by Ellery Kane
“I shot you. A lucky shot. Couldn’t have aimed it better if I tried. You’re going to be okay.”
Ginny watched him with eyes dull as gravel. Then she bolstered herself against the doorframe and tried to stand. Halfway to her feet, she dropped back to the ground with a yelp and scooted inside the cabin instead.
“Easy,” I cautioned as Levi unbuckled his belt and stripped it from the loops of his blue jeans. One side of Ginny’s mouth turned up, trying to smile.
“Wow. You don’t waste any time, Levi Beckett. But you’re really not my type.” Her mouth laughed, the sound as clunky and hollow as a broken bell.
“Actually from what I’ve heard, anyone with a Y chromosome and a pulse fits the bill. Now, stay put.” I kneeled next to her and held her hand as Levi wrapped the belt around her upper thigh. “Did Cullen tell you where he was going?”
Ginny’s lips trembled, the way a breeze flutters the leaves. Slight but persistent. “Once he found out I wasn’t Sam, he was pissed. That other guy, Marco . . . well, I guess you already know about . . . ” Her voice trailed off along with her eyes somewhere far beyond our view. I rubbed her shoulder to bring her back. “After that, he hardly said a word to me. Just your standard scream-and-I’ll-slit-your-throat mumbo jumbo.”
“Weird,” Levi said. “No offense, but I’m surprised he didn’t kill you.”
I widened my eyes at him. To me, he’d gotten pretty close. Close enough. But Ginny just nodded. “Me too. I know this sounds mental, but I had this feeling he didn’t want really want to.”
“Was that before or after he practically choked you unconscious?” I muttered, neither of them listening to me.
“How did you get here?” Levi asked.
“That truck he stole, I guess. I was sort of out of it for a while.”
“Drugged, probably.” Levi cinched the belt as tight as it would go. “This might hurt a little.” Ginny nodded through gritted teeth. “But it will stop the bleeding until you get to the hospital.” He produced a cell phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open.
“2004 called. It wants its phone back.” Ginny’s teasing seemed meant for me, trying to convince me she was still herself. But underneath her joke, her breathing was quick and shallow.
“It’s from Snip,” Levi said to me. “I guess he slipped it into the duffel when I wasn’t looking.” He pressed three buttons—9-1-1—and held it out to me. “Stay here with her. I’m going to look for them.”
I imagined waiting here, safe, on the floor with Ginny, the night and everything hidden in it locked outside. “I can’t.”
“You can’t? What does that mean?”
“It means she can’t just sit here while her mom is out there with him. Duh. It’s all brawn and no brains with this one, huh?”
“Him,” I repeated. Stuck on that word. It rattled in my head. “You mean, my dad.”
Ginny squeezed my fingers between hers, and her hands stopped shaking. “That psychopath may share your DNA, but that’s where it ends. He’s not your dad.” I shrugged, wishing I could agree. Wishing it could be as simple as the title of my eleventh-grade biology project: Your DNA Is Not Your Destiny. Oh, the irony.
“I have to come with you,” I told Levi.
“Fine.” He redirected the phone to Ginny. “But we have to leave—now. They’ve got a head start on us. We’ll call you in a while to check in, if it’s safe.”
“Go,” Ginny said to me, sensing my hesitation. “I’ll be fine.” She pressed the call button and brought the phone to her ear, her hand trembling again.
I headed for the door and started jogging toward the road, back the way we came, before Levi could change his mind. When I glanced over my shoulder, mid-stride, Levi had just looped the straps of the duffel bag around his shoulders. He sprinted to catch me.
“You better run a little faster, Officer,” Ginny called after us. And I felt the hint of a smile, but it only lasted a few foot strikes.
“Did you know that Cullen . . . ?” I didn’t bother to say the rest. The kicked-up dust in my mouth tasted like hope and sadness. The truck, my mother—still close, still beyond reach.
“I had a hunch.”
December 9, 1996
The letter waited for Clare on her desk Monday morning. A crisp, white envelope, sealed. A typed address, official. A single stamp, perfectly aligned. The kind of letter so pristine, so coffin-like, it could only hold bad news.
