by W. Winters
There’s always another when it comes to her.
Laura
“God I wish Bethany were here.”
“Anything I can help you with?” Aiden asks me and it’s only then that I realize I spoke the thought out loud.
“Oh, no. No, just… nothing.” I force a smile to my face and tap the pen in my hand on the chart. “All good,” I tell him when he doesn’t look away.
He keeps looking a moment longer, even after I turn my attention back to Melody’s sheet.
My coffee’s lukewarm now, but it hits the spot as I take a nice long sip and then look at the clock. One more hour until things wind down.
“She’ll be here tomorrow.” Aiden’s comment reminds me that he’s still standing by the nurses’ station. “I have to say, I missed her.”
“This place missed her,” I say then add, “I’m glad she’ll be back to pick up some of these rounds.”
Aiden’s chuckle isn’t forced and it reminds me that he’s a nice guy. I haven’t been able to think of him the same since E.J. was admitted. It’s hard not to think of it as a political decision. The check was big enough, so he let the rules slide for her.
Whoever has her here, with her information hidden, they want her alive and taken care of. I guess that’s all that matters.
I watch him leave, waving at Mel who’s counting pills that go into each of the little cups behind the half wall with a windowpane for the upper half.
Just as I’m returning the clipboard, I get that nagging prick that someone’s watching me on the back of my neck and instead of being quiet about it, I whip around quickly, fear gripping my heart in a cold vise that chills my body.
The back of a black hoodie and dark jeans disappears behind the corner to the hall where my patients are.
I don’t like it. Not the look of him or the feeling that resonates in my gut. Grabbing the sign-in sheet for a half second, I don’t see a new name. No one signed in recently and I know every name on this list. Every single one. His name isn’t here and it damn well should be.
My strides are purposeful as I round the corner.
“Excuse me,” I call out, eager to get to the man as he nears the very end of the hall. He stops between the doors that lead to either Melody or E.J.
When he turns around, he tilts his head questioningly and a thin scar on his chin shines from the fluorescent lights above us.
“Do you mind signing in, please?” I ask him cordially, through an innate dread that creeps along every inch of my skin. He’s handsome, although rough around the edges. Something about him… my soul doesn’t like him.
“Yeah, yeah,” the guy says as he smiles at me, and it’s a charming smile, with perfect teeth. It makes him look younger too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He scratches his chin, at the scar, maybe in an attempt to hide it. “This way?” he questions me, urging me to walk with him and I don’t want to. The need to check on both the patients beyond those doors rides me harder than anything else in this moment. He was headed to one of them.
It’s then that I realize it’s quiet, there’s no one else here. No patients on their way to the game room or the library. No visitors other than this man in the lone hall and every door down this way is closed.
“Yes. Let me show you,” I speak politely, hiding everything I’m feeling and brushing aside my nerves. I feel paranoid. Shaking my head, I breathe out in exasperation.
“Something I said?” the visitor asks. His blondish hair is long enough that it tousles as he walks next to me.
“No, sorry. Just something I was thinking about before I saw you.” I direct him to the clipboard, picking up the pen and holding it out to him. He takes it, but not quickly enough. His slender fingers linger. Standing this close to him, I note that he’s taller than me. He doesn’t carry a lot of weight to him, but he’s lean and toned.
The cords in his throat tense when he says, “Thank you.”
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I only nod.
“Who are you here for?” I ask him when I see he’s only filled out his name. Jacob something. I can’t quite read his last name from this angle.
“Just checking on a friend is all,” he says softly, with a hint of an accent although I can’t place it. Southern, maybe?
I’m stern but still polite, still kind even, when I explain, “You have to write—”
“Laura.” I’m cut off by a familiar voice.
Officer Walsh nods a greeting at Jacob, and then apologizes for interrupting. After looking at the silver watch, which looks expensive and doesn’t match the read I got on Jacob, the visitor who never said who he was visiting, tells Officer Walsh it’s all right and he has to get back to work anyway.
I watch the man go, not listening to a damn word coming from Officer Walsh.
“Do you know him?” I ask the man to my left, a police officer who should have the kind of sense about a person that I’ve learned to have.
He blinks at me once, his thick lashes covering those pale blue eyes for a moment before his brow raises and he catches sight of the black hoodie just as the elevator doors close.
“Should I?” Officer Walsh asks me.
I debate on telling him the thoughts that are racing through my mind. “Did he do something?” Officer Walsh asks, widening his stance to face me and moving his head lower so he cuts off my view of the elevator doors.
In this moment, Walsh looks trustworthy, feels trustworthy. “Tell me now, Laura. I can go get him. Just tell me.”
Although it’s a command, he speaks so softly, with such empathy, I almost tell him how I don’t have a good feeling about that guy.
But he’s a cop for fuck’s sake and feelings aren’t evidence of shit.
I shrug and say, “Just rubbed me the wrong way for some reason.”
