I slid across the booth’s vinyl seat, gripping the table and pulling myself into place, adjusting until I was across from Steve. His eyes were fixed on his phone, one finger in the air, asking for a minute. I took the moment and really looked at him. This was the closest I’d been to him since before prison.
“Freckles,” I mumbled, his eyebrow lifting, half hearing what I said. The bridge of his nose was once flecked with the cutest freckles. The years had stolen them though. They’d faded while I was away. There were worry lines now, deep grooves set into the corners of his eyes and across his brow, some of them changing as his mouth moved to the words while he read from his screen. I loved that he still did that—always had. The surrounding sounds became a hum, white noise, indistinguishable as emotions welled inside me. More than anything I wished we were in bed where words were unnecessary and we could forget about the past.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Steve said abruptly. I flinched unintentionally, my study of him ending. He let out a laugh, adding, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
I shook my head, “No, not at all.” My hands drifted to the center of the table, searching for his. He didn’t respond. Damn muscle memory. I made like I was reaching for a napkin, tearing one out of the dispenser, only to have it get stuck.
“Here, let me,” he said, putting his hand on mine, holding the dispenser in place as we tore the napkin free from the bundle. His brow lifted, “All good?”
“I’m good,” I answered, lying, cursing the nerves that had followed me inside like a witches hex. And before I could pull back the words, I blurted, “I should just order some fucking jello.”
“Jello?”
“Well, to be honest, I’m a little nervous. Jello might be a good fit on account that is what I feel like.”
His smile drained, finding nothing funny in what I revealed. His expression was replaced with a seriousness I remembered all too well. He’d been a police detective for many years before becoming a political figure. He fumbled with his tie as a waitress served two cups of coffee.
“Ready to order?”
“Can we have a few minutes,” he told her, picking up a Diner menu. It was his turn to lie. In my gut, I got the sense we wouldn’t be ordering anything. I got the sense that this would be a short conversation. When the waitress was far enough away, Steve’s attention turned back and he asked, “Why?”
“Why?” I repeated, sounding vague and not knowing which of the millions of questions he might be referring.
“You and Garret Williams. Why?” His question confirmed my fear, he still believed what was reported in the news. He believed it was a lover’s quarrel.
“I don’t care what you think you know, or what the courts or newspapers said,” I began, and then paused, wanting to get the words just right. I didn’t want to fuck it up. “There was no affair. It wasn’t a lover’s quarrel. I’ve only ever loved one person . . . still, only love one person.” I dared adding the last part and my skin felt flush, it felt hot, on fire.
Steve shook his head, having probably rehearsed much of what he wanted to say. “But the evidence?” he countered, confused. “Amy, you were convicted of murder. You served time.”
“That’s right Steve. I served my time. All of it. I’m free. No parole, no anything. No need to be judged again by anyone,” I said, nodding, searching for him to confirm. As the District Attorney, he of all should know I was free of the conviction. He offered a nod, agreeing. “However, I served my time for another reason. And it had nothing to do with what you think you know or what the news reported.”
“You murdered a man. You killed someone.”
“I can say this now because the time has been served. Steve, he would destroy you,” I told him, blurting the truth aloud for the first time since it happened. A few heads turned in our direction, but I ignored them, adding, “But he wasn’t the first. Remember.”
“The homeless man,” Steve said humbly, knowing it was a murder he’d helped cover up. “Of course I remember.”
“Garrett Williams knew. He knew you’d helped cover it up.”
“He what?” Steve asked. But I could see he was connecting the dots, putting it together. He cast his eyes down at the table and I sensed the guilt mounding inside him. I took a chance and put my hands on his. His skin was soft and warm. The touch was instantly electric, and I waited for him to pull away. But he held them there.
“Garret knew everything,” I confessed to him. “I don’t know how, but he’d figured it out. Found the evidence while you were recovering from the Wilts shooting.”
“The fucking buttons?” Steve asked, seeking confirmation. “I’d lost them. Or maybe he took them.”
“It was blackmail. Garret Williams threatened to go to the Captain, to turn you in.”
“Michael, and Snacks,” he said, realizing the depths of what would have happened if we both went to prison.
“At least they had you.”
His eyes were glassy with an understanding. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked, sounding like a detective. He shook his head, dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. You did what you thought you had to. Who am I to judge? If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am.
“And the kids would have grown up without a mother or a father.
“Whatever happened to the buttons from your blouse?”
I could smell the memories of the bridge and the moist air over Neshaminy Creek. I saw the memory of taking the buttons off Garret Williams’ dying body and throwing them into the fast moving current.
“Gone.” Steve continued to shake his head. I could see the guilt weighing on him, but it wasn’t deserved. I did this and if I didn’t say something, he’d let it destroy him. “Enough about what happened. I did what I thought was right. I served the time. There’s nothing left to do except move on.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” I told him. “Plus, I’m fucking hungry.”
“Jello?” he asked, trying to smile.
“I’m past that,” I answered, finding the confidence I’d been looking for. “This girl needs a meal.” Truth was, I needed more than a meal. A girl has needs too, but I didn’t let on about that.
