Текст книги "Delayed Penalty"

Автор книги: Sophia Henry

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 7

After Aleksandr had dropped me off, I thought about the conversation we’d had. He’d seemed surprised that I didn’t know much about my mother’s murder or the investigation that followed. I’d been six years old at the time. How was I supposed to remember what had happened? My family never shared information with me even now, let alone at that age.

My grandparents raised me to accept what I was told and not ask questions. They viewed questions as outright defiance, rather than curiosity. As I got older and well read, accepting their unyielding perspectives proved difficult, resulting in constant head butting during my high school years.

My conversation with Aleksandr sparked a curiosity that I’d never felt before. If I wanted information, I needed to look in the only place where I might find some. Lucky for me, both of my grandparents were gone when I got home. Unaware of how much time I had until they returned, I had to be quick.

Taking two steps at a time, I bounded up the shag-carpeted steps to my grandparents’ attic bedroom. I almost fell as I slid across the slippery wood floors at the top of the staircase. I crossed the room, jumped onto the bed, and rolled to the floor on the opposite side. Very stealthy.

Behind the TV stand, a gray fire-safe cabinet sat up against the far wall of the room, directly under a window. My grandparents kept their important paperwork and valuable jewelry in the cabinet. I knelt in front of it and reached around the back of it, searching for the key. I swiped my hand across the back until I felt the small, magnetic box stuck to it. “Bingo.” I plucked the case off and slid the top open, scooping out a small key hidden inside.

The cabinet stored numerous treasures, tiny boxes and soft, black zippered cases. I knew the bronze satin box held Gram’s engagement ring, since she’d let me see it before. I tried it on, but it wouldn’t fit on any finger except my pinky. Another ring-sized box, this one made of white cardboard, held six silver charms from Western states. I recognized the charms because Gram had shown these to me as well. My mom had bought them for me on a trip we’d taken.

I’d been a year old at the time, so I didn’t remember the trip, but I’d seen pictures of myself in my mom’s arms at a Grand Canyon overlook and standing at the Four Corners, where Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah meet. I peeked into a few more boxes containing random pieces of jewelry belonging to my grandmother, before pushing them aside.

I twisted my arm and reached deeper into the back of the cabinet, where I found three raggedy manila envelopes that I pulled out. The thickest packet contained report cards for as many years as I had lived with my grandparents. I skimmed them with amusement. I had been a talker when I was young, but any low conduct marks were negated by As and Bs down the line after each subject. Oh, except the D in math in fourth grade. Fractions killed me.

I stuffed the report cards back into their longtime home and lifted another envelope. When a rectangular Mass card from my mother’s funeral fell out, I knew I’d hit the jackpot—if I could call articles about a murder a jackpot. Since I was in super-sleuth rather than abandoned-daughter mode, I decided I could. I pored over the words, even though I’d read an identical card hundreds of times. My own copy had been folded into a tiny square and shoved inside a pocket of my soccer uniform shorts, many years ago.

I set the card beside me and upended the envelope, emptying the contents. Various newspaper clippings and folded papers spilled onto my lap. The newspaper clippings from the Detroit Times were about my mother’s murder. One of them even contained a sketch of the might-be murderer. Though it wasn’t very descriptive, looking at it gave me goose bumps. It could have been one of millions of men. The face peering out from the newsprint didn’t look familiar at all.

I scanned the articles but they didn’t mention any names, just a description of the events of that night and a plea to readers to contact Crime Stoppers if anyone had information. I didn’t remember anything about that night, which I should consider a good thing. It was bad enough that I was there to witness it. I don’t think I could handle having the details burned into my memory.

Every article was from an inside section of the newspaper. Why hadn’t my mom’s murder been on the front page? Why hadn’t there been organized manhunts for her killer, like there were for others? What kind of murder was good enough to be the lead story on the eleven-o’clock news?

She was one of many. We didn’t live in small-town USA. Detroit was always in the running for murder capital of the country.

