Ugh Denver airport five a.m.
Denver airport – where memories flew at her like razors, where she had welcomed Ben, kissed him, hugged him, seen him off. Denver airport – the last place she was before she drove home to find out that he had been killed.
She looked back at his photograph as she waited for her drink.
That’s it. Life over.
I should have taken more photos.
Her stomach turned.
You were an asshole to him that night anyway just delete it you were always an asshole to him he loved you and you were an asshole.
She started to cry.
Get your shit together you stupid bitch go home just go you’re a mess everyone’s looking at you you mess.
She stood up, pulled on her coat, paid for the drinks. She walked into the cold night, and her stomach spasmed, her throat constricted.
You fucking loser again fucking asking to enrage Gary you self-destructive I can still get five hours’ sleep yeah whatever whatever I’m still here I’m still alive no one died yes they did you asshole yes they did fucking die.
She started to walk toward her Jeep.
Shiiiiiit. My CARD team Mac is at the office. Fuuuck.
Ren pulled up outside the Livestock Exchange Building where Safe Streets had the fourth floor. She put the Jeep into park, paused until her eyes could focus.
I can’t believe I drove here of course you drove you don’t give a shit a bit late to care now you loser you’re going to die.
She grabbed her phone, scrolled through iTunes, picked a song from the filthy rap collection, and put in her earpods. Since the shootings, it was her routine any time she walked into Safe Streets alone: she didn’t want to risk hearing the banging door she heard that evening, which she found out later had been the door to the basement where Ben’s body had been thrown after Duke Rawlins shot him dead.
As she walked toward the building, a car door slammed behind her. She didn’t see it, couldn’t hear the footsteps behind her. She jogged up to the door, stood in front of the keypad.
Jesus could everything just be in focus.
She punched in the wrong code.
Shit.
She tried a second time, punched in the wrong code again.
Fuuuck.
Just as she was trying a third time, she saw the silhouette of a man reflected in the glass.
Oh oh oh fuck.
She pulled out her earpods with her left hand, went for her sidearm with the right.
‘Ren! Don’t fire – it’s Cliff! It’s me!’
Ren turned around, weapon raised, then quickly lowered. ‘Jesus Christ, Cliff. You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.’
‘Jesus Christ yourself! And you have never looked so deadly.’ Cliff James was her big-bear buddy and colleague. ‘Finally,’ he said, ‘after all these years, you’ve heard my girl voice …’
‘It’s over,’ said Ren. She smiled and opened her arms.
Cliff came up to her, arms wide. He paused. ‘Hey, pretty lady – have you been crying?’
‘Possibly …’
He recoiled a fraction. ‘Oh, oh, no. And drinking.’ He glanced back at Ren’s Jeep.
‘I know. I know,’ said Ren. ‘But keep it coming with the hug.’
Cliff hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head.
Ren looked up at him. ‘I need my CARD laptop. I’m flying to Portland with Gary in the morning.’
‘Aw, Jesus, Ren …’
‘I know, I know.’ I know I know I know.
‘For someone who knows a lot of things …’ Cliff reached around her, punched in the right code, pushed the door open. Ren stepped out from under his arm, let him put his foot inside the door. He dangled his car keys in front of her. ‘Why don’t you tell me where that laptop is, go wait in my car, and let me take the lady home.’
Aw, maaaan. ‘I’m a loser.’
‘You are, Renderland, you are. But nothing’s gonna change my love for you.’
Ren grabbed his arm, squeezed. Then she watched how he took the stairs slower than he used to and she felt a pain in her chest.
You instinctive knight-in-shining-armor with your own burden of grief to deal with.
Cliff’s wife, Brenda, whom he adored, had passed away from cancer just two months after the shootings at Safe Streets.
Everywhere I turn …
Ren looked around the foyer.
Leave.
She stepped inside.
You come here every day why are you doing this now you’ve been drinking this will be a shitshow don’t.
She walked ten paces in, stared at the basement door.
Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang.
And the sensation struck, the sensation that terrified her, like she was being drowned in a rush of cold air or water or something that she wouldn’t rise above, that she couldn’t breathe through, something she would succumb to. She sucked in a huge breath, and another, and another.
And then Cliff was back, and he had taken her in his big arms, and he had held her tight as she shook. She looked up at him, still holding on, her eyes wide. ‘How did it all come to this?’
‘I don’t know, Renheart. I don’t know.’
‘It’s like someone took a slash hook to our lives.’
Ren was settled into a dark corner of a dark restaurant in Denver airport by four thirty a.m. She ordered coffee and a pineapple juice. She popped two Advil.
Somebody fucking shoot me. Ugh. Do some work. My brain is fried. Do something easy.
She opened Safari.
Fuck, the light.
She dimmed the screen and googled the town of Tate.
Tate, Oregon, nestled in the Willamette Valley, fifty miles south-east of Portland, fifteen miles east of Salem, home to 3,949 residents.
The first images were of a quaint, well-kept town, built around one intersection, its most prominent building a two-story red-brick family restaurant with Bucky’s written in red cursive at a jaunty angle on the front.
The public announcements of Tate PD were about fallen trees, storm damage, and buckling up to avoid getting a citation.
Caleb Veir’s disappearance had hit the news and there was a photo of him alongside the article. He was a sturdy-looking boy with dark, side-parted hair, pale skin with freckles across his nose and cheeks, and a naturally downturned mouth.
A mournful-looking kid.
Ren jumped as a figure came into her peripheral vision.
Gary.