“I’m Officer Kirkpatrick and this is Officer Bechdel, Summitville PD. Do you have a few minutes?” The male officer’s eyes were a vibrant green.
“I was just heading back to my office,” she lied.
“We can talk there,” Bechdel said.
“I’d rather not.” Trina took a sip of her coffee. Her hand no longer shook.
“Where were you Sunday night?” Kirkpatrick had taken out a notebook and flipped it to a clean page, pen poised like a Boy Scout.
“I was at a wedding. And a few other places.” Her heart scudded inside her ribs.
A few people drifted by, casting longer glances at the trio. Trina caught the eye of one woman, who quickly turned her head and walked on.
“Did you meet a man named Dermot Carine?”
“I don’t know that name.”
Bechdel pulled out her phone. “Do you recognize him?”
Staring back at Trina was the man from Sunday night, smiling in a bright orange T-shirt with a waterfall in the background. It was a standard profile picture, all sunshine and big smiles.
“What’s happened?” Trina asked.
“Do you know this man?”
“He was at the wedding. We danced a little.” Trina shifted her bag to her other shoulder. “It’s hard to remember.”
“Had you been drinking?” Bechdel asked.
“It was a wedding.” Trina forced herself to breathe. “What is this all about?”
“Maybe it’d be better if we talked at the station?” Kirkpatrick gestured with his arm vaguely towards somewhere behind him, and Trina’s mind skittered along to wondering where they’d parked. Would they need to ride the bus in from the commuter lot too?
“No, that’s not necessary. What happened to him? Why does it matter that I danced with him on Sunday?”
“Do you go to a lot of weddings?” Bechdel asked.
A dark pit formed in her stomach. Two cops wouldn’t come to find her and ask questions about the last man she slept with just because he had outstanding parking tickets. Something was terribly wrong.
“This conversation is over.” Trina started to walk off in the direction of her office, craving the quiet dark of her own space.
“Don’t you want to know if he’s all right?” Bechdel’s voice came white hot across the sidewalk.
Trina kept moving, at first swallowing the response that rose in her throat.
“You wouldn’t be here if he was,” she blurted out over her shoulder, the wind chafing her voice on its edges.
Tom had always loved her spark. It was the reason he’d left with Trina at the party all those years ago, even though he had a girlfriend (one who he quickly broke up with to be with Trina). A bunch of high-school friends had come back together on a break from college for the party, and Trina couldn’t stand the fact that the nastiest guys in high school were still making anyone they didn’t like feel small. When they tried to pull the pants down of one guy who was back from his full scholarship at Carnegie Mellon for engineering but was still painfully shy—Trina wasn’t sure why he’d come that night—she couldn’t stand it. She shoved one of the offenders into the pool and emptied the slew of half-empty Solo cups on the counter over the other three. Tom had loved it. Meanwhile, his girlfriend was a girl Trina knew from high school who stood by and defended the popular guys, saying they were just having fun.
It might be why Trina sought out frat-boy bros now for one-night stands. Like somehow being around them might conjure Tom back.
But her “spark” also translated into Trina having trouble controlling her impulses.
Which was the reason the police were looking for her in the first place.
CHAPTER FIVE JOYCE
She’d take the car home. Simon didn’t need it, didn’t deserve it.
Joyce pulled out into traffic and settled into the soft leather seat, wrapping her coat tight around her shoulders. She kept picturing her husband’s face across the table, that hang-dog expression he got when something didn’t go his way. Joyce used to think it was cute, back when they were in college and he’d hang around outside her classes. She was always one of the last students out because she liked to ask the professors questions after lecture rather than during—she’d been a bit shy back then—and Simon would get upset sometimes, waiting for her to finish up.
Joyce pulled into their long driveway, hearing the satisfying crack of pebbles under the tires as she turned off the main road.
Clara was inside vacuuming when Joyce arrived home. Joyce went into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. She and Clara liked to have a tea and a chat on Monday afternoons, catching up on their weekends and reminding each other about the various dramas of their lives. Joyce didn’t know if she could call Clara a friend, because she paid her to be there in a way, but it was the closest relationship Joyce had with another woman.
Simon had suggested at one point that she might be friends with Trina. Joyce could barely stomach the thought.
Joyce already had her hobbies. She didn’t need more friends.
It was coming up on a year now, and Joyce remembered how last year the biting cold crept into her bones after the accident and wouldn’t leave her until forced to by the obscene heat of summer. She’d stand by the fire, or soak in a scalding bath, but she’d still shake from the chills that wracked her body. All she would feel was the bite of ice on her skin.
“Is the tea ready?” Clara stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her maid’s uniform fitting neatly against her round hips and sharp waist. Clara told Joyce once that, back in Croatia, she’d been a dancer in a nightclub. Her parents threatened to disown her, but she’d made enough money with her waspish figure to manage to leave and move to the US. Now a grandmother, she still had the same silhouette and Joyce found herself wishing she hadn’t trained her body into boyish thinness.
“Almost. I bought some strudel from Straufmann’s.” Joyce set down a plate of the pastry on the round dining table in the eat-in portion of the kitchen. Not that she’d eat any of it, but Clara enjoyed a sweet treat with her tea.
“Tell me about your day.” Clara settled herself in one of the chairs, crossing her feet at the ankles like a debutante.
Joyce poured the tea. Her phone thrummed in her purse on the counter, but she didn’t move to get it. She knew it was probably Simon, calling for an apology for how she acted at lunch. She’d give him one, but not yet.
“Not much to report,” Joyce said.
Clara took a sip of tea, her face expectant.
“What is it?” Joyce poured a dash of milk into her cup to mix with the Earl Grey. Drinking from the delicate porcelain, the heat of the tea snaked its way pleasantly down through her chest.
“The police stopped by earlier today.” Clara said it as though it were a confession.
“Why was that?” Joyce forced herself to ask the question, and then followed up with, “Has one of our neighbors been robbed?”
“No, nothing like that. They were asking about a woman.” Clara paused. “The woman.”
“Trina,” Joyce said, and Clara nodded in confirmation.
“She’s gotten herself into some other kind of trouble. They wouldn’t say specifically, and I was lucky they even mentioned her name when they were here. But they asked if you or Mr. Morgan were home, and I told them you were both out, and then I demanded—oh yes, I demanded—” Here, Clara balled her hand into a fist and set it firmly on the table, fixing her eyes on Joyce. She had very little traces of her accent left, but it came out in softer vowels and clipped consonant pairs when she got frustrated or angry. “I demanded to know if any of it had to do with that woman, and they wouldn’t confirm anything but they also wouldn’t say it wasn’t about her. That’s how I knew she was coming back into your life.”
Simon was always a fool in that way. He thought he could save the world, when he couldn’t even take care of himself. He never should have stopped that day to help Trina. Joyce could picture exactly what he’d said when she’d gone to him at the hospital to find him slouched on a gurney, his shirt soaked in blood and holding his head in his hands.
“I thought I could help.” Simon’s shoulders shuddered as he collapsed into sobs. Joyce held him, her heart going out to her husband, her dear friend in so many ways. But she’d also spoken to the police before going to Simon, where she was told Simon had killed his patient. That he’d done something wrong while trying to save the young man.