Dear Dr. Kelly,
This letter is to advise you that the Board of Psychology has received an inquiry regarding your conduct. After reviewing the information received, the Board is requesting a written response from you regarding the allegations. Please be aware that the Board is not currently conducting a formal investigation; rather, we are requesting your response as the first step in our informal review process. The complaint states that you provided substandard clinical treatment to patient James Dumas, an inmate at San Quentin State Prison, which contributed to his death by suicide on November 25, 1996.
Clare folded the letter and returned it to its paper coffin without reading the rest. She tucked it inside her desk drawer, hoping for its magical disappearance. Then she opened her pocket calendar to review her schedule for the day, though she knew it by heart. A single name stared at her. It could’ve been written in blood. 10:30 a.m. James Dumas. Last week, she’d considered crossing through it, but with her pen poised to strike, she stopped herself. It felt disrespectful. Callous, even. Too final. So she left it there, marking every Monday for the rest of December.
Now, with that letter boring a hole through her soul, she felt glad. The last thing she needed was some stuffed shirt from the Board who couldn’t even bother to spell her name right quizzing her about it, questioning her motives.
Well, Dr. Kelly. Oh, pardon me. Dr. Keely, is it? How do you think your client’s family would feel seeing that mark through Mr. Dumas’ name?
Did you ask your client if he was suicidal before you rescheduled your session?
No? And why not? You knew he was depressed. It’s right here in your notes. Did you even care?
Or were you too busy entertaining sexual fantasies about Clive Cullen?
Guilt, that slimy worm, took a bite of her heart, and it stung. A better therapist, a reasonable one, would’ve seen this coming. She hadn’t even deciphered the why of Dumas’ crime, much less this. Half of the book of his life—not just the final pages—ripped out by his own hand, leaving it all unfinished. Cursing, she tossed the calendar onto the desk harder than she’d intended, sending a stack of papers flying into the air. Wayward doves, one by one they fluttered down, homing in on the doorway.
“Lose something?” She realized right then—that voice pitching her stomach in the best worst way—she was in big trouble. The kind of trouble that doesn’t feel like trouble at all until it runs a blade across your throat.
“Only my mind,” she answered, beckoning Cullen inside.
“You seem preoccupied,” Cullen said, fifteen minutes into their session. She tried to keep up the formalities with the standard psychologist-patient routine. How have you been feeling? What’s on your mind? Tell me more. But resistance was futile. It was all a cover, a way to fill the time until she broke her promise again. She shifted in her chair, crossed and uncrossed her legs, fidgeted with Neal’s ruby. And it hit her. She was Rodney Taylor. You’re bad for business, he always told her. How am I supposed to concentrate on anything but this? This being her. Her lips. Her skin. Her pink panties. It scared her, the power she had without even trying, without even asking for it. I want you all the time. And now, here she was, the tables turned.
“They concluded the investigation on Dumas.” She had to say something. And not the something she was thinking. “If you can call it that.”
“And?”
“Suicide.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Me neither, but what can I do? Bonner would relish nothing more than serving me a pink slip.”
Cullen sat forw
ard in his chair, practically whispering. “You didn’t tell him my theory did you? About the EME?” Clare shook her head. She couldn’t imagine telling Bonner anything but where to stick it. “Good, because there’s a lot of talk about him. I’m not sure I believe it, but . . . ”
“Talk?”
“They say he’s a mule.”
“Excuse me?”
His laugh warmed her. It was kind, not derisive, the way Fitzpatrick’s would’ve been. “It means he works for somebody. And not the warden. Smuggles in contraband, calls in favors. That sort of thing.”
“Well, he’s certainly a jackass,” she said, laughing along on the outside. Inside, she tucked Cullen’s nugget away—a mule?—for safekeeping. It made sense.
“I got this today.” She opened the drawer and reached inside. “I couldn’t read it all.” She slid it to him across the desk and watched as he fondled the envelope waiting for her permission. “Go ahead.”
