me. Noelle was dating Thomas. She hadn’t been after Jake. She hated Jake. And already Noelle had the same look that acquaintances got in elementary school when I told inappropriate jokes. I could see it like a rocket ship countdown: confusion, irritation, disconnection and bam! I was alone.
I couldn’t lose her, not yet. Not before I had to. Surely it was possible that a skin care company might have made more than one tube of citrus-scented lotion in an insane attempt to turn a profit? I mean, duh, as the kids would say.
A few more weeks, that’s all I needed. A few more weeks to suck everything I could out of our friendship so I could wrap the memories around me like a blanket when I was in some new, lonely place. If I made it that long.
Noelle pulled her hand back and the smell of oranges bombarded my nose like someone had thrown a bushel of them at me. My heart ached from pumping so furiously.
It was crazy anyway, to think Noelle would ever do something like that. I needed to stop looking for reasons to mess up the few good things I had left. God knows I had messed up enough already.
I inhaled through my mouth. It isn’t her. It wasn’t her. And going out is safer than hanging out at home, right? I pulled a pencil from the drawer, trying to hide my quaking hands by tapping it on the desktop. “You know what they say about the Greeks,” I said.
Her eyes danced. “Big kabobs, small olives?”
“You got it.” I swallowed hard.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
I watched her walk away, convinced I was finally, officially, going insane. I needed help. I glanced at the owls, and they glared back. I flicked Horny in the head and watched him topple over the edge of the desk. We were all just one good push away from breaking.
“You’re sure I’m not crazy?” I asked, though I knew the answer and further knew that Tammy Bransen, shrink extraordinaire, didn’t have enough information to make any kind of accurate assessment at all.
“Magical thinking, anxiety, depression.” Tammy ticked them off on her fingers. “They are all part of the normal grieving process and you need to give yourself permission to move through those feelings. You need time to heal. Your wounds are still fresh.” She pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and tucked a lock of straw-colored hair behind her ear.
We had met at the shelter, after one of the monthly group sessions Ms. LaPorte arranged for the women. Ms. LaPorte had thought it might help me after the abortion. Her relief when I agreed was a good enough reason to show up. Sometimes I even felt good coming here, like I was doing something, despite the fact that I hid the stuff that really mattered.
“I just feel so … paranoid. About everything.”
Tammy shook her head. “Hannah, it is expected that you would have strange reactions to other people, what with the way your relationship with Jake ended. The fact that it was a sudden death makes it all the more difficult to bear, and the type of demise, and the police questioning, well—”
“The whole thing just seems so unreal. Like tomorrow I’ll wake up and find out it was all a nightmare.”
“How has your sleep been?”
I sighed. “Not great.” It was never great. And I still wrote about it, every morning, waiting with bated breath for that notebook to help me the way Tammy had promised me it would.
“Have you noticed any patterns in your sleep journal?”
“Nope, just the usual crappiness. It did get worse after Jake died, I guess. More trouble dozing off, more waking up scared.”
Tammy nodded sympathetically. “That’s quite common after experiencing such a loss. All very normal.”
“Is it normal to believe your best friend tried to steal your boyfriend?”
Tammy raised her eyebrows.
Oh, Jesus. “Hypothetically. I have the craziest thoughts sometimes.”
“Racing thoughts are normal. They’re from the anxiety, and they’re, by definition, irrational. So is the magical thinking thing.”
I squinted at her and waited.
“Magical thinking is where bereaved loves ones convince themselves that they were responsible for the death. They feel like a final argument, or a missed phone call, somehow
triggered the event. Again, irrational and completely untrue, but very common.”
The room swam behind my tears. “I need it to stop. I just want to be normal.” Not that I’d ever been normal.
“It takes time to heal, Hannah. Don’t rush it.”
“I just feel so nervous around other people lately. I feel like I always want to run.”
You have a good reason to run.
No one else knows that.
You don’t have a reason. It’s magical thinking.
That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pack up and leave.
Another nod. Maybe Tammy’s head would wobble and detach, roll over to my shoes and spout off semi-supportive drivel from the floor.