I picked up the Mass card from my mother’s funeral again and reread her name until my vision blurred.

I was so young when my mom died that I don’t remember anything about her. I knew what she looked like only because I’d raided all of my grandparents’ photo albums in search of her. There were no pictures of her displayed in their house. Why have a picture on display when it could increase the likelihood of someone asking about her? Especially if that someone was me, a disregarded daughter desperately craving snippets about what my mother was like when she was alive.

Had she been excited to be pregnant with me? Was she sarcastic and wisecracking like the rest of my family? Would we have fought or been best friends? What would my life have been like if I had been raised by my mom? Was it horrible and ungrateful to think that way when my grandparents had sacrificed the best years of their retirement to take care of me? Would I have loved my mom as much if she were alive as I loved her dead?

But I realized a long time ago that life moves on despite the “I wonders” and “what-ifs.” The only choice I had was to go on, hoping I’d realize that I was strengthened by it all. How long would it take to get there?

How long would it take for me to stop wishing I was the one who had died that night? How many times had I wanted to take her place, instead of being forced to live without her?

Unsure of how long I sat staring at the words printed on the back of the Mass card, I snapped back to reality when I heard a car door slam. I shoved the papers into the raggedy envelope, rammed it back into the metal cabinet, and locked it. Then I slid the key into its plastic box, attached it to the back of the cabinet, and ran around my grandparents’ bed.

As I rushed down the stairs, I smacked right into Grandpa, unable to put on the brakes in time.

“Sorry,” I apologized, taking a step back up the last stair.

“What were you doing?” he asked. He looked past me, as if someone else would appear.

“Trying on Gram’s boots,” I lied. “I wanted to wear them out this weekend.”

Lying came fairly easy for me. I didn’t do it often, but when I did, it was believable. Another defense mechanism I’d built up to hide my feelings and not allow people to get too close.

“Boots, eh? Not snooping for Christmas presents?” he asked, backing away from the staircase so I could jump off the last step.

“Come on, Dedushka! Would I do that?” I laughed.

“Of course not, Audushka,” he said and rolled his eyes. “Stay out of there until after Christmas. I know how you like to peel back the wrapping on the side of presents.”

“Geez,” I cursed, edging past him, scowling in exasperation. “I did that one time. I was eight!”

People in my family never forgot anything they could use against you later.

Chapter 8

“He was such a jerk.” Kristen leaned forward to switch the radio station as I drove us through the streets of Grosse Pointe Woods, a suburb of Detroit. She landed on the country channel.

“Country? How are we even friends?” I asked, reaching over to turn the dial back to the local alternative station. “My car, my music.” I batted her hand away as she leaned in to change the channel again.

Kristen fell back against the passenger seat. “Fitness instructor, kid lover, charitable giver. I thought he’d be like you—but a guy, you know?”

“I told you, he was only helping at the center because of some frat’s community service hours,” I said. “And for the record, I’m not sure how I feel about you comparing your dates to me.”

“Chill. It’s not like I want to jump your bones. I just thought he’d be like you, all Mother Teresa and shit.”

“Get out of my car.” I shot her a sidelong glance.

“Mother Teresa wouldn’t have talked to me like that.” She snickered and pulled down the visor to fluff her curls in the mirror.

“Well, of course not. I don’t think she had a car either.”

“Ha-ha,” Kristen deadpanned. “Have you changed your mind about doing bad things with Crazy Hair?”

“He’s a client. Viktor would kill me.” Which was true, but allowing myself to do bad things with him was no longer an option after my breakdown at Kerby Field.

Breakdown at Kerby Field had a nice ring to it. I’d have to keep that title in mind in case anyone wanted to make a made-for-TV movie based on my future book, Memoirs from the Psych Ward.

“Can I do bad things with him?”

“No!” I protested. Too quick and too loud. Was I scowling at her?

“You totally want him.”

“But I can’t have him.”