“Are you sure?”
The question stunned her into self-awareness. Her tongue felt thick and strange, her chest hot. “Uh . . . yes? No, wait. I’m sorry. I’ve made this about me again. I’m an awful therapist.” Horrified, Clare listened to the methodical drone of the clock’s minute hand, strangely loud in the quiet between them.
When she finally summoned the courage to look at him, his eyes were like the sky in springtime. Cloudless and gauzy blue. “Clare, this is about you. You and me. I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. What should I do?”
She felt compelled to answer. He had that kind of presence, always dropping her to her knees. “What do you want to do?”
He stood, walked to the door, locked it with the care of a cat burglar. “I think you already know.”
Clare licked her lips. They felt raw. And she hoped they didn’t look it. If he’d noticed at all, Fitzpatrick would say nothing. It was just a kiss.
“Did you kiss the girl who worked in the library too?” she’d asked Cullen before he left. Before she reapplied her red lipstick and straightened her blouse, not meeting her own eyes in her compact mirror. She remembered the woman’s name, of course—Gina—but Cullen didn’t need to know that.
“Gina, you mean?” When he shook his head no, she assumed he was lying.
“Have you ever . . . with a client?
“Of course not.” One lie deserved another. And really, the first time didn’t count anyway. That guy was obsessed with her. She’d only kissed him that once. On the cheek. Just to thank him for the flowers. Thank goodness nobody believed him. The flowers had gotten her in enough trouble.
Clare tried to still her mind, snuff out Cullen’s flame, while Fitzpatrick read the letter. “It doesn’t surprise me,” he said finally. “In these sorts of cases, the family usually seeks legal action. They need someone to blame.”
“But Mrs. Dumas didn’t seem upset with me. If anything, she was angry at the prison. With Bonner. He’s the one who talked to her, isn’t he?”
“You are the prison. In the eyes of the law, you’re one and the same. You and Bonner and me. All of us. We’re on the same team.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.” He nodded as if he understood, but he couldn’t possibly. “That letter is addressed to me.”
“Let me help you. That’s my job, remember? Use me, Clare.” It sounded dirty, the way he said it, the way he punctuated it with a self-conscious chuckle. And just like that, she felt him notice her lips, stare at them. It was just a kiss. But that was another lie. Clive Cullen kissed her like he did everything else. Deliberately, intensely, recklessly. As if he’d set a fire. That kind of kiss was bound to leave a mark.
Fitzpatrick grinned wickedly. “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth.”
December 10, 1996
“Just do it already,” Clare whispered to herself, her hand hovering over the receiver. “Don’t be a wuss.” She needed to hurry. Lizzie would be here any minute for a resurrection of their long-dead college tradition, Taco Tuesday. Lizzie’s idea, of course. Something about Clare needing more fun in her life. “This isn’t fun,” she murmured, but dialed the number anyway.
Just like the first time, the shrill ringing went on forever. No answering machine. Just the operator’s tinny voice. “The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try your call again.” Clare hung up, relieved. But her stomach lurched when Lizzie knocked seconds later. That was close.
“Coming, Liz.” First, a check of herself in the mirror. She hoped two coats of lipstick and a prayer would conceal the blue spot she’d found on her bottom lip his morning. When she touched it, it ached a little, but she knew she would miss it when it healed. Because it would never happen again. Hear that Clare? You slut. Never. Those were her words, but the voice sounded deep and shaming like Rodney’s.
“I’m growing old out here, Clare-bear.” Clare scurried into the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinet until she found her cocktail glasses and shaker. And the tequila, of course.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just let yourself in. I’m getting the ’ritas ready.”
Lizzie bounded inside with her usual enthusiasm, carrying a bag from their favorite Mexican spot. “Now you’re talking. I’ve been looking forward to . . . ”
The rest was lost, drowned out, by the harassing ring of the telephone. Caught in the middle of her kitchen, Clare darted like a squirrel in one direction, then another. To answer or not to answer. For no reason she could think of, both seemed to promise a swift demise.
