Her mouth hung slightly open, and she shut it fast. The click of her teeth startled her like the chambering of a gun. And she realized what he’d said. “Uh, Julie left him?”
Immediately, she regretted asking, letting him in. Giving him that power. But still, she had to know what Ian hadn’t told her. Even if it meant kowtowing to Prick. “Oh. Well, yes. They separated a few weeks before she died. He took it very hard. You know how he is about . . . losing. I don’t want to overstep here, but you weren’t aware?”
Ava felt not good enough. The way she had that day in his office. Like he’d circled the three—mediocre or worse—in grading her marriage.
“I should probably go,” she said, rubbing her ring again. A nervous habit.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Ava.” He put his stubby fingers on her arm, and she flinched.
“But I would like you to know I didn’t steal anything from work. A few days before I was fired, Ian came by to talk to me about changing your performance review. He thought I was being too hard on you. But I refused.”
“Are you accusing him of—?” She stepped away from Prick and nearly stumbled off the curb. Words spun in her head, a million words, and she could have said any of them. But she chose the four that were untrue. “I don’t believe you.”
****
The hum of vodka in Ava’s blood had long worn off. She sat in her car, seat belt on, heat blasting. Going nowhere.
She thought of her father. Then, Ian. Then, her father again. And the note she knew by heart.
To Franny and Ava, my darling girls: I’m no hero. I’m not who you think I am. I’m a bad cop, a crooked one. I have been for a long time.
And at the end of it—an entire page worth of her dad’s confessions—one last request, a request she’d denied him:
Tell my story to the LA Times. Help me make it right, even if I won’t be there to see it.
When her cell phone buzzed in her hand, she barely felt it. But the name on the screen brought her back to life. Her life. With Ian.
“So, are you the next Dr. Phil yet?” She sounded so normal, even she believed it, laughing at her own joke. But Ian didn’t laugh, and she felt her face get hot.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At home.”
“No, you’re not.”
****
“Marriage is like an onion,” Ian had told her once. “Every day you peel back another layer. You see more and more.”
“And sometimes it makes you cry,” she’d added, teasing him.
But it made sense now. Layers stripped away, ripped off and discarded. Until there was only this.
Ian pacing beside their bed, his eyes welling. “I’ll do it, Ava. If you leave me. I will. I’ll blow my goddamned brains out just like your father.”
He knew the combination to the lockbox where she kept the gun—0214—and Ava watched as he moved toward it, where it gathered dust in the back of the closet. “You’ll have another one on your conscience. Is that what you want? You want me gone?”
How did we get here?
Her brain felt slow and stupid, clumsily retracing her steps like a drunk bum. Brandy and the bar. Cherry vodka splashed on her tongue. Prick Whitlock. Julie. Julie. Julie. Ian’s unexpected call. “Surprise, I’m home early! Surprise, you’re not here. Surprise, why the fuck did you lie to me, Ava? Are you screwing around on me?” And then, she’d let loose and told him everything. Not told exactly but raged. Raged was more like it. Because she hadn’t lied about anything important. Not the way he had. And maybe she didn’t know him at all. And maybe this marriage was a mistake.
Of course, she didn’t mean it.
And he didn’t either. She saw that when he collapsed onto the edge of the bed, defeated. But still. “I’ll blow my goddamned brains out.” What kind of person would choose those words? The very ones meant to destroy, to detonate inside her like a dirty bomb.
She sat next to him, mute, her hands shaking. The rage went bone deep. And she imagined herself shaking his shoulders, rattling his perfect teeth. If you ever say that again, I’ll kill you myself. Those were the words she imagined speaking. The layer of herself—raw and stinging and vile—she kept carefully hidden. She wanted to shove it in his face, watch him recoil from it.
Instead, she heard herself plead with him. She spoke the words a dutiful wife should speak. “I love you, Ian. I could never want you gone. Never.”
They lingered there, side by side, for a while. Ava felt strange when she finally got up and went to the window, looked out at the street and found it the same. Somehow, she’d expected to see a wasteland. The houses around them leveled. The ground flat and lifeless. And herself floating above it all, distant as a dream.
“I got you something,” he said finally, nodding toward the bathroom. His voice was steady and soft, the Ian she knew best. She felt reassured by that. That he could still sound like the person she loved.
She walked past him, her leg brushing his knees, and he reached for her hand, pulling her onto his lap. She surrendered to him but couldn’t quite look into his eyes.
“It’s a night-light,” he whispered against her mouth.
And sure enough, she caught the glow of it as he kissed her, the shimmering halo in the mirror. The dark shadows it cast.
Chapter
Twelve
Sunday
February 19, 2018
I picked a fight with Luke yesterday afternoon. He gave me no choice. I needed time alone. To count the money one more time just to be sure. To email Ricky. But mainly to get a freaking grip. Without a cop—albeit a ruggedly good-looking one—breathing down my neck. Plus, he’d started asking way too many questions about the false alarm break-in at my office, the one Cooper had filled him in on. Gleefully, no doubt.
“What were you doing there—again?”
“Did you notice anything suspicious?”
“Is someone following you?”