“We’ll see,” she sang. I turned up the volume on the radio.

We were on our way to pick up Scott and one of his friends whom we didn’t know. They were hitching a ride with us so they could meet up with friends of theirs in Canada. Lacy had a thing for Scott, and although she was in Marquette visiting her grandparents, we’d agreed to give him a ride anyway. I didn’t know what she saw in him. Scott was one of the biggest jerks I’d ever met.

“Hey, girls,” Scott greeted us as he climbed into the backseat. “Jeremy, girls. Girls, Jeremy.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Jeremy slurred, collapsing next to Scott.

Great. As if Scott wasn’t annoying enough, he and his buddy had already been drinking.

“Why do you go to Canada if you don’t even drink?” Scott tugged on a piece of my hair that hung over the headrest. I flicked my head to make him stop. As Lacy’s boyfriend, Scott had observed me on many nights restraining myself, and he never let a chance to tease me about it pass. He’d never graduated from seventh-grade dickhead mentality.

I shrugged. “I can still enjoy our neighbor to the south without getting plastered. A packed dance floor helps.”

I drank, but not very often anymore—a couple of beers here, a vodka and club soda there. I think I’d felt buzzed a few times, but I hadn’t been drunk in over a year. Bored with the getting-drunk-and-hooking-up part of my life before I even turned twenty-one. Plus, my sobriety ensured that we would have a safe ride home after partying in a foreign country tonight. Especially since no one else was volunteering.

Did my choice to rein in my drinking as a junior in college make me more mature or more depressing? Maybe that’s what Gram meant when she said I was an old soul.

“Isn’t Canada our neighbor to the north?” Jeremy asked.

“You have to go south to get to Windsor from here.” Scott held the back of his fingers to his mouth and stage whispered, “Jeremy’s from Ohio.”

“Ohhh.” I nodded.

At the same time Kristen said, “That explains it.”

“Fuck off.” Jeremy shook his head, but he was smiling. No love lost between Michiganders and Ohio…ans?—people from Ohio.

“Does Ohio have enhanced licenses?” I asked, tucking my hair behind my ear, concerned about Jeremy’s ability to get in and out of the country.

Michigan offered an enhanced driver’s license for residents to go back and forth between Canada and the U.S. without having to have a passport. I would have never thought to apply for one, but my grandparents surprised me with a trip to the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto for my seventeenth birthday. It had come in handy a few times since then.

“Nah, I have a passport,” Jeremy answered.

“Ooh. Where have you been, world traveler?” Kristen twisted in her seat toward Jeremy.

“My dad got remarried in Saint Thomas a few years ago. It’s a US territory, but we all got passports just in case.”

“I want to go to the Virgin Islands.” Kristen grabbed my knee. “Save up for spring break senior year.”

“I can’t even afford a cell phone, KK. How am I gonna go on a tropical vacation?”

“Florida then?”

“Good compromise.” Scott scoffed.

Time to change the subject. Unlike Scott, not all of us had parents who would pay for international spring break trips every year.

“I remember my uncle talking about a bar Don Cherry owned. Is that place still open?” I asked. Scott always bragged about how often he hung out in Canada, so I figured he’d be the one to ask about the status of the bar.

“That place has been closed since we were kids.”

“Who’s Don Cherry?” Kristen asked.

“How are you two even friends?” Scott asked.

“He was a hockey coach. Now he’s a commentator,” I explained. “You know, Coach’s Corner?”

“The guy with the high collars?” she asked.

“High five!” I held up my hand. “I’m proud of you, KK. Very, very proud.” The obscene amount of Hockey Night in Canada I’d subjected her to in our two and a half years as roommates had paid off.

A prickling sensation sizzled through my body when we left the chill of the December night and entered the warmth of the club. Wicked’s concrete columns and blood-red walls enveloped me in its industrial comfort, and I fell in love with the place upon first glance. Exposed, matte black pipes formed a maze across the ceiling. The best part? Writhing bodies already packed the dance floor, and it was only ten-thirty. A lively dance floor early in the night was the saving grace for a designated driver. If I was dancing, I didn’t have to dodge the “Why aren’t you drinking?” question all night.

