Criminal

  Will let his gaze fall back to the file, his mother’s name. The black typed letters were sharp on the white label. Not that it was white anymore. Will had rubbed his fingers along her name so many times that he’d yellowed the paper label.

  He opened the file. The first page was what you’d usually find in a police report. The date was followed by the case number at the top. Then there was the section for the more salient details. Name, address, weight, height, cause of death.

  Homicide.

  Will stared at his mother’s picture. Polaroid. It was taken years before her death. She was thirteen, maybe fourteen. As with the label, the photo was yellowed from being handled so much. Or maybe age had broken down the processing chemicals. She was standing in front of a Christmas tree. Will had been told the camera was a gift from her parents. She was holding up a pair of socks, probably another gift. There was a smile on her face.

  Will wasn’t the type of man to stare in the mirror, but he’d spent plenty of time examining his features one by one, trying to find similarities between himself and his mother. They had the same almond shape to their eyes. Even in the faded photo, he could see the color was the same blue. His blond hair was sandy, shaded more toward brown than his mother’s almost yellow curls. One of his bottom teeth was slightly crooked like hers. She was wearing a retainer in the photo. The tooth had probably been pulled back into line by the time she was murdered.

  Will lined up the photo to the edge of the front page, making sure to keep the paper clip in the same spot. He turned to the second page. His eyes couldn’t focus on the words. The text jumped around. Will blinked several times, then stared at the first word of the first line. He knew it by heart, so it came easy to him.

  “Victim.”

  Will swallowed. He read the next words.

  “… was found at Techwood Homes.”

  Will closed the file. There was no need to read through the details again. They were ingrained in his memory. They were a part of his waking existence.

  He looked at his mother’s name again. The letters weren’t so crisp this time. If his brain hadn’t filled in the words, he doubted he’d be able to make them out.

  Will had never been much of a reader. The words moved around the page. The letters transposed. Over the years, he’d figured out some tricks to help him pass for more fluent. A ruler under a line of text kept one row from blending in with another. He used his fingers to isolate difficult words, then repeated the sentence in his head to test for sense. Still, it took him twice as long as Faith to fill out the various reports that had to be submitted on a daily basis. That a person like Will had chosen a career that relied so heavily on paperwork was something Dante could’ve written about.

  Will was in college by the time he figured out that he had dyslexia. Or, rather, he had been told. It was the fifteenth anniversary of John Lennon’s death. Will’s music appreciation professor was talking about how it was believed that Lennon had dyslexia. In great detail, she described the signs and symptoms of the disorder. She could’ve been reading from the book of Will’s life. In fact, the woman had basically delivered a soliloquy directly to Will on the gift of being different.

  Will had dropped the class. He didn’t want to be different. He wanted to blend in. He wanted to be normal. He’d been told most of his school life that he didn’t fit into the classroom structure. Teachers had called him stupid. They’d put him in the back of the room and told him to stop asking questions when he would never understand the answers. Will had even been called to the principal’s office his junior year and had been told that maybe it was time for him to drop out.

  If not for Mrs. Flannigan at the children’s home, Will probably would have left school. He could vividly remember the morning she’d found him in bed rather than waiting outside for the school bus. Will had seen her slap other kids plenty of times. Nothing bad, just a smack on the bottom or across the face. He’d never been hit by her before, but she slapped him then. Hard. She had to stand on her tiptoes to do it. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she’d commanded. “And get your ass on that bus before I lock you in the pantry.”

  Will could never tell this story to Sara. It was yet another part of his life she would never understand. She would see this as abuse. She would probably say it was cruel. For Will, it had been exactly what he needed. Because if Mrs. Flannigan hadn’t cared enough to climb those stairs and push him out the front door, no one else would have bothered.

  Betty’s ears perked up. Her tags jingled on her collar as she turned her head. A low growl came out of her throat. Will heard a key in the front door lock. For just a second, he thought it might be Sara. He was overwhelmed by a feeling of lightness. And then he remembered that Sara didn’t have a key to his house. And then the darkness came back when he remembered why. Sara didn’t need a key. They didn’t spend much time here. They always stayed in her apartment because at Will’s, there was the constant threat of Angie walking in on them.

  “Willie?” Angie called as she made her way through the living room. She paused at the open kitchen doorway. Angie had always embraced her feminine side. She favored figure-hugging skirts and shirts that showed her ample cleavage. Today, she was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans that hung low on her hips. She had lost weight in the three weeks since he’d last seen her. The pants were loose, but not on purpose. Will could see a black thong peeking over the top of the waistband.

  Betty started growling again. Angie hissed at the dog. Then she looked at Will. Then she looked at the light blue file folder in his hand. She asked, “Reading up, baby?”

  Will didn’t answer.

  Angie walked to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. She unscrewed the cap. She took a long swig as she studied Will. “You look like shit.”

  He felt like shit. All he wanted to do was put his head down on the table and sleep. “What do you want?”

  She leaned back against the counter. He should’ve been surprised by her words, but then, nothing Angie said ever really surprised him. “What are we going to do about your father?”