“What aren’t you telling me, Ava?”
And he didn’t bite—not one nibble—when I’d fished around about his visit to Cliffside. Somehow, the fishing only made me feel guilty. Because Luke had been asking to come along on a visit there since . . . well, since he started saying the L-word.
After I’d slammed the bedroom door and Luke had sulked out as expected, I’d logged into the Avenging Angel account and sent Ricky a message. To which there had been no reply.
To: Ricky Sherman
From: Avenging Angel
Date: February 18, 2018 4:53 PM PST
Subject: Let’s make a deal
I need to talk to you. Sunday at noon. Your room at the Bay View.
And that’s how I ended up here. Outside the seediest motel in Carmel that’s still ten times more upscale than my undergrad dorm room at UC Berkeley. I push through the glass doors and into the lobby, where the baby-faced clerk barely looks up from his cell phone.
“Excuse me,” I say, approaching the desk. He grunts—an acknowledgment?—but his eyes stay fixed on the screen where a half-naked model poses on the hood of a sports car. So predictable. “Could you—”
“I’m on break.”
I spot his name tag. Alex. And consider letting down my ponytail and flirting a little, but my sweats are as baggy as my tired eyes, and I doubt Alex would be convinced. Or interested.
“Is there someone else who could help me? I need to get in touch with one of your guests.”
“Nah. The other guy called in sick. You’ll have to wait.”
“Can’t you just—”
“Look, it’s the law, lady. California Labor Code. Have a seat, and I’ll be with you at exactly twelve-thirty.”
Lady. The word makes me sound anything but. As he hones in on the model’s bare breasts, smirking to himself, a flash of
memory slips through like quicksilver. I clutch at it greedily the way a toddler snatches at a toy. The time Ian had called the Department of Housing Preservation to report bedbugs at a ritzy hotel in New York City after they’d screwed up our reservation. That was before we met Wallace. Before I knew how far Ian would go. And how far I would follow him.
“Alex, I would really hate to have to tell your boss you were looking at hard-core pornography on your break. In front of me and my children.” I return the lopsided, smart-ass grin he’d given me and wait for him to cry uncle. To acquiesce to me and my imaginary offspring.
Which he does. Such an amateur. “What can I help with you, ma’am?”
“I need a room number for a guest. Ricky Sherman.”
“I can’t give out room numbers. It’s not—”
A well-timed raise of my eyebrows. “You were saying?”
“Let me check on that for you.” A few clicks on the keyboard, and he’s got it. “Room 51. Just go out the way you came in and take a right. It’s on the lower level.”
“Thank you, Alex. Enjoy your porn—I mean break.”
It feels so good I don’t even blink when I hear him mutter crazy fucking bitch under his breath. He has no idea.
****
Ricky is drunk. No surprise there. He’s emptied the minibar and moved on to the fifth of Jack Daniels. A half-eaten rotisserie chicken rests on a greasy paper bag, a sad sack of soggy fries beside it.
He belches once, swaying in the doorway, before he lets me in and closes the door behind him. The sound is so definitive, so final. I’m relieved when he doesn’t latch it. “About damn time. You said noon.”
“Yeah. Well, you didn’t exactly make it easy not responding to my email. You never told me your room number.”
“I came back and left a note on your door Friday night. What were you waiting on? A gold-plated invitation?”
A note? It unnerves me. Because Ricky strikes me as the kind of guy who lies about the big things, not the little ones. And if he’d been creeping around, someone else might have been creeping behind him. “What did it say?”
“That I’m only asking for what you promised me. What I’m owed.” And it’s not lost on me that he sounds like the breathing man. “And my room number. That too.”
“Well, I’m here now. So—”
“So talk. But don’t go breaking your promises.”
“I never made you any promises.”
“Bullshit. Do you want me to read the first email you sent? You practically begged me to help you stick it to this guy. I kept up my end of the bargain. And now, it’s your turn. I’ll bet they paid you a pretty penny for those pictures.”
“I didn’t sell the pictures.” Even I don’t believe me. And the truth is only as good as what you can convince somebody else to believe. “But I do have something for you.”
“I’m listening.”
In my stomach, the Hydra awakens, whipping its many heads. Once I give him the money, it’s official. Someone else will know I’d gone through with it. I’d extorted Ian. Another belch from Ricky, and the smell of booze and fried meat makes me queasy. “Would you mind if I used your bathroom first?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I turn the flimsy lock and lean against the sink, peering into the mirror. My skin is gray, the color of that festering chicken meat. But it’s probably just the grim lighting. I wonder if Ian did the same before he died and what he saw there. If he’d made peace with the man looking back at him.
On the counter, there’s a razor, a toothbrush, and a familiar bottle. Inside it, the same little white bars Ian had prescribed for me. One or two in Ricky’s drink, and he’d be three sheets to the wind. A few more, and he’d be hallucinating. Or unconscious. The whole bottle, and . . .
I smack the sides of my head with my hands, like I can shake loose the memory of what I’ve done. And get rid of it. But it’s stuck. Forever, I’m afraid. It’s a barbed spear, lodged deep. Pull it out, and it all unwinds.