“Let’s dance!” I shouted, after Kristen and the guys tipped back shots. We all grabbed a drink before bouncing through bodies to the middle of the dance floor.

“You like to dance?” Jeremy asked as we claimed a somewhat open spot on the floor.

I touched his arm, leaning close to his ear so he could hear me. “Love it.”

Jeremy spun around and grabbed his crotch in what I can only describe as a drunk Michael-Jackson-wannabe move. Of course, I took it as a challenge and came back with the Swim, alternating my arms in front stroke movements before holding my nose and wiggling to the floor. Within minutes, we were entrenched in a battle of retro dance moves. For every Kid ’n’ Play and Shopping Cart he threw out, I returned a Tootsie Roll or Sprinkler. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun.

“What are you drinking?” Jeremy asked, still breathing heavy from our dance-off.

“Just a club soda, thanks.” I appreciated that he would brave the crowd at the bar for me.

After less than a minute to catch my breath, “The Wobble,” a song with its own dance moves, came over the speakers. Kristen clamped a hand over my arm and dragged me toward a bar on which a few girls had been dancing during the previous song.

“Not tonight, KK.” I tried to pull away, but she was persistent, even pulling a bar stool aside to give me something to boost myself up.

“Oh, come on. You teach this dance. You have to get up there,” she coaxed.

She was talking about the children’s cardio hip-hop fitness class I taught at our university’s student center. I used “The Wobble” as the cool-down song in my class.

Sighing in defeat, I climbed up a rickety bar stool, and hoisted myself onto the alcohol-slick bar.

Totally sober. In a curve-clutching black minidress and stilettos. Super classy, Auden.

I hadn’t always been a good dancer. I used to have to count the beat, lip-synching through the numbers. But I’d been doing “The Wobble” for so long, the steps were automatic.

Jeremy waved to get my attention, and then pointed to the drink he’d placed on the bar for me. I mouthed thank you and gave him a thumbs-up. I watched as he and Kristen started talking, then walked away from the dance floor. So much for a Wobble partner.

Halfway through the song I got bored and carefully stepped onto the bar stool I’d used to get onto the bar. I stopped to grab my drink before setting out to find Kristen.

“Don’t you work tomorrow?” a voice yelled in my ear in Russian.

“Geez!” I tightened my grip on my drink so it wouldn’t slip out of my hand. My heart betrayed me, accelerating more from the excitement of seeing him than the surprise attack. The correct move was to quash that feeling. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“Why are you mad at me again?” Aleksandr asked.

“I’m not mad. I’m embarrassed,” I admitted, crossing my arms in front of my chest. Why didn’t I have a filter when he was around?

“Does my presence piss you off?” He nodded toward my stance.

“Just wondering how we ended up at the same bar in Windsor again.”

“You have good luck?” Aleksandr’s mouth was so close to my ear that his lips touched it every third word. I was keenly aware of the soft tickle against a very sensitive body part.

“I get enough of your jokes at work. Can’t you tone it down during my leisure time?”

“I can’t seem to tone myself down around you at all. I thought I established that when I told you my life story.” Now I felt his lips on every second word. And this time his nose brushed the skin behind my ear.

His presence had the bees buzzing in my stomach like they’d mistaken Death Wish coffee for nectar, so I took a slight step to the side. I silently reminded myself that Aleksandr was a player, not someone I should get involved with. He’d told me himself that he was with a different puck bunny every night. And I didn’t want to step into an uncomfortable, immature pattern of hooking up with someone I still had to see every day. I didn’t. Even if the over-caffeinated insects wreaking havoc on my insides had their own agenda.

“You are beautiful.” Aleksandr took a step closer. A larger step than the one I’d taken away from him. His firm, flat stomach pressed against my arm when he bent to speak into my ear again.