Tears fell on my clasped hands. “I’m so tired of being so scared.”
Tammy walked around the desk and offered me a box of tissues. “Don’t push too hard, but allow yourself room to find a new normal, a new way of doing things that will benefit you. You may need to be around others to prove that people are not as frightening as you think they are. Go out if it helps, show yourself that there is nothing to be afraid of. Do whatever you think you need to do to heal. Don’t just sit at home alone in the dark.”
That struck a chord. I hate the dark.
By eight thirty I was fiddling with my fork and inwardly cursing Tammy’s stupid face. It’s all part of the healing process. I just have to stick it out and prove how silly this all is. And when that doesn’t work, I’ll pack.
We ate lentil soup that I could barely taste while Noelle and the guys chattered about their favorite restaurants, and recent movies, and which of their current supervisors were dickheads. I listened halfheartedly and avoided Jim’s penetrating gaze.
They quieted as the waitress appeared with plates of garlic paste, hummus and warm pita bread. My mouth watered despite my initial ambivalence about dinner, and the food proved to be savory and spicy and just plain awesome. Had I really not eaten a full meal all week? That’s about to change. I reached for a grape leaf and accidentally brushed Jim’s fingers. Electric current zinged up my arm, and all my hair stood on end.
Next time I went to therapy, I was going to punch Tammy in the nose.
It’s all part of the process, I told myself.
But I didn’t believe it.
Friday, November 13th
Petrosky ground his teeth together to avoid calling Chief Castleman a fucking asshole. Next to him, Morrison was stiff, the muscles in his jaw working in a decidedly un-surfer-like way.
“You can’t be serious,” Petrosky said.
“Detective Petrosky, Detective Morrison, this is not an attempt to freeze you out.” Castleman squared his chubby shoulders. “But we have a serial killer on our hands and the Mayor doesn’t want to take any chances. A screw up is the last thing this city needs right now.”
“And I’ll screw it up?”
“This has the potential to go national, Petrosky. The only reason it hasn’t yet is that someone bombed a bus down south and killed a bunch of grade-schoolers. But that story won’t stick around forever. We don’t find this guy, they’ll crucify us … and you.”
“I understand, but—”
“No buts. The FBI has far more resources at their disposal. And it turns out that Meredith Lawrence was the royally fucked-up niece of a radio show host up in Dryesdale. He’s making a big stink.”
“A radio show host? How the fuck does a radio show host get to tell us—”
“I expect complete cooperation on this. Agent Bryant Graves is waiting for you in the conference room with his men. Get down there and give them what they need.”
Dismissed, Petrosky left the chief’s office and stalked down the hall, Morrison beside him. Framed photos of dead cops stared at them from the walls with solemn expressions, as if they knew that one day he and Morrison would be underground too, their snapshots also mounted like prized deer heads. Petrosky wanted to mount Chief Castleman on the wall too, along with Agent Bryant fucking Graves.
“Was Graves the one in charge of that case in Frankfurt last year?” Morrison asked.
“How the hell should I know? And how do you?”
“Heard about it from Zajac over in traffic. He used to live up there. The name sounds familiar, but I could be wrong.”
Petrosky stopped. “You hang out with the traffic boys, too?”
Morrison stepped past him, leaning against the wall under a picture of an officer with brown eyes and an arrogant expression. He pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons. “I met him at the gym … okay, same guy.” He pocketed the phone. “Zajac said the case was a couple of kids making pipe bombs. Burned two teenagers and a father unlucky enough to open his daughter’s mail. Turned out that the kid making the bombs was the mayor’s son. The evidence was pretty substantial against him, but they ended up shifting the blame to the kid’s friend. There was a lot of suspicion within the department that Graves might have taken a bribe to keep quiet about it.”
“Sounds like a winner.” Petrosky glanced at the conference room and drew himself up as tall as he could. “Let’s go meet this asshole.”
Bryant Graves stood at the conference room window, phone to his ear, eyes narrow with concentration—or rage. “What do you mean, no one asked before?” He stared at Petrosky and Morrison as they sat across from two other men, presumably, Graves’s agents. The bald one exchanged a knowing look with the asshole with a buzz cut. Petrosky hid his clenched fists under the table.
