Page 28 of Bad Intentions

It's been twenty-five years since I met a man so despicable that a single memory makes me shudder. The kind you pray never to meet, but when you do, and when he sinks his claws into your life, he cuts it into tiny pieces that you never quite manage to glue back together.

I didn’t lie to Josie—I did get dizzy. But it’s certainly not random. It’s the anger and my blood boiling at the sight of the man in the news. His picture. Smiling. Charming. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, they say, though this man could eat a pack of wolves in one sitting. Burnville used to be the town where you left the doors unlocked when you went to bed. I started locking every door when that man first showed up here.

I was hoping I’d never have to make this phone call. Well, at least not for this reason. I thought—hoped—that the letter I received recently was a false alarm. I forwarded it, of course. Plenty of people are responsible for what happened twenty-five years ago, though I am the one who paid for it.

There’s no choice now. Not when he’s back in the picture.

I pick up my cell phone and dial the number I know by heart. My call is answered almost immediately.

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. This is not that kind of conversation.

“Did you see the news?” I ask.

We both know there can be only one reason I’m calling for the first time in years.

“Yes,” says the familiar voice.

“We need to talk. As soon as possible. My place.”

I promised myself I’d never forgive the betrayal all those years ago. But the person I called is the only one who knows everything that happened that fateful night of the fire.

I end the call and feel the kitchen spin. With shaking hands, I find the back of the chair, take a seat, and close my eyes.

I will never forget the day I met him. Or the name. Derek Sickler. Fake. Just like his charming smile.

The name sounded harsh, cutting through the air of my bar one summer night, all those years ago.

I noticed him right away, despite the dozens of young men who’d just flooded Ma Shirley’s Tavern after the evening shift at the local factory. Never seen him before. He certainly stood out.

“Whiskey, neat, top shelf,” he ordered with a flick of a brow as if challenging me, as if I wouldn't have anything top shelf.

True that. Among the Yuengling and Rolling Rock drinkers, top-shelf whiskey wasn't a common choice.

I poured him Jim Beam—not exactly top shelf, but not Wild Turkey either.

Birdie had just brought clean glasses from the kitchen and was eyeing him shyly. Every woman in the bar had turned their heads in curiosity.

Dougie, the boy my Alysha had been dating all through high school, eyed him from across the bar. Then he strode up, his boots lazily scuffing against the floor, and leaned on one elbow on the bar counter, openly eyeing the new guy.

"What's up, Dougie?" I asked, walking up.

"Nothin' much. Another day, another dollar,” he said, sucking his teeth, his eyes never leaving the young man, chest puffed out like a peacock. Looking for trouble, as always. But the newcomer didn’t bite, he just sat at the counter with his chin up high, smug look on his face. A knowing smile—he certainly knew how to assess a situation. Didn’t bother glancing at Dougie, who was an inch too far into the man’s personal space.

“Off you go, Dougie.” I ushered him away. “Mind your own business.”

Everyone knew the no-fighting rule in my bar. And everyone knew Dougie’s “let’s take it outside” threat.

He listened, though. He knew better than to get on my nerves.

“Birdie!” he called out to my barback and motioned to his empty bottle, making her flinch. He was rough around the edges, except with my Alysha and maybe Victoria. But I never liked him around my Alysha.

“I got it,” I said, waving Birdie off. She was eighteen, a helper, and wasn’t allowed to serve. Dougie knew that, but he pushed my buttons every single time, like he owned this place. Just like his father, the mayor, who had the same notion about the entire town. Big attitude, small brain—Alysha could’ve done better, though I knew his daddy being the mayor was part of the appeal. Even small towns have a hierarchy of importance. Especially small towns.

A fresh cold one in his hand, Dougie sucked his teeth again, sniffled at the stranger, like a dog checking out a new male in his territory, fixed his baseball cap, pushed off the counter, and strode off toward his obnoxious gang at the pool table.

Just then the bar phone rang. I slung the towel over my shoulder and picked up the receiver.

"Heads up,” the voice on the phone said. “Liquor man is heading your way."