“Michael will come around,” Steve said, picking up the menu, showing me he would stay. “Amy there’s a lot of pain there, and I’m not sure how much he needs to know. But you’ll see. He’ll come around.”
“He only needs to know what I tell him,” I said, clarifying and indicating that anything about my time away should come from me. Steve acknowledged. “I’ve already talked to Snacks. I told her enough for her to understand, but I stayed away from the details.”
“What’s next for you? Your old business partner has done well. Really well.” Steve dipped the Diner menu below his eyes, adding, “And you’re still the other half of Team Two?”
“Just over half. I’m the majority owner,” I said with a sigh as if it were a burden.
“Oh that sounds terrible,” he said with some snark in his voice.
“I’ve been thinking of investing in a political party. There’s this one politician, this one guy, who I think could really make a difference.”
“Is that right,” he said with a laugh that sounded and felt genuine.
Soon after sunset, the darkness edged the remaining daylight, and the streetlights flicked on and painted oblong shadows across the pavement. Steve went on to tell me about Michael and Snacks, and to help fill in the years I’d missed. And in some of what he said, I felt the old remorse spur new guilt and then regret. But I heeded my advice about the past and pushed it away. At some point, the clock rolled back a few decades, taking me to a time when Steve and I were still new. His voice filled my ears like a dream and as I listened, I dared not turn away for fear of waking up. Regardless of what happened, I’d never quit him, I’d never quit us. And I’d never stop loving Steve.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE CHANGEOVER FROM DAY to night had come on almost without notice, t
urning the sky an inky black with a few early stars to remind us there was something there. We stayed at Suzette’s Diner longer than expected. We talked, and ate and drank and talked some more—and even shared a dessert: cheesecake, a Philadelphia classic, of course. We shed the years apart, leaving them at the door, leaving them outside. And there were moments when the twenty years between us disappeared like the daylight. I know that sounds sappy, and I know it sounds dreamy and a little school-girl, as if there were some lovely crush, but it was true.
While Steve could have asked about my time in prison, he never said a word. I was a bit surprised by that, maybe a little more than surprised. After all, I’d survived two decades behind bars in a maximum security prison. Who knows, maybe I’d write a book about it someday. Tell my story. Tell the story of those that had come and gone in my life over the years. But that was for another time. Tonight was about me and Steve. It was about us.
At one point, I even tried to flirt a little—something I hadn’t done since we were dating. I’d leaned forward, just enough to be noticeable, touching his arm and then his chin, using a napkin to clean the dimple there. He smiled, reciprocating, and touched my hand. It was good.
We were nearing the end of our date, and I didn’t want it to be over. Is that what this was? A date? I’d let myself think it was, let myself believe it to be so, hoping there could be a second and maybe a third. But what I really wanted was to have him lay with me, to have him hold me, my body fitting his and to forget about the world and just be us.
“I should get going,” he said. I pouted, putting on a face to make him laugh. “Long day tomorrow, we had a big break in a case this afternoon.”
“Do tell,” I said, blowing the steam off the top of my coffee.
“Black?” Steve asked, noticing how I took my coffee. “I remember you taking it with sugar and cream.”
“Had to learn to drink it this way,” I told him, hinting how things were inside. I quickly changed the subject, asking, “So tell me about your days, the case?”
“D.A.” he began. “But I’m sure you knew that.”
“I did,” I answered. “Steve, you’ve no idea how damn proud I am of you, of what you have accomplished.”
He dipped his chin bashfully. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.”
“Seriously,” I added. “Just becoming a lawyer was huge, but then to work there, and the campaigning, getting elected. It’s a lot to achieve.”
“I’ve got you to thank for much of it Amy,” he answered, his words warming my heart. “Wouldn’t have gone to law school if you hadn’t pushed so damn hard.”
“You mentioned an interesting case?” I asked, trying to keep him to myself for just one more cup of coffee. “Or is it all boring stuff? Somebody not paid on their speeding ticket?”
“Well, there is this one case I mentioned. Huge break came in this afternoon. Great break. And it could become the platform I’ll run on for the upcoming election.”
“Big feather in your cap?”
He laughed and went on to explain. And as he talked, the Diner seemed to fade in the background. Steve went on about how their investigation had uncovered a treasure-trove of evidence, identifying a single person as being the leader for what they believed was one of the largest trafficking/porn rings this part of the country had ever seen.
My coffee spilled over, splashing onto the table. I went into rehearsed motion, cleaning it up while I continued to nod and paint a smile, showing how impressed I was. My body worked from muscle memory, worked on auto-pilot as he spoke. Deep down, I couldn’t tell if I wanted it to be Derek Robbins or someone else, someone I’d never heard of. But then Steve said the man’s home would be raided once the paperwork and a judge’s signature was in place. And if they found what was suspected, the guy would be arrested and put away for a long time.
“What’s his name?” I asked, recovering my coffee, asking in an unsuspecting tone.
He was reluctant to answer, but then his lips went into motion as I waited to hear the name, “It’s not important.” Steve helped me clean the table-top, adding, “I probably shouldn’t have said anything about the case anyway—you’ll keep it to yourself?”