“Don’t take gut instincts for granted,” Walsh advises and then he seems to remember he has to sign in. He does, marking Melody down as well. “Maybe it’s good I got here when I did.”
A chill flows over my shoulders, as if agreeing with him.
“Maybe,” I agree. Peeking over my shoulder, I watch Mel separate more cups on a new tray.
“You’re here for more questions?” I ask him, changing the subject.
“I thought you would prefer it if I came during visitor hours.”
I don’t hesitate to tell him, “You thought right.” He gives me a tight smile and nods, nearly walking away but then he stops to tell me, “You’re protective of them. That’s a good thing.”
I search his eyes, wrinkled at the edges from his genuine smile and then ask, “Why not bring her in if you think she did it?”
He pauses, looking down at the linoleum floor before slipping his hands into the pockets of his dark blue uniform pants. “She was in a support group before this. She needed to be.”
“She needs more than a support group,” I urge him. I want to tell him that she’s so much better after the therapy sessions. And after a week of regular medication, she’s more active, carrying on more conversations than normal. “She’s doing well here.”
“I’m not suggesting that she’s not.” He runs his hand over his chin and tells me, “Sometimes… people need justice. And it’s hard to define what that is. Five men died that night and in my opinion, they should have been dead long before it for the things they’d done and gotten away with. My job is to protect and serve. It’s not so different from yours when you think about it.”
“So you don’t want to take her in even though you think she did it… because you’re okay that she did it.”
“I didn’t say that,” he replies and shakes his head. “I just need to be sure that what I’m doing will help her.”
“Do you think she really did it? You still have the theory that Marcus helped her and the others get revenge.” Saying Marcus’s name to Walsh seems wrong and makes me uneasy but he doesn’t react, he doesn’t even look away from the sign-in sheet. Not until he speaks again.
“I think she knew
and what I found today… I think she knew about the priest being there and I want to know why.”
His admission startles me. “There was only one name on the list of confessors before the priest left. Witnesses verify he left the church a quarter after seven. It was Melody’s name—she was the last one to see him before he burned to death with the rest of them.”
“And still… you aren’t going to bring her in?”
“She has motive for one of the murders. We have circumstantial evidence now for the priest. That’s all I’ve got.”
I nod, understanding. “If she confesses here though… would it count?”
A sad smile graces his lips. “Count?” He rocks on his heels and looks up at the ceiling before swallowing tightly. “I don’t want her,” he admits to me in almost a whisper. His pale blue eyes seek mine out, begging me to understand.
“You want Marcus,” I surmise.
“That’s all I want. If she can give me something on him...”
“What about the others? Her friends from the support group. The ones you think came up with all this? Why don’t you ask them?”
“I have. No one mentioned Marcus or admitted to anything. I know Melody’s case. I’d spoken to her when she came to me a couple of months ago. I think that’s the only reason she’s opened up. She’s the only one who’s given me anything. She’s the one with remorse.”
I could point out that she’s also drugged and not in her right mind, but I bite down on that thought in favor of something else. “Have you brought them in? The others to question them?”
“I don’t want to. The thing is, there isn’t an ounce of me that thinks they’ll do something like this again. I also don’t believe they would have done it at all had Marcus not urged them to do it. Given them the solution and laid out the plan.”
“Do you know that’s what happened for sure?” I ask him. “Sometimes people do things… you don’t expect.”
“Trust me, I’ve seen my share. It’s my gut feeling. Marcus will never stop. Since I’ve shown up, the death rate has only increased. He’s keeping me busy.”
I struggle, knowing more about Officer Walsh and Marcus than he realizes. I feel like a crook and a liar.
“I have questions for Miss Melody.” Walsh plasters a thin, short-lived smile on his face.
“Officer,” I say and stop him, feeling compelled to say something, “if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
A genuine smile replaces the forced one. “I appreciate that.”
Seth
Watching a clock is a shit way to eat up time. But then again, so is staring at a phone screen, wishing you were reading a different message.
I called Derrick about Fletcher a few days ago and asked if there was any talk of him or his crew recently. I killed Fletcher before he could kill me. It’s that simple. Along with him, I took out all of his men who had any authority. I let them scatter. His name shouldn’t be breathed by anyone of relevance.
Derrick said he’d look into it.
Today he sent me a response. It was detailed and thorough, with the names and addresses of five men who still hang together and were a part of Fletcher’s crew.
That’s all I’ve got. That was the last message he sent.
It was an hour ago that the text came through. And fifty minutes since I responded thanks.
It’s the first time I’ve talked to him in years. This is all that’s between us now. Business. The small clock on the mantel ticks and I pick up my beer, setting down one of the folders on the coffee table, taking a large swig before sending Derrick another message.
How are things?
My eyes burn from reading the handwritten print for hours. It’s all I’ve been doing: putting together the puzzle pieces written in the journals. The problem is Delilah contradicts herself. The locations are something we can work with, but the other things she’s written… I don’t know that I trust them. She’s not a reliable source and it’s frustrating and time consuming. If it leads to Marcus though, it’ll all be worth it.
