“How did she die?” Maggie asks, and I realize she’s holding my hand. Patting it.
“Too early to tell. There was no obvious trauma, and the body had been there a while. The coroner said at least a couple of weeks. Could’ve been an…” Macaroni swallows hard, clearing the way for whatever nasty word he’s about to cough up. “…overdose.”
My head bobs up and down, nodding at him. It feels disconnected. Like it might float away. “What was her name?” Because I have to hear him say what I already know.
“Cassidy Kurchell.”
Cassie is dead. Again. And it’s still my fault.
There’s nothing left for me to do but this. I take out the letter, hand it to Macaroni.
“I need to tell you something. Everything.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Butch
January 19, 2017
Thursday
After Mr. Vinetti gives me my assignments, I check Evie’s office—still locked—and I hole up in the bathroom for a good hour. It feels safe in there, compact and contained. Predictable. The kind of world I’d grown accustomed to. Not this one.
Sebastian had been asleep last night when I’d returned, worried sick about Evie. Punch-drunk on Evie. And I hadn’t planned on waking him. I’d deal with him in the morning. With a level head.
“You barely made curfew, huh?” He’d looked wide awake, like he’d been playing possum. I’d shrugged, pulling back the covers and climbing in. Staying mute. “Cat got your tongue, Calder?”
I’d stared up at the ceiling, steadying my breathing. But it didn’t help. This guy got under my skin like a goddamned ringworm. “And what about you? Did you take the night off? Or did you just finish up the vandalism portion of the evening early?”
“Ouch. Why so hostile? I thought we were cool, man. All’s well that ends—”
“Yeah. I hate that saying. And that was before you ratted me out to Dr. Maddox. You made it sound like it was my idea.”
“Relax. She likes you. She’ll get over it.”
I’d turned toward the wall. Better not to look at him, even in my peripheral. “You seem pretty confident for a guy with nothing left to lord over me.”
I hoped he’d leave it alone then. But hope is the thing with feathers, and it had flown right out the window. “I got audio, you know. That night. Had my cell phone in my pocket the whole time. It’s one of those fancy ones with the video recorder. Not like your relic. You say anything about anything, and you’re going down with me.”
“Good night, Sebastian.” And I’d spent the next five hours and forty-five minutes listening to him listening to me.
Peeking out the door first—coast clear—I sneak out of the bathroom like a common criminal. Evie’s still not here, and my stomach is a pit. I head down the first floor and try to focus. One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. Just like in Folsom.
I hang a few pictures in the waiting room for 16A. And clean up a toilet overflow in the clinic. Mr. Vinetti left a couple sacks of garbage for me to lug to the dumpster, so I head across the parking lot, dragging the bags and myself. My legs, heavy, weighted with the heft of the last few days. My head, spinning in the clouds.
I toss the trash over the side and sit on the curb behind the dumpster, flipping my phone open and closed, open and closed. I can call Evie at her mother-in-law’s. The number is still in my phone from yesterday. In fact, I’d spent ten minutes at breakfast trying to figure out how to save it before I’d just jotted it on a scrap of paper. Like we did in the days of old.
But I don’t want to overstep. Especially after last night. When a line had been crossed and not by me. At exactly 12:45 a.m.—I’d seen it on the dash clock—I’d opened the door of the Prius. Evie had gotten out too, and we’d met in the middle. I’d felt like a kid on a first date. If your first date involves witnessing a murder. She’d closed the distance between us herself, taking me by surprise. And then: You know I had a huge crush on you back then, right? The words alone would’ve been one thing, but the way she’d said them, her lips right there against my cheek, so close they’d brushed it by accident. That had been another thing entirely.
What did I do? What I always do. Run. Well, not run exactly, but stutter step back to the house, glancing over my shoulder to be sure she was real. Because I will mess this up. Whatever this is. I already have. Thanks to Sebastian, I’m skating on thin ice, and I haven’t even told her the whole truth. Yet.