Just one to take the edge off. Isn’t that what Ian had said?
So I take two. Wash them down with a swig of tap water.
“You okay in there?” Each strike of Ricky’s fist on the door echoes in my chest, and I fling it open, desperate to stop the pounding.
“Fine.” I expel the word with a forceful breath and push past him, taking the bank bag from my purse. “This is what I got from Ian. All I got. I don’t want it anymore. It’s yours.”
He reaches for it as I step back, holding it close to me like a child or a lover. “On one condition. You have to promise you’ll leave here today and forget all of this ever happened.”
“How much is it?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
He waves a hand at me, dismissively. “You said we could get at least half a mil.”
“That was before Ian got himself stabbed. Your cash cow is dead.”
“Well, you need to resurrect him, Avenging Angel. Because one hundred thousand is a fucking insult. I lost my wife because of that asshole. Along with my job. My reputation. And I don’t care what they say, Culpepper’s to blame.”
He stalks to the table, takes a long swig from the bottle of Jack, and wipes the dregs from his mouth on his hand.
Uncertain what to say, what to do now, I sit on the bed, facing the electric fireplace. This is what passes for a cheap motel in Carmel. The picture on the mantel reminds me of something from another lifetime ago. Another memory I can’t forget.
What I mean to say: I need to think.
But it comes out wrong.
“I need a drink.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
****
Dust motes dancing in a thin stream of fading sunlight. And dread thick as cotton in my mouth.
Where am I?
It comes back in a rush and I shut my eyes again. The last thing I remember: the bite of bourbon at the back of my throat.
I lie there, still and groaning. Everything hurts. My head especially. And I rub my temple with my hand. The other feels heavy and wet and sticky.
I sit up fast. Too fast. And the picture on the mantel is a wedding photograph. It’s Ian and Julie, and they’re laughing at me. It’s my mother and father, a bullet hole where Dad’s right eye should be. It’s Ian and Kate, their throats cut into bright red smiles.
I look down at my hand. And I scream. Or I want to, but no sound comes out.
I’m holding a knife. It’s the knife. The one I’d tossed into the ocean. I’d watched it sink.
Still, here it is. Black handled and sharp and slick with blood that catches the light from the window.
Beyond it, the room—and my place in it—takes shape.
I’m on the bed. The money too. The stacks split apart, bills strewn around me like confetti. The clock on the nightstand reads 5:00. Nearly five hours I can’t account for.
And there’s a hand. Oh God. Clawing at the floral comforter. A single hundred bunched inside the frozen fist.
What have I done?
I lean over the edge. It’s a steep cliff, and there’s a body down below. Ricky’s body.
His chest blooms red as a rose. And I can’t tell if he’s breathing.
I lay back and shut my eyes tight, ignoring the insistent throbbing behind them. It’s not the first time I’d tried this trick. When you open your eyes, he’ll be gone. That’s what I tell myself.
My head lolls to the side, toward the window. And I force my eyes open. On the table, I spot the chicken carcass. The bones picked clean. The fries devoured. I lick my lips and taste salt and grease.
That’s how I know I’m not dreaming.
****
Like a zombie, I lumber. Legs stiff, head fuzzy. Every step comes with effort. But I have to move.
Avoiding the claw hand on the bed
, I stagger to the other side, scooping the money and the knife into the bedspread. I give the quilt a tug, freeing it from beneath the hand that makes a sickening thud as it falls against the floor.
“Okay,” I say aloud. What else?
The bathroom glass I drank from. The empty bottle of Jack. The pills. Ricky’s phone sitting idle near the television. All of it into the bedspread. I’ll have to burn it.
“Every criminal makes at least one mistake.” That’s what Dad used to say. “If you look hard enough, you’ll find it.”
And my mistakes are everywhere.
I’m not ready to contend with the chicken and its trimmings. Or with Ricky. God no. So I head for the bathroom, scrubbing at the counters, the nightstand, the television remote with a soapy, wet washcloth.
I know it’s not enough. But it’s all I can do.
Slowly. Slowly. I walk around the bed. And it’s like walking to my father. To where I’d knelt beside him, eyes on his chest, his hands, his shiny black shoes. He’d actually put on his uniform. Anywhere but there.
I steel myself.
And I look.
Ricky is slumped on his side, his blood stained T-shirt sticking to his chest and riding up. Ample stomach exposed beneath it.
No. No. No. What have I done?
I spin away, not ready after all.
Instead, I toss the chicken carcass into the bag, the bones picked clean. The crumpled napkins. A plastic fork. And a lard-spotted receipt for Joe’s Chicken Shack.
The sick feeling swells like a wave. It knocks me to the bed. To the bathroom. To my knees. I vomit twice into the toilet, trying not to touch anything. Flush, with my hand wrapped in the washcloth.
Legs shaking, I make my way back to the body.
I touch the meaty shoulder with the tip of my finger. Warmer than I expected. I lift his bloody shirt to see the damage. To see what I’ve done.
What have I done? That question again. Always that question.
Beneath the shirt, a smooth white chest, wiry black hair.
I check again, running my hand along his clammy skin. And that’s when I spot it.
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