Charlotte says, “They got the fire out, and they haven’t found any—anybody. I don’t think he was there.”
I miss the next few sentences because I’m busy heaving my guts out on the floor. When it’s over I feel hollow and brittle, like plastic that’s spent too long in the sun. The receptionist lobs a roll of blue paper towels at me and I ignore it, trying to remember the trick of breathing.
By the time I peel my skull off the tile Bev is jabbing her finger in the constable’s face. “Don’t talk to me like that, you goddamn mall-cop cowboy—”
“Now look here, Bev, I am elected by the people of this great state—”
“You drive your mom’s Pontiac, Joe! They don’t even let you use the lights anymore!” She’s inches away from him now, voice dropping to a strangled threat. “We thought she was dead until somebody told us you dragged her down here.”
Mayhew tries very hard to look down his nose at Bev, who has several inches and at least twenty pounds on him. “An eyewitness reported this young lady acting in a suspicious manner tonight.”
“Well, I’m an eyewitness telling you I never saw her this evening. She hadn’t gotten back from work.” Bev enunciates each syllable, like she’s talking to a broken speaker at a Burger King.
“Her manager reports that she was fired several hours before the event in question, after getting violent with a customer. Given her volatile actions, I think it likely that—”
Charlotte speaks for the first time, her voice soft and deferential. “I was there, too. Opal wasn’t anywhere near the motel this evening.”
Constable Mayhew narrows his eyes at Charlotte. “And what were you doing at the Garden of Eden this evening?”
“I was just . . .” Charlotte looks at Bev, and Bev’s face goes taut. Charlotte trails away.
Constable Mayhew hooks his thumbs around his belt loops. “Were you a paying guest?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you visiting a paying guest?”
“No, sir.” Charlotte’s voice is fainter with each word. The frames of her glasses are a stark pink against the pallor of her skin.
“Then what were you doing there?”
Bev steps between them, her jaw so tight she can barely move her lips. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”
The constable, who has apparently never seen Bev fight three drunks in a motel parking lot and is under the impression that the white curl of her knuckles means he’s winning, says, “I am trying to investigate a potential arson here. I think it’s worth asking this lady—who was apparently at the scene of the crime, with no reason to be there—a few questions.” He holds his head higher. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you again: Why were you at the Garden of Eden this evening?”
Charlotte looks at Bev. Bev looks at Charlotte. I might be dazed and sick, stupid with relief, but even I can see them speaking to one another, talking in the silent Morse code of two people who know each other far, far better than I thought they did.
“This is not,” Bev announces, to no one in particular, “how I wanted to do this.”
Charlotte’s face is a map of hope and doubt. She shrugs as if she doesn’t care, or as if she wishes she didn’t, eyes on Bev. “Nobody’s making you, sweetheart.” I try and fail to recall if Charlotte has ever called me sweetheart before. If she did I doubt she said it like it was a dare, or maybe a prayer.
Bev turns back to Constable Mayhew with a reckless tilt of her chin and a fuck-it grin. “She was at the motel because that’s where I live.”
“And why would this woman care where you live?”
“Because,” Bev inhales, “she’s my girlfriend. Office Fucknut.”
Constable Mayhew looks as if he’s trying to diagram that sentence on an invisible chalkboard, face crumpled with concentration.
Bev turns back to Charlotte with her arms hanging rigid at her sides. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” Charlotte sounds a little breathless.
Bev scrubs her hand over the bristle of her hair. “No, for before. For not wanting anybody to know. I’m not ashamed, it’s just—it’s not safe, and I’m—a little slow.”
I murmur “We know” from the floor and Charlotte manages to suggest, with the merest flick of her eyelid, that she will flay me and use my hide as a tote bag if I open my mouth again.
“Anyway, I know you’re still going to leave and I don’t blame you, but you should know . . .” Bev rolls her eyes, apparently at herself. “I’d go with you, if you asked. And if you stayed . . . I’d buy us a fucking billboard.”
Constable Mayhew appears to be rousing from his fugue state, preparing to make some sort of authoritative statement, but then Charlotte kisses Bev, hard and joyfully, right on the mouth, and he short-circuits again. The receptionist says “Awww” and starts clapping, and I wish I could join her, because Jasper is alive and Charlotte is smiling and I will get to tease Bev about this until the end times.
The glass doors open. Heels click evenly across the floor.
Elizabeth Baine holds out her hand to Constable Mayhew, who blinks down at it as if he’s never seen one before. She gives him a gentle smile. “Constable Mayhew, if you will return to your office, you’ll find a voice mail explaining my involvement in this investigation. Thank you for your assistance.”
Bev and Charlotte watch as Mayhew scuttles into his office. Baine transfers the clear blue of her gaze to the floor, where I sit cross-legged and dazed. I no longer want to clap.
“Hello again, Opal. Could we talk privately?”
I don’t know what makes me wallow to my feet and follow Elizabeth Baine down the hall. It’s the officious tap of her shoes and the ironed seams of her skirt, the way she checks the watch on the inside of her wrist, as if she has allotted a specific number of minutes to deal with our collective nonsense. The only flaw is her upper lip, which is swollen and glossy, split where my fist collided with her teeth. I imagine my knuckles would still hurt if I could feel my hands.
She leads me to a room labeled CONFERENCE ROOM C and sits at the head of a long table, gesturing to the seat beside her. I stroll past it and settle at the opposite end. I do my best to slouch insolently, but my shoulders are stiffening fast.
Baine studies me politely, chin resting on her folded hands.
I want to stare her down, but I find my mouth opening, my voice whipping down the table. “Did you know? That he wasn’t there?”
She considers. “Yes.” The answer sounds as if it was drawn out of a hat at random.
I picture myself striding over and slamming my forehead into the bridge of her nose.
She sighs as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You are so determined to think the worst of me. Hal searched the room just before the incident. We knew your brother wasn’t inside.”
“And what about the other rooms? The front office? Did you carefully evacuate the premises before committing arson?”
For the first time, there is the slightest hesitation before she speaks. “The event was not intended to reach that scale. Hal is a very experienced operative, but . . .” She does a small, mannered shrug. “He claims the flames spread more quickly than they should have, and that the smoke alarms failed.”
I think of the mist mixing with the smoke, the shadowed shapes I saw there; there was more than one kind of Beast running loose tonight. I smile at her, a vicious twist of my lips. “Bad luck, I guess.”
Baine’s eyes glitter back at me. “Yes.” She unsnaps a black case at her side and withdraws a raggedy yellow legal pad. She smooths the pages flat on the table. “Hal retrieved some very interesting documents from room 12, before the fire. Your work, or Jasper’s?”
I close my mouth, hard.