Monica and I locked in an embrace outside of the house I grew up in.
“That’s from the other night.” I nod to Ally because for some reason she knew about it, too. “How did you get this?”
McCafferty pulls the pictures forward and straightens them as if she’s getting ready to shuffle a deck. “Someone sent it to me.” Her gaze skirts the two of us. “My number is included on all of the missing posters and on the website Rich created. You wouldn’t believe the stories I’m hearing these days.” A smile warbles on her lips. That smirk coupled with that statement makes her look like some old deranged grandmother that belongs locked up and forgotten in a home somewhere.
Allison growls at the idea. “Anytime you want to pull fact from fiction, I’m available to you.”
“I might take you up on that offer. In the meantime, neither of you looks too concerned about this woman.”
“Monica,” I offer. “My ex. We dated in high school.”
“Monica Percale.” McCafferty taps her finger over the picture. “Twice married, twice divorced.”
A curious huff expels from me. “Did not know that.” Do not care.
“Hospital records show a birth in Clark county nine years ago.”
I swallow the baby-sized lump down my throat. Convenient. Just around the time we split up.
“Rumor has it, she went wild after our breakup.” Rumor has it, I just made up a rumor. Monica told me point-blank we had a kid. She also mentioned she lost it. Crib death two months old, a baby girl named after me, sort of, Jamie.
“She said the baby died. Tragedy upon tragedy.” McCafferty shoves her salacious stash back into the envelope from which it escaped. Pandora’s box. That’s what Hailey’s bikini top amounted to, Pandora’s box. If I could rewind time, I’d shove myself into the pool and hold myself under. Take that bikini top I stripped off and hang myself with it. Reagan would still be here. Reagan would be safe. Far away from the monsters that have captured her. Monster. That word circles my brain in a loop.
We walk McCafferty out and Allison spins into me, disgruntled and pissed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a kid?” Her eyes bulge like two lime green discs.
“Is this where I’m supposed to say you’re really good at math?”
She swats me. “You’re not funny.”
“And I’m probably not the father. Look, once I cut her loose—she cut loose. It could have been anyone she met, the bartender, the box boy at the grocery store. She was moving fast, and she wasn’t keeping it a secret. She was trying to hurt me, only I didn’t care.” I wrap my arms around her. “Because I already had you.”
She bats those long lashes at me a million miles an hour. “Do you really think the kid is dead?”
“Yes.” I inch back, trying to get a better look at her. “You heard McCafferty. She said it herself.”
“No. She suggested Monica said it. I don’t believe a word that comes out of that lying cunt’s mouth.”
My body jerks just hearing the vulgarity. Allison isn’t one to toss around an errant expletive unless she means it—especially not that one. And I’d venture to guess she means it in the most vulgar sense.
“I promise you. She’s telling the truth. Why would she lie about something like that? It’s insanity.” But then, everything about Monica is insanity. Why not this?
Allison lands a finger over my lips as if to hush me. She hooks those steely green eyes into mine and makes me stay there. “People like to kiss you, James. Don’t they?” A moment bounces by as if she wants me to admit it. She gives my cheek a light tap. “It happens.” She heads for the stairs and my stomach drops to the floor, it cannonballs right through middle earth. She knows. She has to know. “I promised my sister I’d give her an update.”
“Great. Tell her I said hello.” I want to say tell her I like the location of my dick but don’t. It’s common knowledge that Jane runs some street gang from the inside. With all those crooked connections, maybe she’s the only one who can help find my daughter. Come on, Jane, you psychotic bitch—bring my baby back.
God knows someone has to.
* * *
Later that night I take the letter my mother wrote, a six-pack of beer my father generously sprung for, and head for the backyard. Allison is wrapped up like a burrito watching television in bed—the news—the story of us. That catatonic stare lets me know she’s not capable of taking any of it in. She shouldn’t. It’s all speculation and bullshit. Soon they’ll have one of my dead brothers as the leading suspect. It’s twisted and ridiculous, but it must sell airtime or they wouldn’t have it wallpapering our nation day and night.
Dad is out a little later than usual tonight and I appreciate it. I like the solitude for once. Not that I wouldn’t trade that for Reagan. But my father’s presence has been a touch cloying. I’m shocked Allison hasn’t kicked him to the curb yet. Maybe I’ll ask him to leave. She’s probably thinking it.
The iced cement greets me as I take a seat on the first step. The sun went down an hour ago, but the sky is still striated orange and black—tiger sky.
Carefully I extract my mother’s letter from the envelope, pressing the paper to my cheek as if it were her fingers, her skin. The letter is dated April 14th just six weeks before she took that fated drive.
Jolene—just looking at her handwriting feels like a nice warm hug—I’m sorry I had to cut the conversation short the other night. He’s watching my every move, listening. I just want you to know that I’ve made up my mind. You’re right. There is only one life and I’m living it. I’ve found an apartment on Spring Street. I just need some air.
Maybe Teri was right. Maybe there is a monster lying in wait inside all of us. Some of us are just better at hiding it from the rest of the world. Cute as that sentiment might be, it didn’t help my children.
Your sister,
Loretta
* * *
Monster. My mother used the word and so did McCafferty. Round and round it spins through my mind like some haunting refrain I can’t evict. What did she mean by it didn’t help my children? Is she implying that the monster was unleashed? I pop the top on the beer and guzzle down half the bottle in one throat burning drag. Then just as quick as I put the tip to my lips, I pluck it back out and land the bottle over the concrete hard and fast.
Monster. My father is a monster? Antifreeze? Was McCafferty hinting at a homicide?
She said my father turned my mother’s car into a tin can by noon. No one confirmed the transmission theory. But my mother was lucid. Had a damn good driving record, too. The car was nearly fifteen years old. Shit happens and it happened that day.
Right?
But what if…
I stagger to my feet. It feels as if the sky is spinning up above. I’m no lightweight, but this isn’t the beer taking its toll on me. It’s the unpalatable taste of the shit McCafferty shoved down my throat.
It’s time to clear things up. I pluck the keys off the table and drive over to the one person who might be able to help—and it’s not my father.
God knows the respectable judge isn’t going to cop to a couple of homicides.
It would be ridiculous.
This entire nightmare borders on ridiculous.
* * *
Sherriff Richard Olsen, Concordia County, the sign reads.
I give a quick knock over the door before letting myself in.
“My man.” Rich rises from his seat and pulls up his pants by the waist before presenting me with the empty chair before him.
“Thanks.” The cool leather sinks beneath me as I take a seat. There is something desperately sterile about police stations and hospitals. They feel sanitized, devoid of life and soulless on some level. An irony in and of itself since both establishments are meant to aid us. I toss the letter onto his desk and he pauses a moment before picking it up and reading it.
“Huh.” His eyes bounce over each line once again. “Monster.” Rich purses his lips.
“Maybe they had a fight. Who knows.”