Danny. The merry-go-round starts up again, and I freeze on the top step, bracing myself. I hadn’t even considered he might find me here. “Why? Did you? Did you see something?”
Calder’s eyes widen—I must sound crazy—so I suck in a gulp of air and attempt to act a little less like a lunatic. “He has my license, you know.”
He nods and opens his mouth to speak. Then, shuts it again. I know how he feels. The past is like an ocean between us. And I’m starting to have second thoughts about him working here. What was I thinking? He knows too much about me. About who I used to be. Maybe I was right. I don’t really want to remember. But tonight, 9 p.m. What choice will I have then?
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked real pale…like you saw…like you saw a ghost.” He chuckles, but his eyes seem serious. Worried. Concerned even. Exactly like the Calder I remember. The Calder I trust.
“Butch, I need to talk to you. Could you meet me after you get off work? Someplace quiet.”
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Sure, I know a spot.”
****
Melanie opens late afternoon on Mondays, and I pace outside her door like a caged tiger. Waiting. Right at two o’clock, she hurries around the corner, head down in her cell phone. I’d forgotten how blonde she was. How perky. Detective Munroe would never believe we were friends.
“Hey, Melanie.”
She clutches the phone to her chest, her bright eyes popping. “Oh. My. God. For a second, I thought you were Nick checking up on me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Is he still bothering you?”
She shrugs and reaches elbow deep into her designer handbag, fishing out a Pi Beta Phi key chain. A single shiny key winks at me, and my dream comes back in a flash. Of Butch. The locked door. The key in his hand. “Just until he signs the papers. Then, I’ll officially be a divorcée. I hate the way that word sounds, don’t you?” It’s better than widow, I think. But she doesn’t wait for an answer. “So what’s up?”
“Have the police talked to you?”
“About Nick?”
“About me.”
“Whoa. No. Why would they? Did you do something bad, Doctor?”
Her giggle reminds me of champagne bubbles, and my chest tightens. Nice one, Evie. You’ve staked it all on this nitwit. “Listen, I need a favor. If they ask, you dared me to hitchhike on Friday night. You dare me to do stuff all the time.” She unlocks the door and stares at me blankly until I add, “You owe me. Remember?”
“Alright, I dared you. I’m always daring you.” She gazes down to the end of the hallway where Butch is tightening a light bulb. It flickers on and off and on again. “In fact, I dare you to chat up the new hottie in the building. Before I do. I double-dog dare you.”
He’s too far away to hear, but I cringe anyway. “I know him,” I say. Like that’s an answer.
“Even better. Then you can introduce me. You know I can’t resist a man in uniform.”
As she opens the door and flips the sign to OPEN, I force a smile and peek back at Butch. Try to see him as she must, like it’s the first time. Tough as nails. A little worn around the edges. But better for it, like a beat-up leather jacket. That’s Butch alright. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I ask her.
“The more the merrier.” She gives me a playful elbow and a perfect grin, and I follow her inside. “Totally kidding. Dangerously handsome maintenance guy off limits. I got it.”
“I’m not…we’re not…uh…I’ll introduce you if you want.” I feel thirteen again, desperate not to say the wrong thing. It comes hard-wired, this inexplicable need to impress girls with names like Melanie. Or Jessica. Or Holly.
“Whatevs.” She tosses the whole conversation away with a flip of her hand. “Before you go, a gal stopped by on Friday evening asking about you. I think she got mixed-up with the whole 23A, 23B thing. I told her you’d probably left already, but—”
“What did she look like? Did she tell you her name? Did she leave something for me?” My voice is rushed and breathy, the same desperate woman who went running through the parking lot chasing…what? A little girl.
