Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  Hazard moved landward.

  “Maybe you should take that shirt off,” Somers said. “It’ll be hell getting stains out of it, and it’s your good one.”

  Hazard muttered something.

  “What was that?” Somers said.

  “Nothing,” Hazard snapped.

  But Somers had heard you wish pretty clearly. He wondered if this was all it would take to mend some of the harm: another break in the case, working together, doing what they were best at. Last night, no matter how hot it had been, hadn’t seemed to help at all. But this, today, feeling that silent rhythm between them—this made everything seem like it could be better again.

  “Well, fuck me,” Hazard said, straightening. He was holding a sodden mass that was obviously fabric, and he splashed toward the shore. He came up next to Somers, and Somers saw that he was shivering now.

  “Jesus, Ree. How cold was that water?”

  “Take a picture.”

  “It’s not that I don’t enjoy the view. I’m enjoying it quite a bit, actually, but—”

  “Of the sweater, dumbass.”

  Somers snapped a few pictures.

  Crouching, Hazard worked on the bundle of fabric for a moment. When he sat back on his heels, Somers was looking down at a blue sweater. A brick sat in the center.

  “Well,” Hazard said. “One of them definitely saw the other one throw it in the lake. Too bad they’re both such fucking liars we can’t tell which one is telling the truth this time.” He shivered, and when the breeze came up again, he wrapped big arms around himself.

  “Shit,” Somers said, “you’re going to get hypothermia. Hold on. I’ll grab the towel, and then you can get dressed.”

  Hazard nodded. Somers had taken two steps before Hazard said, “And an ice pack.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Somers was already doubling back. “What happened? Let me—”

  Pointing at Somers, Hazard said, “Unless your new method of interrogation involves you sporting a boner.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MARCH 29

  FRIDAY

  5:06 PM

  SOMERS PACED OUTSIDE the station’s interview room, waiting. After discovering the sweater, they had brought in Melissa and Josh for more questioning, which had started another avalanche of delays: first, the request for the lawyer to be present; then, a few rounds of sparring with Josh’s parents when they showed up; then the wait. The lawyer, Gensler, had gotten to the station an hour ago and had spent time talking to both Josh and Melissa. Somers didn’t know if she was just trying to pad the bill or if there really was something to be told, but he hated waiting.

  Hazard had gone home, showered, and come back in jeans and a Death Cab for Cutie tee that looked well worn and much loved.

  “I haven’t seen you in that before,” Somers said.

  “I guess both of us still have a few surprises,” Hazard said.

  Whatever door had opened between them at the lake, it was closed again. Shut, locked, and barred. Hazard spent the hours waiting at an empty desk in the bullpen, reading something on his phone.

  When the door to the interview room opened, Gensler nodded at Somers and said, “Mr. Dobbs is ready to talk to you.”

  Somers sighed and motioned to Hazard. They moved into the interview room; Somers sat, while Hazard stayed near the one-way mirror. Across the table, Josh Dobbs was a wreck: eyes red—not just from tears; the stink of decent weed hung around—and shoulders hunched, he looked twelve instead of in his mid-twenties. Gensler sat in the back of the room, tapping manically on her phone.

  “Let’s hear what happened,” Somers said.

  So Josh told them his side of it, which was really just a longer, meandering version of what he had already communicated over the phone: he had gone to Melissa’s house; he had seen his sweater in her bedroom; they had fought; he had left and called Somers to report his suspicions. This version, although longer and laden with details, added nothing new.

  “You didn’t go down by the lake?”

  “No way,” Josh said. “No way, I was just . . . waiting. I knew she was going to do something. She’s a sneaky, lying, murdering bitch, and I knew she was going to do something. She’s always fucking doing something.” The words escalated into a shout, and then he sat back, covering his face, and started crying.

  “Josh, what happened that night Donna May disappeared?”

