A
deep thud echoed from the sole door that stood partially cracked open. She
stretched her neck far enough to spot crimson stains on the door handle. She bit her lower lip. All the movies that
ever made her leave the light on at night alone in her flat seeped into her
brain. She put her hands on the side of her head, hoping to shake “One, two,
Freddy’s coming for you” out. She squeezed, unsure if she was hoping to take
out the nightmare or praying for forgiveness for the nightmare she put herself
in again.
The
door opened and a man with grey slacks, a tucked in off-white button down, and
a loose tie stepped in. His eyes stared down at an open manila folder. This
wasn’t the at least 210 lb man with severe rosacea. She hardly noticed her
agape mouth. She relaxed in her chair, heat pooling into her cheeks as she felt
a desire to smell the collar of his shirt so that it might tickle his neck. She
bit her lip again, moving around her teeth the way she wanted to—
“Miss—Ah,
here we go. Lily, is it? And a Miss.”
“Ex-cuse
me?”
He
pulled out the chair across from her and took a seat, chuckling. “Oh, no no.
I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name.”
“Vans-Bur-sick.
Didn’t the other guy tell you?”
“Other
guy?” He looked up, pressing his lips together. “George? The uh—” he put his
hands up around his waist a foot away from his shirt.
She
had unknowingly moved to the edge of her seat, leaning towards the table. She
straightened her back attempting to look as uncaring as possible, crossing her
arms. “Yeah, who are you?”
He
smiled. “I’m—”
“No,
you’re the good cop. And this isn’t necessary,” she said, lifting up her cuffed
right hand.
“I’m
Adam Couldry.”
“Well,
thank God you didn’t say Freddy. I’m tired and pissed the fuck off, Adam.
Mister, right?”
His
smile did a 180 that looked cute as hell and he set the manila folder on the
table. “Lily—“
“No.
I already got hammered with questions about something I did not, I repeat, I
did not do. This is my purse. I got
it as a gift. I’m not even Christian,”
she said, laying her head on the table. “Jesus Christ.”
“We
got the video footage back,” he said, handing her a stack of black and white
still photos of the Nordstrom’s Lily wandered drunk in with her girl “friends”.
She titled her head up enough to glance at the photos. He eyes burst like
dandelion seeds. The slender woman in the photograph had hair two shades darker
than her own. Random images of a knocked over pyramid display coupled with a
trail of urine, no wait, tequila (right?) flashed in her head, fading even
quicker. Déjà vu is one way to put it, she thought. The images continued to
flash in and out to the echo of her own voice whispering “I’ll never do it again.”
He
began to organize them back into a pile, “You’re free to go. We know you didn’t
take anything.”
She
stared at the table long after the pictures had been removed.
“Miss,
I mean, Lily? It’s getting late. You better get home.” He freed her hand,
walking over to the door.
She
stood up, her heart dropping into her stomach. She was leaving. She remember last year shoved against the two way mirror,
asked to whisper, always whisper to the people that heard it as yelling.
“I’m
so sorry to put you through this and on a Tuesday no less,” Adam said, holding
the door open for her as her feet struggled to keep up with her legs.
“It’s
fine,” she said, feeling like the littlest girl in a Russian doll set.
“I
would offer to buy you tacos,” he laughed, “but they’ll be serving omelets in a
few hours.”
They
exited the room into the unusually crowded hallway of uniforms. “I could go for
one of those,” her voice cracked.
He
walked alongside her, an imaginary heater floating between them. “Oh, I mean.
If you want?”
She
looked up at him, regretting it as soon she as she did. His eyes were a
defibrillator to her buried pleasant feelings. Her heart was in her thighs by
now. “Wh-what?”
“I
thought you were asking me to, uh, breakfast?” He scanned her face. “Wow, that
is clearly inappropriate. I’m so
sorry.
She
laughed, releasing the tension in her sweaty palms. “You apologize too much. I
love breakfast.”
“I
get off at 7. Too early?”
“Not
early enough.”
“Eight
it is. The Broken Yolk across the way. Look for the cops standing outside with
donuts in their hands.”
She
laughed harder than before, her heart back in her chest. A lady with a floor-length
skirt pulled Adam aside and he disappeared into a filing room. She recognized
the woman, forgetting her hair was black then. Her face bruised.
Her pace
quickened as she got closer to the double doors at the entrance of the station.
She clutched her purse as if it was the one Marge ran out with. The door were
gray last night but she saw them blue as Adam’s eyes now. She thought about
whether she would order a small dish, a big dish, or maybe two dishes to show
she’s not guilty. She could stuff her face and hear the melody coming out of
his mouth with the occasional head nod (sorry I’m eating and have drunchies
from too much tequila and not enough tacos).
When
she got outside, the sun was peaking over the Broken Yolk. Cops cars lingered
in front of it as lions would to their prey. She knew at any moment they might turn
their heads to the scrawniest deer they’d ever see. Her stomach grumbled.
Lily began
walking to where her car was park, less than surprised that it had been towed
or borrowed by her “friends”.
She crossed her
arms, adjusted her coat, and went towards the city instead. She closed in on
herself, putting together the pieces of last night’s advanced puzzle. Margaret
(Marge) was there. Janie and Anne too. No, Anne
bailed last minute. Marge saw the purse first. Lily touched the strap first. Anne would have
said no.
She rubbed her
temples. She had laughed with Adam, but she might as well have been laughing at
him. She stared at her boots clacking on the concrete. She was Freddy. She was
the thing on the other end of the “3…4…lock
the..."
“Excuse
me, Miss?”
“I
hate that word,” she said, turning to face a boy no older than seventeen with
an apron around his waist. A hand drawn sign hung loose in his hands.
She
tilted her head, reading it: “Fresh scones, half off. Wow, how generous.”
“They’re
reallllly good. I promise.”
“Thanks,
but I’m not hungry.” She took a step away, the thunder in her stomach sending a
shower of laughter to the barista.
He
put a fist over his mouth to cover it up. “Being busy is okay too.”
“I’m
not--” she said, staring at the barista’s boring brown eyes. A knocking from
inside her chest shook her. Adam’s face faded, the trail of tequila becoming a
mustard-colored pool around a pyramid of designer purses. Numbers swam through
the river, climbing up the shelves. Marge stood at the top, donuts floating out
of her mouth.
“Do
you have…blueberry?”
He
smiled, nodding. “The size of your face if you could believe it.”
“I’ll
get a coffee too.”
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