“Easy, killer. I didn’t give her the Spanish Inquisition. But I do remember one thing. I thought it was pretty ironic actually. You doing therapy with pervs and all.” I sigh hard to make a point, but Melanie hardly notices. “The way she was dressed, she had this look about her. I’m not one to judge, but I’m pretty sure she was a hooker.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Butch
January 16, 2017
Monday
Mr. Vinetti let me go half an hour early with a pat on the back and an attaboy. “Great job today, Butch. Really nice work.” I ate it up, even if it seemed like overkill. I’d changed fifteen light bulbs, fixed a clogged toilet in the first-floor bathroom, and laid a handful of mousetraps. Hardly rocket science or world peace. But hell, I had a job—one that paid more than twenty cents an hour—and that was progress.
Still, sitting here in my usual booth way back in the corner, drinking my usual coffee, something feels off. Brenda’s here too, flashing her cleavage and her crooked smile. Otherwise, the place is deserted. Like I said, the usual. So, it must be me. I’m off. And I know why. But I couldn’t tell her no. Correction—I didn’t want to tell her no.
I watch the door, half-scared, half-excited. These butterflies in my stomach feel more like goddamn bats. That feeling, it reminds me of…nope, don’t think it. She’ll be here any minute. But in my head, I’m back at Folsom in the boardroom, midway through my last parole hearing.
Mr. Calder’s prison record is exemplary, that’s true. But, as Dr. Jeffries noted in the psych report, he’s never been tested outside of a controlled environment. He’s had limited opportunities for relationships with women, and we remain cautious about his ability to manage rejection, abandonment, and other strong emotions.
And they were right. Because the last time I was completely alone with a woman—a girl, really—I killed her. That sits like a rock in the pit of my stomach. A goddamn boulder. There’s no getting around it. I don’t trust myself.
Not with her.
Not with any woman. But especially her.
I’d looked her dead in the eye and lied today. A lie of omission. The parole board would have a field day with that one.
“Hey,” Evie says, sliding into the booth across from me and taking off her jacket. Perfect timing. “I’m sorry I’m running a little late. I had to stop by the DMV, since that creep got my license, and you know how that goes.”
The last time I went to the DMV Bill Clinton was president. But I nod, feeling guilty as hell. And every bit the creep I am. “Do you want anything? Coffee or…the apple pie’s pretty good.”
Brenda circles, hawk-eyeing Evie and the white bandage on her forearm. I stare at it too, feeling slightly off-kilter, like a kid’s top spinning toward the edge of a table.
“Hi. I’m Brenda. Welcome to Chicken and Waffles.” But her voice—flat as a zombie’s drone—says the complete opposite. “Can I get you anything, ma’am?”
“Um, the pie?” Evie grins at me, and I feel better, righted again. “Two pieces, please. À la mode. And a coffee for me as well.”
Brenda stabs the pen against the pad, jotting our order. “Coming right up.”
“Geez, what’s her problem?” Evie asks, after Brenda stalked away, muttering under her breath. Young Butch would’ve totally gotten off on that—a woman jealous over him. But, what can I say? I’m old. My ears get hot, and I stare at my coffee. “Oh. I see. Brenda thinks I’m competition. You must come here a lot then.”
“A fair bit. I guess I’m a creature of habit. That or I really like waffles.”
“They say it’s good to have a routine, right? I mean, it makes the transition a little easier. Or that’s what the guys
I work with tell me anyway. How long have you been out?”
That boulder rolls in my stomach, and I feel nauseous. So I keep talking. Anything to tamp it down. “Almost five months. But it seems like nothing. Every day I learn something new.” I hold up my flip phone for her, and she laughs. “Like this thing. I’m still trying to figure out how to program my damn voicemail.”
“Does anyone even use voicemail anymore?” she teases. “I’m pretty sure you should just send a text.”
“LOL.”
“Yep. Welcome to 2017. Where we can’t be bothered to write out words anymore.”
Brenda approaches, pie in hand, and I say a silent prayer she didn’t spit in Evie’s ice cream. “Here ya go, Butch.” She winks and grazes my shoulder, putting both plates smack dab in front of me. “Enjoy, sweetie.”
“Um, what about my coffee?”
“Oh, sorry, ma’am. I totally forgot you were here. One coffee coming right up.” By the way she says it, I’m willing to bet that means sometime next year.
