Girls of Glass

by Brianna Labuskes

  When Trudy had first seen the place, she’d known it was exactly what she needed.

  “So you know the rule here, right?” Brooklyn slid off the counter, and the dressing gown draped down one shoulder to catch on her boob.

  “I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Trudy said, standing up herself when the bored, skinny dude with a clipboard pointed in her direction. Her cue.

  Brooklyn stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “Oh, kitty’s got claws, hmm?”

  Trudy rolled her eyes, but all the familiar bitchiness was helping calm the nerves that tightened the muscles of her belly at the thought of stripping for the four bored businessmen she knew were out there. The greasy man who’d hired her had promised she’d make at least $500 if it was a good night. Given that it wasn’t the weekend, she still hoped to pull a couple hundred. She had to; her plan depended on this.

  “Stop being a walking stereotype,” Trudy said, and pushed past the girl. “It’s boring. You’re boring.”

  The laughter of the rest of the girls followed her, and she knew she’d pay for the insult later. It would be something petty and stupid, and she just couldn’t care about shit like that. She had to make it at Mac’s for only a month. Maybe figure out how to talk Zeke into driving her to Tampa more than once a week to pick up an extra shift or two.

  Time and money. There never seemed to be enough of either.

  She pasted a sultry smile on her face when she heard the announcer over the static screech of the loudspeaker.

  “And welcome to the stage, Mac’s newest angel, Zoey.”

  Trudy’s shift at Mac’s had been an early one, so it was just before midnight when Zeke picked her up. Her face was mostly scrubbed clean of the makeup she’d worn, and just a little glitter lingered in the soft skin of her inner thigh. There was also $300 tucked into her purse—a slow night, she was told by the veterans who didn’t know she was grateful for anything.

  “One more stop,” she said after sliding into the passenger seat. It was already later than he’d probably thought they’d be in the city, and there was a protest sitting in the downward tilt of his mouth. “Please.”

  He blinked—a long, slow flutter of dark eyelashes against his cheeks—and she realized that was the first time she’d said that to him. Please. She hated the word. It was vulnerable and begged for rejection. But it seemed to work, because he didn’t reply, just lifted a brow in question. She rattled off an address before he could change his mind.

  The club was in a shitty part of Tampa, and the bouncer waved them through without even pretending to check IDs.

  “That shouldn’t have been so easy to get in,” Zeke murmured into her ear as they pushed through the darkened hallway, lured by the pounding bass of the music.

  “I told you we’d be fine,” Trudy said over her shoulder and laughed.

  “You’re crazy,” Zeke said, but there was something in his tone that was light in a way that it usually wasn’t. Maybe he was actually beginning to loosen up. Maybe he was beginning to like her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted that anymore. At the start of it, that had been her goal. To get him to like her, trust her, so that he would be easier to manipulate. Now she wished he wouldn’t.

  “Stick with me, Durand,” she said instead of the warning she wanted to scream. Run. Leave. Don’t tangle your future with mine, because all I do is sink. And I’ll take you with me.

  The thoughts were drowned out by the thumping of the music. Which was how it was supposed to work. Clubs like these. The blue-and-green lights were the heartbeat that pulsed in sweaty bodies as they grinded against each other on the dance floor, lost in the pure sensation of lust and pleasure and anticipation. The undertones of samba turned everything fast and dirty, tongues finding tongues, hips teasing hips, fingers digging into flesh.

  It was pure in a way that Trudy could appreciate. It was giving up control and promises and security in exchange for being free. Being free to live in that precious moment where only one second to the next mattered. Where ugliness and pain and memories didn’t dare tread.

  Getting to the bar was always easy. She was pretty and thin and young, and people made room for her. Zeke simply followed in her wake.

  “Four shots of tequila,” she shouted and held up her fingers just in case her voice got lost somewhere along the way.

  The bartender looked like he was about to give a shit about her age for two seconds, and then he shrugged and lined up the glasses.

  A small, turtlelike man on the stool next to her placed a damp hand on her arm and nodded to the guy pouring the drinks. “On me,” he said.

  She’d been expecting it. The bartender shrugged again and moved on while she handed the shots back to Zeke. “Thanks.” She smiled at the dude before disappearing into the crowd.

  “I don’t drink.” Zeke bent down to yell in her ear, his large hands easily accommodating the glasses.

  “Thank God for that,” Trudy said, taking the first one and tossing it back. “You would have had to go get some for yourself.”

  The implications of that fully set in only as she finished the second and reached for the third.

  “Whoa, slow down, yeah?” Zeke said, touching her waist with his newly freed-up hand.

  The liquor no longer burned its way down her throat, and everything was becoming a little slurred. It was probably too soon for it to actually be hitting her, but she liked this phase. Before her body caught up with her mind and she just let herself be for once, under the guise of alcohol, but not under its influence.

  “Let’s dance.” She looped an arm around his thick neck as she licked at the rim of the last glass, her tongue desperate for the sticky drops that lingered in the bottom of it.

  “I don’t dance, either,” he said with a laugh.

  “You say that as if it matters,” Trudy said, dragging him into the mess of bodies.