I nodded and mimed a pinching motion on my lips and then tossed away the proverbial key.
Maybe this isn’t so bad, I wondered, knowing in my gut he was talking about Wilma’s Ex. But I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling we’d over-planted the garden.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“AMY, I’M SO SORRY.”
“She’s dead?” I asked, repeating the horrible news. My insides were mush and my face pinched with a crying scream that wouldn’t come. I set my mind blank and tried to put up a barrier and avoid the truth—but there was no escaping the truth, or changing it.
“I have little more than that,” Brian offered. “Other than it wasn’t an accident.”
Wilma’s dead, I told myself, letting the words finally seep in, letting them reach me. Brian put his hand on my shoulder, an awkward expression on his face as he tried to comfort me.
“Roxanne?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Who?” he asked me.
“It’s the woman who tried to kill me. She’s the bitch that Wilma saved me from.”
“And that is where Derek Robbins comes into play.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said, feeling my way around the office, the lights dim as the clock struck eleven in the evening. I searched the wall for the light-switch, flicking it on, and went to the kitchenette to grab two glasses.
“None for me,” Brian said on my return. I gave him an annoyed look, insisting he stay to have a drink at least one drink so I could absorb the terrible news. “Okay, I’ll stay for one.”
“It had to be Roxanne,” I said, pouring eagerly, filling each glass. Brian rolled his eyes at the amount, but I ignored him and filled it with more. “I need to retaliate. I need to do something.”
“Amy,” Brian began. “You can’t do anything.”
“Yes I can,” I said adamantly, a sudden pain striking my chest and knifing my side. I dropped to the sofa, the air in my lungs spilling in one exhaustive breath. Stars streamed in from every direction, tackling my sight as I tried to speak. “I . . . I have to. She was my friend—”
I couldn’t stop the tears then, couldn’t arrest them. I was never the type to cry and never had much reason too—not since my best friend Katie. That’s kinda how this felt now and I hated it. Like Katie, there was a hole inside me that Wilma filled, and having it plucked out was painful. I felt incomplete. I gulped down what was in my glass, finishing and poured another, thinking I could numb the wound. I lifted the bottle in Brian’s direction offering it to him. He raised his glass, still nearly full and then sat with me.
“She was your friend Amy,” he said, taking a drink and sneaking a look at his watch. “There isn’t anything you can do about what happened in there.”
I glanced toward the computers. Brian followed my gaze. I wondered if Wilma’s murder was recorded. “I could watch it. I can see what happened. And maybe I could drop a note to the Warden, tell her the names of anyone I might recognize.”
“You could,” Brian agreed. “But maybe we should send it anonymously, avoid this Roxanne person?”
“Can the video be cleaned so there’d be no tracing it back to here?”
Brian considered it, answering, “Clean of any metadata? Sure, I can do that.”
“Roxanne won’t stop either. She’ll be after me, anyway.”
“Why?”
I thought of the shower, the fight, the look on Roxanne’s brutal face, “There’s no unringing that bell.”
“And Derek Robbins?” he asked. “What about your debt?”
“The debt isn’t paid until it’s paid. Dead or alive,” I answered shortly. “We’re not doing this just for Wilma. There’s her daughter to consider. And the girls Robbins has been messing with.”
“I got wind of some news that will brea
k soon, thought you should know about it,” Brian offered, his voice sounding anxious, a look of concern flashing briefly. “It’s about that garden we planted, and my tying it to the crime ring that’s already under investigation. That seems to have tripped our trap prematurely.”
“Already heard,” I said flatly, letting on and sitting back, crushing the seat’s cushion. “Steve told me.”
“Steve?” Brian said, asking. “You two are talking.”
“Just a dinner,” I answered, my stare fixed on the computer, knowing I’d be able to see what happened to my friend.
“Is there anything there?” Brian asked, interested in hearing about my date.
I faced him, finding his question almost funny, “Are we girlfriends?” I joked. He smiled, but I sensed I might have hurt his feelings. I gave him a small punch in the arm, then took his hand, adding, “Brian, I told him the truth. I told him about Garret Williams.”
His smile disappeared, and he turned ghostly white. I hadn’t considered his part in Garret Williams’ death. He was safe, he just didn’t know it. A sheen of sweat emerged over his brow, turning him pasty and ill looking.
“He knows about me?” he asked
“Brian, no names, nobody beyond me. As far as Steve knows, there was me and there was Garrett Williams. That’s it.”
“Okay,” he said, his hand shaking as he took to his drink like a baby to a bottle. I never gave it much thought, but Brian had been a part of the planning that ended in Garret Williams’ death. Could charges be brought against him? After all these years? Oh what a scandal that would be. The news papers would go crazy.
“But, since you asked,” I continued, chaining the topic to settle his nerves. “About Steve? I do hope something comes of it. I would love to see him again.”
“I gotta run,” Brian said abruptly. “Very early day.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay for another?” I asked with my words already slurring.
“Maybe you should get some sleep?” he suggested as he stood and walked toward the door.
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 62