“Call you back.” Graves slipped the phone into his pocket, his eyes radiating accusation. “Detectives.” He nodded to Petrosky’s side of the room. “Shall we skip the niceties and get down to business?”
Graves gestured to the white board at the head of the table, where pictures of the three victims stared at them. Solemn mug shots for the girls, and a photo of Campbell in a red sweater from his mother, grinning at them with a much more optimistic expression than any photo in the hallway. “Meredith Lawrence, Jane Trazowski and Jacob Campbell. Since this type of killer does not usually have such wildly different victims, there must be something that connects our working girls to Mr. Campbell. The first two had similar lifestyles and drug habits. Jane Trazowski and Jacob Campbell were both connected to Hannah Montgomery in the last six months.”
Petrosky’s temple throbbed. “Trazowski showed up at the women’s shelter after an altercation with a john. Apparently he roughed her up pretty good; she was scared enough to leave her apartment.”
Graves glared at him. “Have you found the john?”
“No.”
“How about any connection between Hannah Montgomery and Meredith Lawrence? They may have met at some point due to Ms. Montgomery’s position with the shelter, particularly in light of Lawrence’s extensive domestic violence history.”
“We weren’t able to find any connections.”
“Then we’re missing something.”
The throbbing wrapped around his forehead and expanded until Petrosky could feel his heartbeat in his eyeballs. “We questioned Montgomery about it, but the night of Trazowski’s murder she was working at the shelter. We verified it with the woman she works for and with another woman who was staying at the shelter that day.”
Graves’s lips tightened, nostrils flaring like he smelled something foul.
“We also have video of her apartment building. She was inside the night Campbell was killed,” Petrosky said. Reading a note from her boyfriend’s lover and sobbing. But he’d let these haughty fuckers find that out for themselves. “She’s not a suspect here.”
“No one thinks Montgomery is a suspect, detective.” Graves leaned forward and put his hands on the tabletop as heat rose in Petrosky’s face. “But just because she didn’t do it doesn’t mean there’s no connection to her. We need to go over everything again.”
Of course she wasn’t a suspect. He was letting his emotions fuck with him. Goddammit, Petrosky, get your shit together.
Graves stood. “Hernandez!”
Baldy straightened, light reflecting off his scalp. “Sir.”
“Find out what you can about Trazowski’s background and see if there are any more questionable activities we should be aware of.”
Petrosky stiffened. “That information is in the—”
“Paulson!”
Gray buzz cut turned toward Graves expectantly.
“I want more on Campbell. Friends, exes, family members. And double check the movements of Meredith Lawrence in the weeks before her death.”
Paulson nodded.
They were wasting time. All of this was in the file. Petrosky met Morrison’s eyes and Morrison raised one shoulder, maybe acquiescing, maybe feeling helpless, or maybe wanting to punch the condescending look off Graves’s face.
Graves turned to the other two men at the table. “I want you to research the poem and double back on Shellie Dermont. And see what you can find out about Montgomery. Since two of the victims knew her, we may do well to keep a tight watch on who she sees and talks with. There may be a link between her activities and the way the victims are being chosen.”
Graves turned to Petrosky. “Coordinate with these guys and fill in the gaps. We’ll need your knowledge of the area and any insight you may already have. Let’s get it closed before this ends up splashed all over the national news.”
“Or before he kills someone else,” Morrison said.
Silence. Graves turned away, toward the window. “Yes,” he said finally, voice softer and lower and thick, like a perp making a confession. “That too.”
Sunday, November 15th
Radio silence. Static. Then the pillow was ripped from my hands.
His face was red, split by a flash of white teeth.
Panic tightened around my throat like a scarf. Run. But I was pinned beneath him.
“No, please—”
He put his mouth to my ear. “Shut the fuck up, you little slut. You’ve been coming on to me for years, and now you tell me that it’s wrong? That I don’t have a right to give you what you’ve been begging for?” Droplets of saliva clung to my cheek, hot and wet.
[Ash Park 01.0] Famished Page 16