The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door

by Preston Pairo

  #

  Cara asked Miles if he was going to spend New Year’s Eve with Jennifer.

  Naked in bed alongside her, he said, “I’m not sure.”

  Cara always felt a twinge of jealousy thinking about Jennifer—reminded how she herself had passed that age and those opportunities. And while most of growing up was not an experience she’d want to go through again, it was still a lost decade of choices made and declined. “I think she’s perfect for you,” she said, feeling tears in her eyes he wouldn’t see in the dark bedroom, then, without giving him chance to respond, asked: “And what about your dad? Does he have plans?”

  “His boss is having a party at his house. On a farm somewhere out beyond Dulles Airport.”

  Cara stroked a lock of Miles’ hair from his forehead. “Don’t be alone on New Year’s Eve. Okay?”

  He answered by touching her in that way Cara believed had been taught to him by another woman. Someone perhaps even older than she was.

  Accepting his urges that she roll onto her back, Cara wrapped her legs around him as he settled on top of her.

  Hard again, Miles kissed her and whispered: “I’m going to miss you.”

  #

  At 2:00 a.m., Miles was still awake alongside Cara when he heard a vehicle outside.

  With their houses built so close to the street, there was often the sound of cars during the night, especially with some neighbors working the unpredictable shifts of first responders. But whatever was out there now—broadcasting a throaty rumble from an oversized tail pipe—was not a vehicle driving by but one idling in place. A minute later, it was joined by a second vehicle.

  Miles eased out of bed, careful not to awaken Cara. Standing by her front bedroom window, he pulled back the curtain.

  Two pick-up trucks were stopped side-by-side in front of his house, blocking the street—the one with the extended cab likely giving off the louder exhaust.

  Miles couldn’t see how many people were inside either vehicle, only that the driver of the large truck wore a camouflage hunting jacket, his elbow resting on the sill of his opened window while he talked to whoever was in the smaller pick-up.

  Miles heard voices, but not words, before the bigger truck pulled away and the second one followed.

  49.

  At 8:30 a.m., December 31st, a Kensington County sheriff’s deputy knocked on the front door of Jennifer Gaines’ family home, the impact hard enough to rattle the window panes.

  Jennifer slept through the noise. Then her mother stormed into her room while her father put in an urgent call to his lawyer’s private cell phone.

  Throughout the day, similar scenes played out in households of other Kensington High students, setting off a barrage of alarmed text messages and social media posts.

  Miles was in Cara’s house, helping her pack moving boxes for Ireland, when Jennifer called him.

  “Do you believe this shit?” she demanded. “It couldn’t have waited until Monday? Now my friggin’ mother’s making me stay home tonight—on New Year’s Eve! My father sent the thing to his lawyer who says I’m being called as a witness about what happened to that idiot Rusty Bremmer. What am I supposed to have witnessed?”

  #

  Debra Vance pulled into the underground garage of Mazza Gallerie on Wisconsin Avenue. Miles was already there, seated in his truck in an empty corner of the well-lit garage. He remained behind the wheel as Vance put her Honda two rows away and walked over, getting in the passenger seat.

  She said, “I couldn’t find out much.” Referring to the subpoenas. “Seems I’m not exactly in the loop anymore. But my guess is Delgado and the Elf are pressing to get somebody to talk. Delgado probably figures if he drags enough kids into a hearing…threatens expulsion… Who knows? One kid might crack. And you can bet Elfin Arnold will ask Jennifer where she was the night Bremmer was attacked—which is going to put her in a jam. She sticks to that story about the Georgetown student, that’s criminal perjury. She admits to being with you, that means she lied to Delgado, which could get her expelled from school.”

  Miles remained expressionless, but Vance sensed he was worried—if not for himself, then for Jennifer.

  She said, “The sheriffs haven’t been able to serve subpoenas to any of the guys you were teaching martial arts to. They can’t find them—including Juan, who doesn’t work on his father’s food trucks anymore. Apparently you haven’t been there in a couple days, either. Delgado’s having the place watched,” Vance informed. “And all this has Rusty Bremmer’s father thinking you’re all involved.”

  Miles looked straight ahead, saying nothing.

  Vance changed the subject, hoping to get him talking: “How about Cara? Any word from Valentine?”

  Miles shook his head.

  Vance looked across the garage at shoppers wheeling carts of party preparations to their vehicles. She said, “I don’t like New Year’s Eve.” Adding: “I don’t look good in a dress.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Miles looking at her. “It’s dumb, I know, letting something so…” She searched for the word. “…superficial worry me. I’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s just tonight I need to get through.”

  Miles said, “You’re staying home?”

  “And here I thought you were going to tell me I’d look fine in a dress.” She smiled, but not as if making a joke.

  “Depends on the dress,” he said.

  She liked that response. “Actually, I’m going to my aunt and uncle’s for dinner. What about you?”

  He shrugged.

  “No Jennifer?”

  “She’s not being allowed out.”

  “Because of the subpoena,” Vance assumed.

  “Her mom knows something’s up with that night.”