  “We’ve already established that,” Gensler said without looking up from the phone. “My client was home with his parents. What happened to Ms. Plenge was a tragedy, but my client had nothing to do with it.”

  After that, it didn’t matter how Somers asked; Josh just cried, and Gensler held the line.

  Eventually, Somers let Josh go, and while the interview room was clear, he turned around and caught Hazard’s eye. Then he pointed to the seat next to him.

  Hazard shook his head.

  “Yes,” Somers said. “You’re a police consultant. I’m telling you that for this interview, I want your participation.”

  After a moment, Hazard sat at the table.

  “I’m going to be honest,” Somers said. “I didn’t expect it to be that easy.”

  Hazard stared straight ahead.

  “Will that work every time? Like, if I tell you I want you to learn ballet?”

  From the bullpen came a spat of shouting—somebody wasn’t happy about his speeding ticket.

  “Or if I tell you I want you to wear your cute, college-boy t-shirts more often?”

  After a moment, Hazard relaxed a little in his seat and said, “I’d be shit at ballet.”

  Somers took a few deep breaths, visualizing the compression and sudden release of a diving board, and then he slid one hand down Hazard’s arm, stopping when his fingers brushed Hazard’s palm. He didn’t force it. He didn’t tangle their fingers together. Five seconds went by. Then ten.

  Hazard’s hand turned, fingers weaving through Somers’s, giving a quick squeeze.

  Footsteps came toward them, and Hazard let go.

  When Melissa and Gensler were settled on the other side of the table, Somers asked for Melissa’s version, which she repeated much more concisely than Josh had, and not varying from her earlier account: Josh had come over, obviously upset; he had made bizarre claims about the sweater Melissa was wearing; they had struggled, breaking a figurine in the process; after leaving, Josh had gone down to the lake; after he had left, Melissa had gone down to see what he had been doing; she had spotted him taking pictures of her.

  “You didn’t throw anything in the lake?” Somers asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you recognize this?” Hazard asked, displaying on his phone one of the pictures Somers had snapped of the sweater.

  Melissa shook her head.

  “Really? Because Josh claims it’s his sweater, and he loaned it to Donna May the night she disappeared.”

  Melissa leaned forward, studying the picture more closely. “This was in the lake?”

  Somers nodded.

  “By my house?”

  Another nod.

  “I . . .” Melissa sat back. “I don’t know. “I guess it could be Josh’s. I don’t know. How did it get there? Is that why Josh was down there? Did he put it there?”

  “Do you want to tell us what really happened the night Donna May caught you and Josh together?” Hazard said. “Or do you want to keep fucking around?”

  “Detective,” Gensler said.

  “Mr. Hazard is asking if there’s anything you want to add to your previous statement.”

  “Did I kill her?” Melissa said. “That’s what he means. Did I kill her? No, I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I loved Donna May, and I was trying to help her get better. I never would have hurt her.”

  “You’re the only one with motive,” Hazard said. “Your dirty little secret was about to cost you the career you’d worked so hard to build. No more nice house, no m
ore pats on the back, no more thrill in knowing all the dirty little secrets of the people who come to you.”

  Melissa was quiet for a moment, smoothing the folds of her sweater. When she spoke, her voice was level. “I’ve met people like you before. People who hate therapists and psychiatrists. It’s actually a classic model of demonization: people like you, Mr. Hazard, simultaneously believe that mental health professionals are both infinitely powerful—we’re twisting minds, prying out secrets, enjoying our power over the feebleminded—and, at the same time, we’re pathetically weak—we’re frauds, charlatans, tricksters.”

  “You don’t know what I think,” Hazard said.

  “I know you exhibit all the signs of someone suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “Be quiet,” Hazard said.