Nope. Can’t call. I pocket the phone and get to my feet, cursing Sebastian again. And that’s when I remember.
He’d snuck back here that night, gotten his hands dirty. “Misdirection,” he’d said. But his whole shtick seemed an exercise in it. One move to cover the next, to avoid capture. Like pawns on a chessboard.
Sure that no one’s looking, I slink behind the dumpster and into the small wooded area in the back of the building, the leaves crunching under my feet. There’s a spot by the bushes where the ground is different—smooth, like it’s been swept clean—and the leaf cover, less dense. I kneel down and start digging, pawing the soil away like an old hound dog, sure there’s a bone underneath.
And I’m right.
My bone is a metal lockbox. But with a few solid hits against the nearest tree trunk, it springs right open. What have you been up to, roomie? Besides graffiti and destroying my life.
Turns out a helluva lot.
Butch
May 13, 1994
The day I killed her
I needed to get plastered. Wasted. Totally shit-faced. I gazed with longing at the bottle of Jack, stolen all by myself this morning—fuck you, Gwen—in the glove box. I could already taste that first swig, feel the bite of it at the back of my throat. But it would have to wait.
I locked up the ’Cuda, dropped two quarters in the meter—this would be quick—and walked the block to Simon Merriwether’s office.
“Mr. Calder, glad to see you could fit me into your busy schedule.” Mr. Merriwether smoothed the edges of his gray mustache and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Since I’d seen him last, he’d shrunk like a prune, smaller and more wrinkly.
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.” He cleared his throat the way Mr. O’Shaughnessy always did just before he’d start in with a lecture on my unruly behavior. And by the way Mr. Merriwether’s throat rattled, this lecture was going to be epic. “You missed our appointment on Wednesday.”
“I forgot.”
“And you haven’t you been returning my calls.”
I shrugged. “Been busy.”
“Well, yes, I’d say you’ve been very busy.” He opened a file folder I could only guess bore the label: Stupidest Client I’ve Got. Or maybe Lowlife Loser. “Let’s see. In the span of less than one month, and following your release from juvenile detention I might add, you’ve spent roughly $210,000. A two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Nordstrom. Neiman Marcus. Autographed memorabilia from that vulgar rock band. And the list goes on…and yet, you’re living in one of the seediest motels in Oakland.”
“It’s my money, right? I can do what I want with it.”
He sighed, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the law school diploma framed over his desk. My complete and utter indignation writ large on my face. And I actually felt sorry for the guy. That he had to deal with screwups like me. Until. “At this rate, you’ll be penniless by the end of the summer. Homeless too. What would your parents say, Butch?”
Like a cloud passing over, I watched my expression darken in the glass. Of the fancy diploma from the fancy school I’d never get into. His whole office—the leather, the mahogany, the perfect pictures of his perfect family lined up in a straight little row—a study in all the things I would never, could never, have.
“My parents are dead in case you didn’t notice. So, they’d
probably say to live it up. Go wild, son. Because you never really know when a doped-up trucker is going to smash your skull to bits.”
Mr. Merriwether’s eyes bugged, and I waited for him to tell me to get out. That’s what I wanted actually, what I’d been aiming for. “I’m sorry. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. But I’m concerned about your future. Remember, I’m on your side.”
My side, my ass. “But it’s my money.”
“Yes. And no.”
“What do you mean?”
“The judge made it clear the money was to be spent in your best interests. Now, I’ve given you ample leeway—probably too much—but I have to put my foot down before you blow it all. If you can’t act responsibly I’ll have no choice but to suspend your access to the account until you demonstrate the type of sound decision-making that comes with being an adult.”
Heat crept up my spine. I could feel the beads of sweat pricking at the back of my neck and along my forehead. My bones felt like hot coils, rigged for explosion. “Screw you. If you call this stick-up-your-ass routine being an adult, then you can have it.”