  Will stared down at the file. The kitchen was quiet. He could hear the whistling sound of Betty’s breathing, the tinkle of the tags on her collar as she settled back down.

  Angie had never been good at waiting him out. “Well?”

  Will didn’t have an answer for her. Eighteen hours of thinking about it pretty much nonstop hadn’t brought any solutions. “I’m not going to do anything.”

  Angie seemed disappointed. “You need to call your girlfriend and ask for your balls back.”

  Will glared at her. “What do you want, Angie?”

  “Your father’s been out for almost six weeks. Did you know that?”

  Will felt his stomach clench. He hadn’t bothered to look up the details in the state database, but he’d assumed the release was recent, in the last few days, not almost two months ago.

  She said, “He’s sixty-four now. Diabetic. Had a massive heart attack a few years ago. Old people are expensive to take care of.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I was at his parole hearing. Thought I’d see you there, but no.” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to ask the obvious question. When Will didn’t, she volunteered, “He looks good for his age. Been keeping in shape. I guess the heart attack scared him.” She smiled. “You’ve got his mouth. The same shape to your lips.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “The point is, I remember our promise.”

  Will looked down at his hands. He picked at a torn cuticle. “We were kids back then, Angie.”

  “Put a knife in his throat. Jam a crowbar in his head. Shoot him up with H and make it look like an accident. That was your favorite one, right?” She leaned down, inserting herself in his line of sight. “You pussin’ out on me, Wilbur?” He moved away from her. “Do I need to remind you what happened to your mother?”

  Will tried to clear his throat, but something got stuck
.

  Angie dragged over a chair and sat a few inches away from him. “Listen, baby, you can have all the fun you want with your little doctor friend. You know I’ve had my share. But this is business. This goes back to you and me and a promise we made to each other.” She waited another beat, then said, “What happened to your mother, what happened to you—all because of that bastard—we can’t just let that go, Will. He has to pay.”

  Will’s cuticle started to bleed, but he couldn’t stop picking at the skin. Angie’s words stirred up something familiar inside of him. The anger. The rage. The need for revenge. Will had spent the last ten years of his life trying to let that go, and now Angie was shoving it back in his face.

  He told her, “You’re not in a position to talk to me about broken promises.”

  “Ashleigh Snyder.”

  Will’s head jerked up, surprised to hear her mention the missing girl.

  Angie smiled as she tapped her finger on his mother’s file. “You’re forgetting that I know everything, baby. Every detail. Every last drop. You think he’s changed his ways? You think he’s too old to get around? Let me tell you, honey, he’s been busy inside. He could outrun you, out-jump you, out-kill you. Just looking at him made me scared, and you know I don’t scare easy.”

  Will looked at her finger. The nail polish was chipped.

  “Are you listening to me, Will?”

  He waited for her to stop touching his mother’s file.

  Slowly, she moved her hand away.

  Angie had helped him fill out the paperwork to get the documents. Angie had been the first to show him his mother’s photograph. Angie had read the autopsy report aloud when Will, so upset he could barely function, was unable to make sense of it. Lacerations. Abrasions. Scratches. Tears. Wounds. The indescribable rendered in cold, medical language. Like Will, Angie knew every word. She knew every awful thing. She knew the pain and the misery, just like she knew when she finished telling Will what had happened to his mother, he had been so violently ill that he’d started coughing up blood.

  She said, “He’s holed up at the Four Seasons on Fourteenth. I guess his money earned some interest over the years.”

  “You’ve been watching him?”

  “I’ve got a friend in security keeping an eye on him for me.” She pursed her lips. “It’s not a bad life. Five-star hotel. He uses the gym every morning. He orders room service. He goes for walks. He hangs out at the bar.”

  Will pictured every single tableau. The thought of this man living such an easy life put a fist in his stomach.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed. Will couldn’t stop looking at the file. His hands were gripping the edge. “It’s me, baby. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

  He flinched as Angie’s fingers traced down his neck, his back. Her fingernails lined up with the scars that mottled his skin. “You can talk to me about it. I was there. I know what went down. I’m not going to judge you.” Will shook his head, but she kept touching him, her hand going to the front of his chest, tips of her fingers finding the perfectly round circles where the tip of a burning cigarette had seared into his flesh. Her mouth was at his ear. “You think this would’ve happened to you if your mother had been around? You think she would’ve let them hurt her baby boy?”

  This was what they had talked about for hours, days, weeks, years. The things that had been done to them. The things they would do to pay those people back. Childhood revenge fantasies. That’s all they were. And yet, it felt so good to give in to them now. So nice to enjoy the fantasy of doing to that bastard what the state had refused to do.

  “Let me take care of it,” Angie said. “Let me make it all better for you.”

  Will was so tired. He felt incapacitated. Every inch of his body was sore. His brain was filled with static that wouldn’t go away. When Angie pressed in closer, all he could think was how good it felt to be near another person. This was what being with Sara had done to Will. She’d taken away his ability to be alone. She’d broken through his solitude. She’d dragged him into a world where he didn’t just want things—he needed them. He needed to be touched. He needed to feel her arms around him.