  “Well…I hope you do something fun. There’s lots of places you can see the fireworks from the National Mall without having to fight those crowds. Not a bad thing to do if you end up by yourself.” Vance spoke from experience.

  #

  Miles got lo mein from one of his favorite downtown places and ate in his truck while watching the sun set for the final time of the year.

  He didn’t tell his father about Jennifer not being allowed out tonight, because he didn’t want his dad to feel that he had to spend New Year’s Eve with him. His father had been looking forward to the party at his boss’ house—to socialize with people he worked with, many of whom he spoke of with the same enthusiasm he held for his new job.

  The change in his father over the past months was nothing short of amazing to Miles. What he’d first thought of as his father trying to impress Cara may have been an oversimplification. Although Cara was likely a contributing factor, his father’s rediscovered energy and confidence seemed rooted in his new job, surroundings, and circumstances. The promotion and accompanying raise that seemed almost a done deal, including a transfer to Buffalo of all places, appeared to make his father feel appreciated—something that had been lacking from his marriage to a woman he no longer loved.

  Miles’ own feelings about his mother were more mixed. He hadn’t missed her at first, but he did now—although the mother he missed was the way she used to be when he was younger. And she was younger. When she’d seemed happy having a child in the house, not so much a teenager.

  Miles was still in the restaurant parking lot, just about finished his food, when Jennifer texted. She’d been texting him at least once an hour, first to rant about her mother being so unreasonable and a bitch, then to say how much she missed him and how unfair this all was.

  Her latest text told Miles to pretend tonight wasn’t New Years, because a group of kids who’d been grounded because of the school board thing were going to have their own New Year’s party next weekend. That will be the real new years, she texted.

  Then, at midnight, she sent: XXX. 1st kisses of the year!

  From his bedroom, reading a fishing magazine, Miles replied with the same.

  Half an hour later, those two pick-up trucks were back in front of his hous
e.

  50.

  Back in school after winter break, Miles felt the tension. Under a cold grey sky, students that considered him in late August with apprehension or curiosity were now angry and accusatory. On his way to his locker, one of Bremmer’s football teammates—almost as tall as Bremmer, but flabby pounds heavier—purposefully bumped into Miles and muttered, “You’re dead, Peterson.”

  It wasn’t just the school board subpoenas that had ruined lots of New Year’s Eves. Thousands of online posts kids had sent under the misguided pretext of private communications among “friends”—many of which were well beyond the scope of what had happened to Rusty Bremmer—had been exposed by law enforcement and made available for parents and school administrators to see. And almost everyone decided Miles was to blame.

  Potentially more damning was that Juan hadn’t been in school since before Christmas. Rumor among students was that he and his buddies were “on the run” and had been “sent home” to Mexico or Guatemala.

  Jennifer was scared for Miles, waiting for him after first-period classes. “This is really bad. Way worse than I thought it would be. They’re saying you trained those guys to beat up Bremmer.” She walked with her arm around him, defiant in her own way, showing her belief in his innocence.

  At the end of the school day, Jennifer insisted on leaving with Miles in his truck. “They won’t do anything if I’m with you,” she said. Not that she could physically protect him or was held in any sort of queenly esteem, but the students she feared were looking to hurt Miles wouldn’t do it in front of a witness.

  They drove from school to Miles’ house. Because Cara was away for the week, they ended up in her house—in her bedroom.

  After they had sex, Miles told Jennifer about Cara moving to Ireland, which Jennifer found exciting, her own travels having been constrained within the compass points of New York City, Rehoboth Beach, Charleston, and Nashville—map points within a small radius of the eastern U.S. She said, “I’d like to do something like that some time. But not just to visit. But to have—you know—like a real adventure in an exotic place. We could go together.”

  #

  The following day at Kensington High, Principal Davies made rounds of all the classrooms, interrupting teachers to address students in small groups.

  He said he considered the upcoming school board hearing “a monumental distraction of misinformation” and instructed all his teachers not to view any of the students’ social media posts that had been made public, calling that a gross invasion of their privacy.

  On Wednesday, it was announced that a group of Kensington High teachers had gone to their union to file for an injunction on the students’ behalf to prevent any student from having to appear before the school board. The teachers’ group claimed that while what happened to Rusty Bremmer was a horrible crime, it was a police matter that did not belong before the school board, and that using the threat of expulsion to force students to testify was ridiculous (or as one history teacher called it: “fascist.”)

  Thursday, the issue hit the local newspapers. One story, written by the reporter who had interviewed Miles last fall in connection with Ian Blakely’s disappearance, referred to the school board hearing as a “gross abuse of the legal process,” and specifically pointed at Assistant County Attorney Arnold Baylor.

  As students perceived their personal peril lessening, some lost motivation to place blame, and opinions about Miles again shifted, much as in the months after Miles had been charged with murder in Florida.

  By Saturday, kids who'd had their New Year’s Eves ruined were ready to party. And Miles and Jennifer were invited.

  But not everyone was ready to put aside rumors that Randy Bremmer’s attackers had been Miles’ “army.”

  51.