He raised his eyebrows, slightly offended, but there was fear there too. And I liked it. “My point exactly,” he said, pretending I hadn’t scared him. “Someday, Mr. Calder, you’ll have to grow up. Whether you like it or not.”
“You can’t touch that money, you prick. And I’ll grow up when I’m damn well good and ready.” I grabbed the first thing I saw, a golfing trophy perched on the edge of his desk, and I hurled it at the wall. The thud pleased me, but not as much as Mr. Merriwether’s flinch and cower. Damn, that felt good.
I stomped out, high on rage. Anything seemed possible. Even winning Gwen back. And one thing, certain. Butch Calder knew how to make an exit.
****
What goes up must come down. And by the time I’d started the ’Cuda, feeling that low growl of the engine in my belly, I knew I’d messed up. Big time. I washed down my regret with a long swallow of Jack and hit the highway doing ninety-five. I figured I had at least a few hours before Mr. Merriwether made good on his threat. And I knew what I needed to do.
Twenty minutes later, I strutted into Tiffany in San Francisco, determined to buy my way back to Gwen. The oversized door was heavier than I expected. Like I needed a couple of servants to open it for me, to announce my entrance.
Inside, I tried not to gape. But, the cases, the diamonds, the goddamned brightness of it all—I felt like a deer in the headlights, startled, right before impact.
“Can I help you, young man?” A woman appeared in a black skirt suit, her hair twisted into a tight knot at the base of her skull. So tight, it explained her pinched smile.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a present for my girlfriend.” You wish, Butchy. You blew it. She’s probably banging Russ Conway right now. “She’s actually kind of upset with me, so it has to be really special.”
The woman nodded like I wasn’t the first total lame duck she’d seen. Like we came in here all the time, guys like me, ready to cough it up—whatever it cost—for one more night with her. Who knew? I was Everyman.
“I’m sure we can find something that will make her forget whatever it is you’ve done wrong.” Another plastic smile. “Now, what sort of jewelry would she like? A bracelet, perhaps?” She directed me to the first case. “We have a lovely silver charm bracelet. Simple, but exquisite. And it’s quite… affordable. If that’s a concern.”
Bitch. “It’s not.”
“Oh. Well then. How about a necklace?”
“This one,” I said, peering into the glass at the sterling music note. I imagined it resting in the hollow of Gwen’s throat. How I’d kiss her there. How she’d let me. “She plays the viola.”
“A beautiful choice.” She plucked the charm from its cushion and set it atop the case, glancing up at me as she checked the little price tag and pecked at the register. “It’s two hundred dollars.”
Her pause seemed deliberate. Like she knew. But how could she? I looked over my shoulder, wary, as if Simon Merriwether waited behind me, grinning, broken golf trophy in hand.
“How would you like to pay, sir?”
“Personal check.”
“Alright.” But a tiny wrinkle appeared in the center of her forehead as I filled in the amount, scrawled my signature. “One moment, please.”
She disappeared into the back of the store—my check held captive between her manicured fingers—leaving me standing there, pacing like a desperate fool. I tried to act normal, but the other Tiffany robots clad in the same, bland uniform kept swiveling their heads in my direction.
And suddenly, I felt drunk. Impossible, because I’d only had a few swigs. Four. Or five. Ten at most. But my feet swayed beneath me, and I grabbed onto the counter to stay upright.
“Are you alright, sir?”
I nodded. I should leave now. Before I embarrass myself. I didn’t belong there anyway, and no amount of blood money would change that. I took a wobbly step toward the door, but—
The necklace. The music note. Gwen would love it. She would see how thoughtful I could be. How sincere. She would let me fasten the clasp, sweeping her golden hair to one shoulder. And I would linger there, fingers on skin. Lips too.
No, I couldn’t leave without it. Then I’d be empty-handed. Hopeless. With nothing to give but myself. So less than nothing then.