“You are drunk.”

He laughed, a sexy, husky growl. “I am, but I’m not blind. You looked so fucking hot dancing on that bar.” He hadn’t been yelling this time. His voice was just above a whisper, with a guttural rasp.

Instinctively, my shoulder rose to my ear, itching the tickle of his breath. I tried to stay composed, despite being turned on by the knowledge that he’d been watching me.

“Thanks.” I took a long gulp of my drink to halt the words on the tip of my tongue. Confessing that I thought he looked hot every minute of every hour of every moment I spent with him might give him the wrong impression. I couldn’t respond to his flirting. Not when he thought of me as a conquest to screw and dump.

“Blah.” I raked my teeth against my tongue a few times, trying to get the taste off. Nothing like being saved by a disgusting drink.

“What is it?” Aleksandr asked.

“I asked him for plain club soda. They must’ve put gin or something in it.”

“Who’s ‘him’? All the bartenders are women,” Aleksandr asked, taking the cup from my hands and bringing it to his nose.

Of course he’d know all the bartenders are women. He’d probably had an orgy with all of them.

“The guy who came with one of our friends bought me a drink.”

Aleksandr tossed my cup into a nearby trash bin and grabbed my hand. His warm fingers laced through mine, squeezing so we wouldn’t disconnect as he weaved us through a group of people hanging out in front of the bar.

Aleksandr nodded his head at a bare-bottomed bartender. “A shot of vodka and a plain club soda with three limes.”

Skimptastic winked at him before turning around to get cups. Her shorts, which were barely there in front, were nonexistent in the back, just two high-cut half moons that showed off her ass-et. Sure, she had fishnet stockings underneath, but did holey tights leave anything to the imagination?

No reason to be jealous. He’s not yours, I reminded myself. Rather than picture Aleksandr and Skimptastic screwing on the bar, I rooted around in my purse, hunting for my wallet. Aleksandr put a hand on my arm, stopping my search.

“You don’t pay when you’re with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I pay for my drink?”

“Consider it a gift for putting up with my shit.” He smiled, that perfect white smile, which I now knew was partially dentures.

“Sorry.” I shook my head, holding out a ten I’d found. “Can’t accept gifts from clients.”

“Please,” he said. “It’s a club soda. She won’t even charge me.”

When Skimptastic came back with our drinks, Aleksandr accepted them both before handing one to me.

“Thanks, Sasha.”

“I’m Sasha now?” He poked me in the rib cage, a smile creeping across his face.

“Yes. When you do nice things like get me a new drink,” I responded, pushing his arm away with an elbow. His teasing made me want to giggle, but giggling was not an option.

“I’ll do nice things more often. Shouldn’t be a jerk to my beautiful translator.”

“Yeah, let’s get back to that.” I turned to face him, ignoring the shiver of lust that shook my body when he’d called me beautiful. “You never begged for my forgiveness.”

“I wouldn’t beg for forgiveness.” Aleksandr leaned closer. His fingers skimmed the back of my leg where the hem of my dress hugged my thigh, and I gasped. “Your permission? Definitely.”

Damnit! Why did I have to react to his touch right in front of him? Was I so hard up for a guy’s hands on me that I couldn’t hold in a damn gasp?

Ummm. Yes. It had been over a year since I’d hooked up with anyone, around the same time I’d stopped drinking so much.

“Why did you order me three limes?” My subject change was obvious.

Aleksandr chuckled before answering. “You always have three limes in your drinks. Figured that’s how you liked it.” He shrugged and tipped back his shot, like knowing how to order my drink was no big deal.

Doubt it meant anything to him, but I found it sweet that he’d even paid attention. I seriously had to stop thinking about him like that.

“Thanks for the drink. I’ve got to find Kristen.” I nodded to the dance floor.

Aleksandr barely registered my goodbye, since his eyes had narrowed in on someone at the end of the bar. I watched him slam his shot glass on the bar and stalk toward his prey without a second glance at me.