  They were pressed together in an instant, his thigh slipping between her legs. She went with it, her hands running up the base of his neck, up along the back of his head.

  The music didn’t have a melody, but she didn’t care. She found the rhythm and let the alcohol working its way through her bloodstream do the rest.

  It was a moment before his hands rested against her hips, just lightly holding on or, if anything, nudging her away so there was distance between them. And that wouldn’t do at all.

  She plastered her body to his, letting the excuse of the crowd, the undulating wave of it, push her into the space that he usually kept so guarded.

  In the next breath, the emptiness behind her was filled, and she was surrounded. There were hands on her stomach, on her pelvic bones, on her ass. A hot breath against her neck, and she let her head fall back against the stranger’s shoulder. His mouth found the skin beneath her jaw immediately, nipping at it, trailing damp, open-mouthed kisses down the column. And the entire time, Zeke’s hands didn’t move from her waist.

  Blinking was hard, so she kept her eyes closed instead. When she was little, she’d loved the ocean. She would beg Mellie to take her every day, and when Mellie got sick of it, she’d turn her pleas on Charlotte.

  Trudy could barely wait until they dropped their towels on the sand before she’d take off toward the water, screaming at the way the coldness surprised her even though she was braced for it. She was never one to ease into the frigidness, preferring to dive under the first wave and take the shock of it.

  It was better, she’d reasoned. Why prolong the pain when it was coming either way?

  She would stay in for hours, until her skin was pale from the cold and her fingertips had shriveled into miniature mountains and deep valleys.

  But just before she would get out, she would sink to the bottom, her hands keeping her under when the water wanted to rid itself of her presence. It was never quiet, like the pool was, with its silence pressing in against her eardrums.

  No, the ocean talked to her instead. It murmured secrets and promises and wrapped her in an embrace and kept he
r suspended, weightless all the while.

  That’s what this felt like. The ocean. Their hands were the tide, pushing and pulling and returning her to where she’d been; the pounding of the music was the distant sound of waves on the shore; the manic edge to it all was the incineration of oxygen from full lungs that no longer knew if they would ever be able to pull in air again.

  It was heady and reckless, and it made her feel alive, so she got greedy with it. Always wanting more. Always more than anyone was willing to give.

  She tried to pull Zeke closer, ever closer, her mouth seeking his, desperate to forget who she was and why this could never work anyway.

  “I’m not . . .” Zeke dodged, turning his face so that her lips caught his cheek instead. “I’m . . .”

  He was yelling again in her ear, but he wasn’t making sense, and she didn’t think she was the one to blame for that.

  But whatever it was, it was rejection, and it served as the push to the surface she needed. She gasped when she broke through, returning to herself, returning to a shitty little club and a hangover that shouldn’t actually exist yet. Her limbs were heavy, though, and her tongue was sticky and her head was fuzzy, and it was no longer fun.

  She broke away from hands that still grabbed at her and stumbled through the bodies until she found space to breathe. It was time, anyway, to do what she’d come here to do. She shouldn’t have been distracted.

  Zeke was behind her, mumbling something that was probably an apology. It got lost in the noise, and she was thankful for that. Pity wasn’t something she was comfortable with. It wasn’t something she would accept from anyone.

  It was a good thing he was there, though. For the muscle.

  She scoped out the back wall, bypassing the little neon signs for the bathroom and zeroing in on the swinging door that led back to the kitchen.

  “Come on,” she said, grabbing his wrist and pulling.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here,” he said as soon as they stepped through the doorway, the sound of the club behind them muffled.

  “Good to know,” she said, ignoring the glances from the short, balding man in front of the massive industrial stoves. It was even hotter in here, and the sweat gathered at the waistband of her cutoffs. She ignored the unpleasant feeling and maneuvered her way around the variety of obstacles that stood in her way.

  Zeke followed, but she put him out of her mind when she got to the door. One more faceless, brawny man lounged against the wall, dragging on a cigarette. He straightened as they got closer, his gaze moving to Zeke, dismissing Trudy as a nonthreat.

  “I’m here for a pickup,” she said, taking the ciggy out of his surprised, limp hand and bringing it to her lips. She locked eyes with him as she hollowed out her cheeks on the inhale. He was no longer watching Zeke.

  “You have an appointment?”

  “Of course,” she said, trying to sound as if this wasn’t terrifying. Confidence was key. It was how she lived her life. Fake it till you make it. “Malone. Jane Malone.”

  Without looking away, he dropped his fist to his side so he could knock three times on the door behind him in quick succession.

  It opened to reveal a small but bright and clean room. A few replicas of the giant at the threshold—right down to the faux leather jacket—were squeezed into the one sofa in the corner. A tired woman behind the sad oak desk was the only other person in the room.

  She wasn’t particularly pretty, and she wasn’t particularly ugly. Her medium-brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her neck, turning a face that already lent itself to harshness even starker. There were wrinkles not only by the corners of her eyes but also by her lips. They circled her neck like rings within a tree. She wore no makeup to cover any of the obvious flaws, making Trudy even more aware of her own, which were slathered in a comforting layer of foundation and eye shadow.

