Laura narrowed her eyes, her eyebrows pinched together. “Drugs?”
“Yeah. Something to do with gangs and drugs.” Saying it didn’t make him feel better, but it made perfect sense. He braced himself for her response.
Laura looked out the kitchen window toward where the car had sat. Cal could see the spot over her shoulder. A black Caprice. Old. Patches of rust on the quarter panels. Wheels long missing their shiny hubcaps. The tires almost bald. Black and menacing. The chugging engine the only sound in the darkness, filling the air with poisonous fumes. A young man dead inside.
“Do you feel safe?” she asked. She faced him with crossed arms.
“I haven’t talked to the police. I’ll call the station tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
“We need to move. My parents agree.” She looked exhausted. “Or we can pretend like everything is okay while I expect to find dead bodies every time I open the front door.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Laura. It’s not a zombie apocalypse.”
She shook her head and went into her study, shutting the door behind her.
Her fallback position when threatened was condescension, which sometimes made him feel ignorant, which always made him angry. Speed bumps. They had mostly seen each other at night when they were dating—dinners, movies, just hanging out. Now, they were together every day. He liked some of their new routines. They cooked together, which reminded him of his mom’s dinner schedule with meals assigned to each night of the week. Laura kept a list on the fridge. Sometimes she called him her sous chef, which made him grit his teeth. She used that tone in front of their friends sometimes. Like he was her pet.
She came out when he called but declined the food. She lay down in the bedroom. He washed the dishes alone, his eyes unwillingly drawn through the window to Liz’s yellow picket fence.
He didn’t know what was happening. Doubt constricted his chest so that he had difficulty breathing. Laura had changed. She was cold, as if she hated him. He could see the difference in her eyes. He wanted to yell at her and bang his fists on the counter and demand her affection. Was it the dead man or did moving in together change that much? Had she discovered something unforgivable about him? He had plenty to complain about too. Her attitude, number one. She could drop the bullshit superiority any time she chose. He thought of saying that. He thought of pointing his finger in her face and saying it in the ugliest tone he could muster. Then he caught himself, remembering his parents’ fights.
Lord, they had had some knock-down, drag-outs. They had always patched it up, pretended as if nothing had happened. Cal and his brother would stay in their room, terrified that their parents’ rage would burst through the door—a door with no lock. There was never hitting. His father did not hit, but he tried to make his mother think he would. He had punched a hole in the garage wall once, straight through the sheetrock. His fingers had swollen like hot dogs. He never apologized.
It must have been the pressure release for their relationship. They had to do that or the whole thing would fall apart. Whatever. His parents were still married, but there were fewer fights. Instead, they sat in separate rooms, waiting for the other to die, as if the survivor would win. What was the point of that? Maybe this whole thing with Laura wasn’t going to work out. Did he love her? A month ago he would have said yes without hesitation. Now, though, this was not fun. He would go to the police station, get some information, and hope that settled the whole thing.
*
The concrete-and-glass police headquarters sat over the interstate like a fortress before a moat. He entered, aware of the surveillance cameras behind mirrored half-globes. An officer waved him through the metal detector.
A crowd milled before the information desk, Latino, Asian, black, some down-and-out whites. Cal braced himself and got in line. Two women with great manes of hair stood behind a green glass wall giving terse instructions over a phone. Their voices were nasal, turning down when they asked a question. Was he really doing this for Laura? When he asked his question, the woman glowered at him. “Let me see if the detective is in. Wait over there.” She pointed. Cal obediently hung up the phone and waited in the corner. The line snaked back and forth before him. He had almost walked out three times before the detective confronted him, a red-faced man whose buttons strained against his belly.
“You the kid asking about the murder? What’s your interest?” The detective was not friendly.