  “I know you clearly have abuse in your past.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “I know you’re trying to convince yourself that you and Detective Somerset have a chance together—I saw you down at the lake together, and I know how hard you both are trying. And I also know that you both understand, deep down, that this relationship is over. It was over when you agreed to separate. You wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t known at some level that this relationship wasn’t going to work. I tell my clients that it’s better to end things on your own terms, while you’re able to effect some control. It’s obvious that’s what you’re both doing, even if you’re not ready to admit it to yourselves.”

  “You’ll stop talking,” Hazard said, his breathing harsh and irregular, “if you’re as smart as you think you are.”

  Melissa cocked her head. “Denial and projection. I’d say those are your two most common self-defense methods. In a situation like this, where your own mistakes are under a magnifying glass, it’s understandable that you’d resort to additional measures. Extreme outbursts of anger. Lack of emotional self-regulation. You don’t have to feel bad for having thrown away everything, Mr. Hazard. You made a mistake. It’s time to forgive yourself and move forward with your life, without Detective Somerset—”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” Hazard roared, shooting up from the chair, lunging forward, his weight carrying the table six inches before Somers could grab him and drag him to the door. It took a few moments of wild wrestling—scrabbling really, Hazard mindless in his fury—until Somers could get him out of the interview room. Hazard lunged again, trying to get back in there, and Somers shoved him back a step.

  “Get yourself under control.

  Hazard bulled toward the door again

  Somers slapped a hand down, hard, in the center of Hazard’s chest. “Stop it!”

  It seemed to work; Hazard stopped, and then he stood there, massaging his chest. “I’m going to kill that bitch.”

  “Go sit down.”

  “No, I’m going to—”

  “You’re going to sit your ass in the bullpen, or I’m going to lock you in one of the cells. Your choice.”

  “John—”

  “Your choice, sweetheart.”

  Rage mottled Hazard’s fair skin, and he finally bit out: “Bullpen.”

  “Then go sit down.”

  When Somers got back to the room, Gensler was on her feet. “That’s the end of the conversation, Detective Somerset. My client has repeatedly tried to be helpful to the police, and every time she has been subjected to the worst possible behavior. You can be sure we’ll be filing complaints with your chief and with every oversight board, review board, and federal watch group we can find. Just wait and see.”

  “Ms. Hall, I’d like to have a few more minutes of your time.”

  Melissa met his gaze with what Somers thought was probably supposed to be compassion. “I’m sorry, Detective. Your personal life has made you part of a very ugly situation; I don’t think you deserve that.”

  Somers’s throat tightened; his eyes burned, and he had to fight to keep himself under control. “If there’s anything you can tell me about the night Donna May disappeared—”

  “Detective,” Melissa said, glancing at Gensler. “I was home. I set the alarms, and I even answered a phone call on my landline. I had Ms. Gensler find all the documentation, just in case Mr. Hazard continued to persecute me. I could not have killed Donna May. It’s impossible.” Melissa nodded at Gensler, and the lawyer slapped a folder full of pages onto the table. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Right now, I need to deal with my own personal disaster.”

  Somers didn’t even have the strength to try; he let her go, and then he sat the table, staring at the folder, which lay unopened in front of him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MARCH 29

  FRIDAY

  5:43 PM

  EVIE WAS SCREAMING when Hazard picked her up from preschool. Miss Patty was rocking her, trying to soothe her, and she wasn’t having any of it. When Hazard snugged Evie into his shoulder, she just screamed louder, her little feet kicking him in the stomach.

  “She’s had a hard day,” Miss Patty said, following them to the door.

  Hazard knew why; he’d kept her up late the night before, because he was selfish and hurting and didn’t want to be alone.

  He said, “We’ll call it an early night.”

  They drove home, and Somers pulled into the garage thirty seconds after them. Evie had subsided into sniffles, and Hazard sat behind the wheel, nerves tuned to the breaking point. He kept his gaze straight ahead, and in his peripheral vision, he could tell Somers was doing the same. Then Somers answered a call, and Hazard got out of the car, unloaded Evie, and carried her inside before Somers could disconnect.