I try to remember the last real conversation I had with Derrick. It was about Laura, I know that. He wanted me to come back, he said he wanted me whole. All he ever talked about was Laura. He hung Cami’s death over my head, reminding me that he’d never be all right again, but I could still chase after what I lost. Laura was still out there.
Damn, that has to be three years ago.
Are you with her? Derrick asks me in the text and my eyes narrow, my head tilts. There’s no reason he should know that I am. I looked through her messages, searching for someone who could have sent her flowers; they haven’t spoken in years. She told the truth when she said she hadn’t spoken to him a long damn time.
Why do you ask? I write him back.
Fuck off with that. I’m still your right-hand man.
I huff a humorless laugh and it comes with a slight smirk. Leaning back on the sofa, I read the message, settling the beer bottle to rest on my thigh. Those were good times. When he was my right hand and Laura was my girl.
She’ll be here in an hour when she gets off work, I text and then add, She’s a nurse now. It’s not until I send it that I realize he already knows. She’d already finished school four years ago so when they were talking, I’m sure she told him.
I know, he confirms. She still loves you too.
It’s not like that, I text him and feel a deep ache settle in my chest. It’ll never be what it was.
I down the beer and get up to retrieve another, leaving the phone where it is. It pings the moment I get to the fridge.
Opening the beer, taking a sip, I make my way back and read the message only to feel that anxiousness I was drinking down, creeping back up.
There’s something you should know. They found a body at the warehouse. Does Laura know about her dad?
No. Setting the beer down, I feel the cold prick along my skin. No one needs to look into that. Years have gone by without her father being a blip on my radar. I don’t like him being brought up.
They don’t need to, but the evidence is there. She may find out either way.
I mutter fuck and close my eyes. Dread is a bitter taste in my mouth. She can’t know, I text him back.
You’ve got her now. Just don’t let her go. No matter what comes out.
Derrick’s texts come hurriedly, one after the other.
I remind him, I asked how you were, wanting to get off this subject. I can’t handle this right now. Not when I don’t know if there’s even a reason to be concerned. My stomach churns, knowing Laura’s father is on Marcus’s radar though. Maybe the evidence is already out and he found it before putting the pieces together.
There’s a lot of shit that’s changed since you left, but overall, things are good.
I text him the obvious question to move things away from business: You got a girl?
A minute passes before he answers, Not yet. I have to go, but I’ll keep you updated with anything going on at the warehouse.
Thanks.
With that, I’m left with just my beer, too many questions I don’t have answers to, and the time ticking down.
Derrick used to ask me if I was punishing myself or Laura. The memory of the last conversation we had comes back full force. I can hear his voice in my head, asking me that question like he was some kind of fucking therapist.
Maybe it was a punishment to be so close to her, but not have her. Although, I couldn’t have known she wouldn’t come to me. For weeks, I thought she’d learn I was here, that I was close to her, and she’d come to me. When her name came up on the alert and I knew she was searching my name online, it put an end to that speculation.
The alarm beeps and a moment later the headlights from Laura’s sedan shine through the front window. We spent last night at her place, tonight we stay here. I know she’s had a long shift, but my place is closer to the center, so it was easy enough to get her to agree.
I don’t know what we are. I don’t
know why my head’s so fucked. But I know she’s mine. She’ll stay here until I tell her otherwise.
Laura comes into the house the same way I came into her place last night, saying my name as she pushes open the door with a key in her hand.
“You found it,” I say as I smirk at her. Even after a twelve-hour shift in baggy scrubs, she’s breathtaking.
“The key in my sandwich bag? Yes, yes I did.”
“It was unlocked, you know?” I tease her.
“Maybe I wanted to make sure it was to your front door. Since, you know, it just happened to be in the bag with no note.” She shrugs as she adds, “It could have been anyone’s key.”
“It’s yours.”
Closing and then locking the door behind her, she cradles an overnight bag in the crook of her arm along with her purse. It’s not a large bag and I’m sure she only packed for one night. I’ll have to fix that. She needs everything here and a place for what she needs in the cabinets and dressers. I’ll correct that issue tomorrow. Dropping her keys next to mine on the kitchen counter, she leaves her bag there too and rubs her eyes, sagging into the seat next to me.
I hold up the beer, offering it to her but she shakes her head and then rests her forehead on my shoulder, sleep weighing her down. “You don’t drink after work. Now that is different.”
She smiles in the crook of my neck and her shoulders shake slightly with a small feminine snicker.
Glancing up at me, she gives me a smile and then rolls to the side, giving me space. She lets out an exhausted yawn and tells me she’s just tired.
“Bethany said I should take up a red wine nightcap to help me sleep.”
“I’ll grab a couple of bottles.”
“Mmm,” she half responds with her eyes closed. Eyeing her plump lips with a loose tendril of hair in her face has me hard in a split second.