When the saleswoman returned, the wrinkle in her forehead deepened, and I wanted to smooth it, to smash it down. To flatten it with a hammer. She spoke in a hushed tone, but in the Friday morning quiet, everybody heard. Everybody. “There was a problem with your check, sir.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Apparently, there’s a hold on your account.”
“A hold. Weird.” Shit. Shit. Shit. “I can pay cash.”
I pulled out my wallet, counted the bills out loud, and prayed. Please, God. I need this. “One ninety-seven. One ninety-eight. One ninety-nine…I’ve got some change in my pocket.”
I shoved my fingers down deep and tossed a handful of change on the counter. As she picked through it, I leaned in, nearly knocking our heads together. She gasped and wrinkled her nose.
“Sir, have you been drinking?”
“No. Of course not.” Act sober, Butchy. “Do I have enough?”
“Two hundred on the dot. With a couple pennies to spare. But—”
I smacked my palm against the glass, rattling the case. “Then what’s the goddamned problem?”
Finally, I’d gotten her to look alive. “I’ll wrap this up for you, sir. Right away.”
She backed away slowly, leaving the pennies—five to be exact—on the counter. One-by-one I placed them in my palm, balled them tight in my fist. I would’ve thrown them at her, but they were all I had left.
****
The message light accosted me the moment I got back—its steady blinking like a constant tap on my shoulder. Probably Merriwether calling to rub it in.
I’m broke. Penniless. Except for those five. The thought kept creeping up, pushing its way through. If it came to it, I’d have to sell the ’Cuda. Let go of the only good thing I had left. Except for Gwen, of course. That’s why I had to stay focused.
On her. My lifeline.
I took my time in the shower. And I spent at least fifteen minutes perfecting my shaggy mane. Dressing for the job I wanted. Gwen’s boyfriend, of course.
I stood at the door, armed and ready. Tiffany box in hand and looking damn good. Like a guy about to win the girl. But that red light kept insisting. So what the hell. It can’t get any worse. I held the receiver to my ear and pressed the message button.
Hi, Calder. It’s, uh…Evie. I know you’re probably really busy, but I was wondering if you could maybe give me and Cassie a ride—”
I hung up. Evie would find another ride.
I didn’t have time for distractions. Not now. Not tonight. Because tonight was going to be epic.
****
The little blue box mocked me from the passenger seat, its haughty white bow winking at me. Judging me. Like it knew what I was.
Who I was. Who I would be.
I covered it with my jacket. I expected Gwen soon.
And I’d be waiting. Watching from a turnout three houses down, with a clear view of the Shaw mansion.
Already, I’d been there for hours.
Long enough to see her prick dad come home with that mobile phone glued to his ear, the one I’d like to shove right up his ass.
Long enough to sober up…mostly.
My legs were cramped. My back ached. But inside, I felt alive. I had the feeling that something good—one good thing—could still happen to me. Even with five pennies in my wallet and the Tiffany box pronouncing me an impostor, that feeling burned at the center of my chest like a lit match. I guess you’d call it hope.
And Gwen had given it to me with one sentence. “I think I should talk to him at least.” That’s what she’d said to Dickface Russ—who was sporting a pretty impressive black eye, courtesy of yours truly—when he’d dropped her off after school in his 911 Porsche Carrera Turbo. Red. He didn’t deserve that car. And definitely not a girl like her.
“I don’t want you seeing that guy again,” he’d said, loud enough for me to hear. “I don’t trust him.”
But Gwen. Sweet, perfect Gwen. She hadn’t fallen for his macho bullshit. “He seemed really sorry. I think I should talk to him at least.”
“Are you kidding me? He broke my nose. That asshole’s lucky I’m not pressing charges.”
“He’s been through a lot. He lost his whole family, Russ. Cut him some slack.”
“Whatever, Gwen. I’ll see you tonight. Seven, right?” And then, he’d tried to kiss her. To kiss my girl. But Gwen, amazing, beautiful Gwen. My Gwen. She’d pushed him away.
“Eight. And don’t be late.”
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