  It made her like the woman and hate her at the same time. Not an unusual feeling for Trudy.

  “Jane?” the woman asked, her lips smirking as they curved around the name.

  “Yes,” Trudy confirmed.

  The woman watched her for a beat longer, then reached into the top drawer of her desk. She tossed the small yellow package so that it settled just on the edge of tipping off.

  Trudy held herself back from rushing for it. Desperation in situations where she didn’t know who held the upper hand was dangerous. So instead, she took her time, grabbing the packet as if it wasn’t her entire future. She opened the clasp to pull out one of the passports. Her face stared back at her, under the name Jane Malone. Tucked into the crease was a Social Security card. It looked legit. There was nothing to do but trust that it was.

  “Okay,” Trudy said. “Thank you.”

  The woman who had never introduced herself inclined her head, and her face softened. “Take care of yourself, Jane.”

  “It’s not me that I need to take care of,” Trudy said, perhaps unwisely. Something about that slight relaxing of the woman’s stiff mouth made her want to confess everything. Like she was a child holding on to a secret that was much too big.

  “Yes,” the woman said with a nod. “I know.”

  Because she did.

  Trudy didn’t properly breathe again until they pushed through the exit door at the back of the kitchen.

  “What the hell was that?” Zeke seemed to regain his own stability as the warm night air hit them in the face.

  She didn’t answer him, instead trying to get her bearings. They were in an alley behind the club, but it looked like they could hop a low wall to get to the parking lot where they’d left the car.

  “Come on,” she said, taking off for it.

  “No.” Zeke followed anyway. “A fake passport? What the hell are you involved with?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What the hell, Trudy? How can I not worry about it?” Zeke leaped over the stacked stones with ease, pausing as he turned back to help lift her over. They were almost running at this point. “You dragged me into this. Don’t get me caught up in your illegal shit.”

  Trudy stopped, grabbing on to his elbow to bring him to an abrupt halt. His feet stuttered, but then his entire attention focused on her, still and unblinking in the darkness.

  What could she even say?

  “The choices we can live with, yeah?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ALICE

  August 3, 2018

  Five days after the kidnapping

  “Where the hell is my autopsy report?” Alice slammed through the door of the police station. “And get Zeke Durand’s ass in here immediately.”

  “Who are you talking to, exactly?” Nakamura was three paces behind her, his voice amused.

  She spun around. “Anyone who will get it done.”

  Nakamura gestured to the bull pen, which was empty save for that pimply little asshole from the briefing. He sat in the far corner, his feet kicked up on his desk, sipping coffee.

  “Get him to do it,” Alice said without pausing on her way back toward the basement. The hallways were blessedly quiet as well, and she only had to nod curtly at one passing officer before she was swinging through the door and skipping down the stairs to her makeshift headquarters. She crossed the concrete in a few long strides.

  The pictures that were stuck on the wall stared back at her. All she saw were distractions.

  She heard Nakamura coming a few seconds before he spoke.

  “I’m having him go pick up Durand,” he said, coming to a stop next to her. “His address was in the system. Misdemeanor.”

  She didn’t bother to ask the question he was about to answer.

  “Bar fight,” he filled in.

  “He’s a teenager, though, right?”

  “It was in the parking lot. I don’t know,” Nakamura said. “I don’t have the details.”

  There was no picture for Zeke Durand yet, so she found a piece of scrap paper and wrote his name in thick marker. She he
sitated and then put a question mark on it before taping it up alongside the family.

  “What do you make of it?” Nakamura asked, picking up his little stress ball as he watched her.

  “Don’t know,” Alice said. “He might have a car.”

  Which meant he could have helped Trudy or Charlotte hide the body if one or both of them had killed Ruby. It might also mean that he could be acting on his own. He could have followed Charlotte to the beach and made his move then.

  “We should look into his history,” Nakamura said. “Maybe you’re onto something with that connection-to-Sterling thing.”

  Alice nodded.

  “There’s something off with this family,” Alice said. “Why would this teenager kidnap his girlfriend’s cousin, keep her for four days, and then leave her on the beach to be found?”

  “See, that’s your problem. You’re trying to tell a story again,” Nakamura said. “Sometimes things just don’t make sense. Especially when you don’t have all the pieces.”

  Patterns. Connections. They were just there, waiting to be made.

  “What do you think we are if not storytellers?” Alice drew a line between the piece of paper with Durand’s name on it and Trudy’s photo. She paused and then drew another line to Sterling’s.

  “Tell me a story, then, Garner.”

  “So what if Zeke isn’t just showing up at the wrong time, wrong place,” Alice started. “He put himself in Trudy’s way. Made himself available for something she wanted. Got her to trust him. Maybe, if he’s good, even got her to think she was working him.”

  She glanced back at Nakamura, who had stopped throwing his stress ball.

  “Go on.”

  “Bided his time, for what seems to be about a month. A couple options there. Could have been the plan, could have had a date in mind in the first place. It could be he saw an opportunity and seized it. It could be something set him off. It would have taken some planning, though, either way.”