Way to wait until I left the vicinity before finding another girl to hit on, Varenkov.

I stumbled away, suddenly feeling light-headed and dizzy. Crossing the crowded dance floor proved to be more of an adventure than it should have been. I bumped into more people than I could count as I searched for Kristen. I’d had one drink when we got to the club over an hour ago, then switched to plain club soda. One sip of that last one shouldn’t have caused me to be so unbalanced.

I stopped to get my bearings, scanning the crowd, but I couldn’t focus. A glob of colors swirled in front of me as faces blurred into one another. When I took another step, my stomach rolled and the floor dropped. Throwing out an arm, I caught my balance on the shoulder of a guy dancing. After a wave of apology, I elbowed through the crowd, willing the vomit rising in my throat to stay put until I made it to the bathroom.

As I pushed open the door to the women’s bathroom, I panicked at the length of the line. The girls could tell a puker when they saw one, and they all let me stumble into the next open stall. One girl even followed me in and held my hair out of my face as I heaved into the toilet.

My legs shook as I rose, and I gripped the wall for assistance. I thanked the girl who helped me before I stumbled to the sink to wash my hands. As I rinsed my mouth, Kristen pushed through the bathroom door.

“Aud! Are you okay?” she asked, pushing the hair out of my face.

“I got sick,” I told her, making a face in the mirror.

“Why do we come to Canada again?” She fished a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash out of her purse. I took a swig, swishing it around before spitting into the sink. She retrieved a powder compact from her purse and pressed the soft puff across my forehead, nose, and cheeks. Neither the puking nor the makeup made me feel better. I still felt light-headed, as if I could pass out.

Kristen lowered the compact. “You still don’t look good. You want to get going?”

I nodded, holding my forehead with my palm, unsure if I could walk to the car.

Kristen grabbed my free hand, weaving us through the bar with expert precision. She left me near the door so she could close out her tab. A few minutes later Jeremy bounced into my peripheral vision.

“Come back out with me,” he coaxed, grabbing my arm. I shook my head, but he was strong, and his tug wrenched me away from the wall.

“I don’t think she wants to dance right now,” an accented male voice growled.

Jeremy dropped my arm. “What the fuck, man?”

“Maybe I do,” I told the voice. I knew the voice. I was trying to be a hard-ass.

“Then you dance with me,” Aleksandr commanded, encircling me in his arms. The song blasting through the speakers wasn’t slow, but I didn’t care. I immediately felt safe wrapped in his embrace, swaying to the music. Resting my head on his chest, I shivered in anticipation of breathing in his sweet scent of clove cigarettes and mountain-fresh soap again.

Instead, he reeked of stale beer, which annoyed me because he always drank vodka. I wanted to strip his smelly clothes off and push him into the shower. I wanted to scrub the muscular swell of his arms and the ripples of his chest and abdomen. I wanted to push him up against the cold tiled wall and taste his tongue as hot water pelted our skin.

“Are you okay, Audushka?” Aleksandr said against my ear.

I couldn’t hear him with the thump of the bass in the background. I shrugged against his chest, nestling deeper into his arms, enjoying the fantasy while I had the opportunity.

“I need to get you home,” Aleksandr whispered, warm breath tickling my neck. The same part of my brain that was having shower fantasies about him wanted me to cover his mouth with my own, but I couldn’t lift my head.

“Audushka?”

His voice sounded miles away. Why was he leaving me?

“Audushka!”

My chin thudded against my chest and my head rolled to the side, as strong limbs pushed me away from the warm mountain I’d been clutching. Suddenly the floor disappeared, and I was wheeled through the air, as if on a Ferris wheel. I held on tight to the pole in front of me, in case I was to fall off.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” someone yelled.

The pole I was holding staggered back a few steps before staggering forward. I felt the force of the pole hit something, but I didn’t feel any pain. It was the last thing I remember before everything went black.