Evie’s giggle makes her sound young again. “You’ve really done a number on her, Calder. I hope she doesn’t poison my coffee.”
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “Maybe this wasn’t the best place to meet.”
“It’s perfect. I get why you like it.”
She forks a bite of pie—like we’re just two girlfriends catching up—and I can’t help but stare at her mouth. It’s kind of perfect, the way Gwen’s was. And I’m a total prick for asking when I know the answer—thank you, world wide web—but what the hell. I go for it anyway. “What about you? Are you married?”
“I was. My husband, Jared, died two years ago. Cancer.” She’s been asked before. I can tell. Because her face doesn’t show what I find in her eyes. What I’ve known myself too well. Loss undergirding everything. Immovable as the rebar beneath the foundation of Folsom itself.
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard.”
“Yeah. It was. But I don’t have to tell you that. It’s funny—well, not ha ha funny—but I think the first loss is the hardest. Nothing compares to it. You can only live through that kind of pain once.”
“Your mom?” I ask, and she nods. Forks another bite of pie and smiles through it.
“So speaking of the past,” she says. “This might sound strange. But I’ve been having these dreams lately. And you’re in them.”
I hope like hell I’m not blushing again. “Okay.”
“Do you remember that time at the Blue Bird? When you stomped Trey’s hand?”
“Yeah. That was stupid. I don’t know what I was—”
“Are you kidding? That was awesome. Nobody ever stood up for me like that. Did you know that place—the Blue Bird—is still standing?” I shake my head, even though I’d taken the bus there once, just after I got out. Just to see it. “And then you let me ride in your convertible. A Barracuda, right? Whatever happened to that thing?”
Fuck me. This is worse than I thought. Worse than I could’ve imagined. Worse than the psych doctors in prison, scribbling on their notepads. Worse than the commissioners. It’s even worse than Peter and Janice Shaw showing up at every single parole hearing until she died and he followed a year later. “Crashed it. It was a total loss.” And so was I. “I’m not in any hurry to get back behind the wheel.”
Her face contorts—she’s confused—and it hurts. I’ll bet she’s trying to reconcile the two Butches. The one she knew and the other one she didn’t. Good luck with that. “Is that how you ended up in prison? Motor vehicle homicide or something? I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but…”
“You really don’t know? I assumed you might’ve heard. That it got around that kids’ home…Port in a Storm, wasn’t it?”
She nods. “I left there. I stayed in LA for a while. Years actually. A few foster homes. You know the drill. So, no, I didn’t hear.”
My sigh comes out shaky, louder and more pathetic than I intended. This is really happening. Now. At the goddamned Chicken and Waffles. And it feels like I’ve been waiting so long to say it, I’m not ready anymore. But, here goes nothing. “I killed—”
“Excuse me, Butch. Don’t mean to interrupt, but I’ve got that coffee you ordered.” My mouth hangs open, and I stare blankly at the flirty waitress. Brenda. That’s her name. Brenda at Chicken and Waffles.
“Over here,” Evie says to her, saving me. “I ordered that.”
“Oh. Right. You.”
Brenda deposits the coffee and slinks away, but she’s just background noise. I’m only watching Evie. She wraps her hands around the cup, puts it to her lips, and blows softly. Little ripples break the surface, and she raises her eyes. Offers me a sad smile. And I savor it—that moment—because I know she’ll never look at me the same.
“I killed someone. A girl. Gwen.” I swear to God, the words collapse the universe.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Evie
January 16, 2017
Monday
“Gwen? The pretty blonde?” I picture her bowing her viola in a room full of orphans and throwaways, her flowy skirt blowing in the breeze from the open windows. I see it like it was yesterday. That much I remember. My dream-self mocks me again, and Calder makes a guttural noise I take as a yes. There’s so much pain in his eyes, I can’t look at him. But I can’t look away.
“When?” I ask, wishing right away I could take it back. When? Who asks that? First. Before why. Or how. Someone who can’t remember a whole chapter of her life, that’s who.