  “Pamcakes?” Evie asked as Hazard helped her wiggle out of her coat.

  “Sure, baby.”

  “Nella?”

  Hazard sighed. Another day, he would have met her on the field of battle and held his line: no TV on preschool days. But he got her settled with a blankie and turned on Nella Knight.

  “Juice?” Evie asked.

  “You’re as bad as your father,” Hazard said, but he got the sippie cup and the apple juice.

  Then he went to work in the kitchen: flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, eggs, buttermilk, and butter. While the griddle heated on the range, Hazard measured and mixed and whisked.

  The garage door opened, letting in a rush of cool air that mixed with the aroma from the hot griddle. Somers shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and closed his eyes. Hazard noticed the hollows there, the purple marks of exhaustion that bruised his normally perfect complexion. Then Somers opened his eyes and said, “I think you might hate me these days, but can I ask a favor?”

  Hazard cracked an egg on the bowl’s rim. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Sure,” Somers said. “Is that a yes?”

  “You know I’d do anything for you.”

  Nodding slowly, Somers said, “Did you know about this?” He carried his phone over to the stove and displayed it. On the screen, a Washington Post article had the headline Small-town Cop Breaks Big-Time Cases. Hazard recognized Clara Fessler’s name in the byline. He scanned it, just to be sure, and then he shrugged and cracked another egg on the rim of the bowl.

  “Is that a yes?” Somers asked.

  “She called a few times for a comment.”

  “And?”

  “I told her no comment.”

  Somers was breathing funny now, and he put his phone in his pocket and then scrubbed his hand through his hair. Hazard measured out the butter, popped it in the microwave, and set it to melt.

  “You didn’t tell me?”

  “What’s there to tell? She’s reporting on some of the cases from the last year. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

  “Ree, this is a big deal.”

  Hazard snorted. Then the silence between them held only fragments of dialogue that filtered in from Evie’s TV show, and the microwave beeped, and Hazard whisked the melted butter into the pancake mix.

  “Ree.�
�

  Hazard watched the batter closely; the key to good pancakes was not overmixing them.

  “Ree,” Somers said again, his hand closing over Hazard’s.

  Hazard looked up.

  “This is all over the internet. It’s all over Twitter. I bet you in less than twenty-four hours, everybody in the state from St. Louis to Kansas City is going to want an exclusive interview with you. God, you’re lucky that nobody has caught you by surprise already.”

  “Can I finish these, please? Evie’s hungry, and she’s exhausted, and she had a hard day. I want to get her to bed.”

  But then Hazard’s phone rang; he didn’t recognize the number, and he sent the call to voicemail.

  “John,” Hazard said, “let go.”

  Somers did; the blond man took a few steps back, leaning against the counter, his head in his hands. “I bet that’s one of them. A reporter, I mean.”

  “What’s wrong?” Hazard said. “It’s a news story. It’ll blow over in a week. Less than that, probably, if I don’t give them the time of day.”

  “Ree, it’s a huge news story. And it’s about you. And it’s about Wahredua. And it’s about the murders here, and corruption in the force, and the mayor. Huge isn’t even the right word. It’s enormous.”

  “It’ll blow over—” Hazard started to say again.

  “We don’t have a week,” Somers said, and he shoved off from the counter. “Why are you not thinking about this? You’re so smart. Why are you not paying attention to this?”

  Hazard was almost done—a few lumps still floating in the batter, just right to make the pancakes extra light and fluffy. He spoke slowly. “I don’t care about your dad winning this election.”

  “Well, I do. And this is . . . this is a wrench thrown into the whole thing.”

  “Why? Why do you care, John?” Hazard leaned the whisk against the side of the bowl. He wiped his hands on the towel. He worked the flour sacking around his nails, scouring the batter that had dried there. His hand was a fist around a big knot of the cotton.

  “It’s important to him.”

  “Not an answer.”

  “He’s my dad.”