  “Poor baby,” Angie said. She kissed his ear, his neck. Will felt a familiar stirring in his body. When she slipped her hand inside his shirt, he didn’t stop her. When her mouth found his, he didn’t stop her. His hand went to her breast. She pressed closer against him.

  But she tasted like nothing. Not mints or honey or those little sour candies Sara liked. Angie’s hands rested on his shoulders, palms flat, not wrapped around the back of his neck. Not pulling him closer. Pushing him away.

  Will tried to kiss her again. Angie moved back out of his reach, just as he knew she would. That’s how she worked. Once she got something, she didn’t want it anymore.

  Will breathed out a heavy sigh. “I don’t love you.” He corrected, “I’m not in love with you.”

  She crossed her arms as she sat back in the chair. “Am I supposed to be hurt by that?”

  Will shook his head. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted her to stop.

  “Get real, baby. Sara may be all lovey-dovey now and telling you she wants to know all about you, but what’s she really gonna do with that knowledge?”

  He couldn’t answer the question, but he knew one thing for certain. “She won’t use it against me.”

  “That’s sweet, but tell me this: how’s she gonna go to sleep beside you every night knowing your father’s DNA is swirling around inside you? Nature trumps nurture, baby. Sara’s a doctor. Eventually she’s gonna start to wonder what you’re really capable of.” She leaned closer. “Think about the terror you’re gonna see in her eyes.”

  Will stared at her. There was a nasty twist to her mouth, a hollow look to her eyes. She wasn’t just thinner. She was almost gaunt. For as long as Will had known her, Angie had always worn her makeup heavy—not because she needed to, but because she wanted the cover. Thick black eyeliner around her eyes. Dark brown eye shadow with a sparkle of glitter. Deep red lipstick. Blush on her high cheekbones. Her curly brown hair draped along the sides of her face. Her lips were a perfect bow tie. She was tall and thin with breasts that spilled out of the tight shirts she favored. She was the sort of woman that made men cheat on their wives. Literally. Angie loved taking things away from other people. She was a temptress. She was a siren. She was a thief.

  She was also high as a kite. Her pupils were blown wide open.

  He asked, “Are you taking pills again?” He tried to take her hand, but she jerked away. “Angie?”

  She pushed herself up from the table and went back to the sink.

  Will sat back in the chair. “What are you doing, Angie?”

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she stared out the kitchen window. Her shoulder blades were sharp. The skull and crossbones tattoo she’d gotten when she was eighteen had faded to a light blue.

  Will put his hand in his pocket. He felt the cold metal of his wedding ring. Sara kept her husband’s wedding ring in a small wooden box on the mantel over the fireplace. Her ring was in there, too. They were tied together with a white ribbon, resting on a pillow of blue satin.

  Will repeated, “What are you doing, Angie?”

  Her shoulders went up. “I guess this is what happens to me without you.”

  “You’ve been without me lots of times.”

  “We both know this is different.”

  He couldn’t argue with the truth. “Please stop hurting yourself.”

  “I will when you stop fucking your girlfriend.”

  Angie walked out of the kitchen. She picked up her purse where she’d dropped it on the couch. She turned around at the front door and blew him a kiss.

  And then she was gone.

  Will pressed his forehead to the table. The Formica was cold against his skin. Betty’s paws tapped on his leg again. He let her into his lap. Her fur was wiry under his hand. She licked his fingers.

  Angie’s mo
ther had killed herself with drugs. It was a twenty-seven-year-long suicide. That was what brought Angie to the children’s home. Deidre Polaski had spent more than half of Angie’s life in a vegetative coma, warehoused in a state hospital. She’d finally died a few months ago. Maybe that’s what had gotten Angie back on the pills. Maybe she needed an escape.

  Or maybe Will was to blame.

  Three weeks ago in this very kitchen, Angie had put Will’s gun in her mouth. She’d threatened to kill herself before. It was her go-to strategy when nothing else was working. Will thought about the wedding ring in his pocket. Maybe he was keeping it for the same reason Sara kept her husband’s. Will had been mourning Angie for years. The only difference was that she hadn’t died yet.

  His phone rang. Not his cell, which was charging on his desk, but the landline. Will lifted his head from the table, but couldn’t make himself stand. Maybe it was Sara calling. Though Will was pretty sure it was his responsibility to call her, not the other way around. He had stormed out last night. He had pissed her off. He had kissed Angie.

  Will put his hand to his mouth. There was lipstick on his fingers. Jesus Christ, what had he done? Sara would be devastated. She would—Will didn’t even want to think about what she would do. It would be the end of them. It would be the end of everything.

  The phone stopped ringing. The house was completely silent. He could feel his heart jackhammering in his chest. There was no saliva left in his mouth. Betty stirred in his lap.

  What the hell had he done?

  His cell phone started chirping. Will had never seen himself as a coward, but the lure to just sit there and do nothing was strong. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the willpower.

  Will put Betty on the floor. He felt like he was dragging through quicksand as he walked into the living room. He picked up his cell phone, expecting to see Sara’s number, but there was Amanda’s instead.