He swallows hard. “When?”
“I just—I thought I saw you two together a few days before…”Before I watched my friend die and forgot it all. “…uh, never mind.”
“May 13, 1994.”
He’s so sure I wonder if it’s tattooed on him somewhere, but I ask him anyway, because I can’t believe it. “Are you sure?”
His bottom lip quivers. And I notice, even with that date whirling in my brain. The letter burning in my pocket. After I’d come unglued in the parking lot this afternoon, I’d hightailed it to the bathroom, planning to flush it to oblivion. But I couldn’t let it go. It was proof—the only proof I had. Cassie was real. Cassie had existed. And it was the loss of her that I’d been thinking of. Not my mother, who was so strung out most days she was an in-between person. Halfway here, halfway gone.
“That’s my birthday,” I say.
“Oh. Weird. Yeah. I’m sure. That was the day. I’ll never forget it.”
“Wow, Butch.” I take another sip of the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted—maybe Brenda really did poison me—and try to center myself with both feet in the present. To think of the least awkward, least awful thing to say. An acquired skill in my profession. “It takes a lot of courage to admit something like that.”
He chews on his bottom lip. “You called me that night, didn’t you? Left a message for me at the Blue Bird?”
“I did?” But, I remember. I did. And my cheeks flush.
“I think you needed a ride or something…you and your friend…Cassie.” His mouth stops moving, and I stare at it, the dark cave between his lips. “I wish I’d picked you up that night. Then everything would be different.”
Scared of what I might say—I don’t remember. Can you help me remember?—I say nothing, and he sighs again.
“Are you still in touch?” His eyes buried in his lap like he might find the answer there, I don’t understand the question at first. And then I do, and it’s like a knife between my ribs. A sneak attack.
“With Cassie? No.” What more is there to say that can be said aloud? Only this, “I wish you’d picked us up too.”
Solemn, he nods. “Thanks for not hightailing it out of here. You can, you know? Leave. If you want.”
Maybe I should. But I’d trusted Butch since the first day we met, the day he stood up to Trey for me. Nobody�
��d ever done that before. Not even my own mother. “I’m sure you know this—and I’m not trying to sound like a shrink—but a man can do bad things and not be a bad man. The Butch I remember wasn’t a bad guy. You’re kinda the same, you know. But different.”
“You definitely sound like a shrink. But I appreciate it. And I know what you mean. You’re different too. And the same.” He leans back against the booth, runs a hand through his shaggy blonde hair, and lets out a long, slow whistle of a breath. “So is that what you wanted to ask me? What I did?”
Truth is I’ve been stalling. I’m afraid to say it out loud. To make it real. Somebody knows. After all this time, somebody knows. “Not exactly. Did you see anybody hanging around my office today? Maybe this morning?”
“I don’t think so. But, I can’t be sure. Once Gary put me to work, I was all over the place. Why? Did something happen? Is that why you seemed shaken up?” Shaken? More like a massive earthquake at my very core, but I don’t admit it.
“Is there somebody bothering you? I can keep a look out.” He studies my face closely, and I know I’m not as good at faking as I used to be. “Is it Trey?”
My whole body tenses at that name. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I hear it and I expect to be punished. “Trey is the least of my worries.”
“Good, because…” He points over my shoulder at the oversized TV screen hung in the corner of the diner. “Looks like he’s somebody else’s problem for a while anyway.”
The television’s on mute, the closed caption streaming at the bottom.
Person of interest, Trey Waters, was arrested today on charges of human trafficking. Police believe he may have information on the murder of an underage female discovered in downtown Oakland early Saturday morning. Though police officials have not yet confirmed the manner of the victim’s death, sources close to the investigation revealed she was strangled and likely sexually assaulted. The same source cautioned that Friday’s night rainstorm has complicated investigative efforts by compromising much of the forensic evidence.
And there he is, so real that I shudder. He’s shielding his ruddy face from the camera, one hand raised. Like he’s signaling right to me. And on one skeleton finger, my father’s ring.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 46