“Aren’t you gonna get that?” Lizzie asked. “It’s probably your hot lover boy calling from prison. He wants to lock you up, girl.” Clare’s face drained of its color. Lizzie knew. Somehow. She knew.
“What?” Her hand, driven by instinct, touched her mouth.
“Uh, J. D. Briggs? Remember him?”
Clare produced a laugh more canned than a television sitcom and made a decision. “Hello,” she said into the phone. The only reply came as a rattled breath. “Hello? This is Clare Keely.”
“I knew it was you calling. Haven’t you put my family through enough already?
“I think you have the wrong number.” It was Eliza Dumas, and she definitely had the right number. Clare cursed herself for not thinking of that *69 thing Lizzie always warned her about. It’s so hard to stalk boys nowadays, she’d teased at the time.
“I don’t have the wrong number, Doctor. The guy from the prison, he told me about you. That you didn’t take care of James like you should have. You saw how depressed he was. Nobody told me he was on suicide watch. Nobody told me his therapist was fresh out of college. What the hell do you know about—” Clare returned the receiver to the hook, steadied herself, then turned to face Lizzie.
“Wrong number.”
Two margaritas in, and Lizzie wouldn’t let it go. “You seemed pretty shaken up. Are you sure it was a wrong number?”
Clare downed the rest of her drink. “Positive.” She’d been careful to blot, not rub, but the lipstick ring on her glass worried her.
“And the person didn’t say anything?”
“Nope. It was probably some perv. He was doing the heavy breathing thing.”
“He?”
“Fine,” she conceded. “He said my name a few times, before I hung up on him.”
“That SOB. I can’t believe he had the nerve to call you. Especially after you gave him a piece of your mind like you did.”
“It wasn’t Rodney Taylor.”
“The hell it wasn’t.”
Clare shrugged, too tipsy to argue. “I guess it could’ve been.”
“We should mess with him. Call him back. *69 his ass.”
“I’m not calling him back.”
“Fine. Then I will.” Lizzie headed for the phone with determination. And Clare felt something essential slipping away, just beyond her grasp.
“Wait. Lizzie, wait.”
“You want to do it, right? Pretend you’re the cops or something.”
Clare shook her head. “I lied to
you.”
“About what?” The list had grown too long to catalog.
“I never told Rodney Taylor off. I wanted to, but when he asked me how I was, I could barely muster the word fine.”
With a deep sigh, Lizzie flopped back onto the sofa. “I think we need another round,” she said.
After Lizzie left, insisting she was fine to drive, Clare scarfed the remaining taco and washed it down with tequila straight from the bottle. Vaguely nauseated, mostly anesthetized, she dialed Eliza Dumas once more. She tried counting the rings this time but kept losing her place, as if she was deep underwater, listening to the muted sounds of life up above. When the recorded voice scolded her again—no answer—she set the phone in its cradle and let the weight of exhaustion, heavy and absolute, pin her to the sofa. Her eyes closed.
Ten minutes later, Clare startled awake, her heart rattling around like a pinball in her chest, her guilt awake too. But then, it was always there—amorphous—pulsing under her skin, just a fingernail’s scratch away. It took the shape of a wine-stained cotton dress . . . a ruby ring . . . an abandoned urn . . . a shoebox. And now, a carefully knotted prison bedsheet.
Clare took a swig of tequila and dialed another number. The one she’d committed to memory, all the while telling herself she hadn’t. The one on the card she’d tossed out the window. It gave her a small bit of satisfaction to think of it discarded on the freeway like an empty potato chip bag or a used condom.
“Hello, you’ve reached Rodney Taylor with Green River Trucking. I’m not available to take your call right now. Please leave your name and number at the beep, and I’ll get back to you soon.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
December 11, 1996
Clare’s head pounded all day. She damned tequila. Damned Rodney Taylor. But tonight’s mission would require more alcohol, so she downed a few cups of coffee in-between sessions and told herself to suck it up. At five o’clock, she called Robocop at the control booth.