  Early Saturday afternoon, Cara checked out of the upscale Raleigh hotel where she’d spent the past week. She left behind the expensive lingerie Harrison bought her. She was finished with all that—including having sex with Harrison. She had almost $7,000 in her handbag—cash for fantasies rendered—to add to her exit plan funds.

  When not with Harrison, Cara had spent much of the past few days online and the phone. She'd finalized arrangements for a place to stay in Ireland, a flat in an old building (they all seemed to be old buildings) near an international school to which she'd already emailed Ian's information. She'd video-conferenced two job interviews, and the employment agent was confident Cara would receive an offer she'd be happy with.

  She'd also reconnected with Danique, who was still in Amsterdam and, yes, still entertaining men, and who assured Cara that of course if things didn't work out in Ireland and Cara needed a place to hide with Ian they could stay with her.

  Cara hadn't intended to tell Danique about having sex for money, but after fifteen minutes of conversation—which felt as if they'd been out of touch for days, not years—Cara confessed, and Danique had exclaimed, “Oh, wonderful for you! You were a natural! You understood the difference between sex and love-sex!”

  Cara hadn't admitted she wasn't sure she understood that at all. She did tell Danique that if she ended up in Amsterdam she wasn't going to be working that way. To which Danique had replied, “Of course—not with your son here.” Whether Ian was there or not, Cara would not do that again, but she didn't tell that to Danique.

  Nor did she tell her former landlady about Danny Valentine. Maybe if she had, Danique would have warned her.

  #

  That night, Miles and Jennifer's arrival at the party caused a distinct murmur. In the crowded living room, hip-hop music blaring, kids looked for one another's reaction as if taking census of the group mood, gauging whether Miles would be welcomed.

  Kate Longis, whose absent parents made the gathering of three dozen under-aged drinkers possible, shouted, “You came!” She drew Miles and Jennifer into a threesome hug that left them dotted with the gold-and-silver glitter Kate used to sparkle her crazed hair and ample areas of moisturized skin left exposed by a shiny red cocktail dress.

  And like that, the skipped beat was over and the party swept back to the upswing, consuming every square foot of the modest mid-70's split-foyer home other than the master and Kate's bedrooms, the doors to which Kate had locked and taped signs: Not in these beds you pervs!

  As Kate danced off to see who else was coming in the door, Miles made his way to the kitchen with Jennifer, nodding to kids he recognized. So far, he didn't notice any of Bremmer’s football friends, but Jennifer had said they wouldn’t be there.

  It wasn’t a jock party. Most in attendance were the ones who, in a few years, would find and support the small theaters, art galleries, food trucks, and music clubs that wouldn’t make any mainstream publication’s top-whatever lists. They wore their own interpretation of party clothes. Some, like Kate, chose flashy off-the-rack dresses, although a couple girls looked more like princesses in Halloween costumes to Miles. The guys went primarily hipster—either full-spectrum colorful or monochrome grey-and-black—stuff only available online, including a vintage bowler hat.

  Even Miles was out of his usual “fishing-gear”—as Jennifer sometimes kidded him of his clothes—wearing a pressed dark-blue dress shirt with French cuffs and mismatched cufflinks—an imitation ivory Buddha on one sleeve, a sterling silver Empire State Building on the other. Instead of jeans he had on flat-front pants, and in place of deck shoes wore a pair of wing-tips, all of which Jennifer had bought him at a consignment shop.

  Jennifer’s personal fashion choices included a poncho-style sweater over a flowing maxi skirt, with the scarf Miles gave her last fall tied loosely around her neck. “Drink?” she shouted at him when they reached the crowded kitchen, a room that could have passed for retro-stylish except for chips in laminate counters and tears in the vinyl floor.

  Jennifer dipped two plastic cups into a pink concoction swirling in a cheap punch bowl, unconcerned about other fingers that had already been there because the high alcohol content would have sterilized those ge
rms.

  Miles took a sip and winced as cheap liquor burned down his throat. “Wow.”

  Jennifer coughed, then laughed, her eyes watering. “Oh, that's really bad.” But drank some more anyway.

  Miles set his cup down. And as was the case at every other party he’d ever been to—the sum of which he could count on one hand—he looked around and thought, Now what?

  He ended up following Jennifer’s lead, becoming involved in conversations most of which he didn’t completely follow because of the noise or not knowing who was being talked about, the way it used to be at lunch before he picked up who was who.

  There were discussions of colleges, acceptance letters, roommate apprehensions, and class schedules. The general sense from those about to graduate in June—which seemed to be most everyone—was being glad high school was almost over. Then again, it was a party, so if the conversation got too serious someone would shout, “But to hell with that! It's New Year's Eve!” And announce the countdown to midnight: currently just under two hours.

  Miles and Jennifer were out on the deck, kept warm enough by the fireplace to not need the coats they’d left in his truck. She asked where he thought he’d be this time next year. When Miles said he had no idea, she made a scolding face. “Wrong! You'll be with me!” And threw her arms around him. “Right?”

  He smiled. “Absolutely.” Which may not have been a lie, he just couldn’t see how it could be the truth—even if part of him wished it was. Because in that moment, Miles felt a pleasant comfort in Jennifer’s arms. But it didn’t last.