Page 52 of Miserable Marionette

An unmarked police car, if I were a betting man.

I am not.

It’s not until the man reaches the porch, his hardened face and overgrown mustache illuminated by the ever-burning light, that my jaw clenches, my back straightening just a bit. The sound of my doorbell carries over the fall night, all five times he rings it.

Detective Martin Altman spins on the porch, peeking into one of the column windows into the lit foyer. A rule of my father’s, I try to follow most of the time, the home should never be dark. The front door should always be unlocked for someone in need of solace or a family thrust into an unexpected grief.

Fuck.

I watch as he trails around to my car, the bastard even checking the door before giving the house a final sidelong glance. I wait until he’s back in his unmarked car and heading into town before I lower the hood, head inside, and jerk the forgotten pager from my pocket.

346

504

424*037

504

037*209

There’s more, but I don’t bother calling the number on the pager; the meaning is clear, and I’ve got more important things to do than listen to the receptionist's coded nagging. Altman has been trying to find me. The lead ME on the Marionettist case. Whatever it is pressing enough to warrant his presence so far from home.

Fuck.

25

Showerheads & Final Days of the Dead

Audrey, Present Day, 1994

I woke that morning with flaming cheeks, a suspiciously warm bedside, and Krissy tucked under my arm. As disconcerting as that was, what struck me in the chest like a fist was the emptiness of the house. Warm and sweet-smelling from the pancakes resting in the microwave, as if life had just left them. Like if I hadn’t been so lazy, so tired, so determined to pretend nothing was happening and my life wasn’t devolving in real time, I could’ve been there to see him off.

To ask where he was going.

If he wanted to stay.

I shovel another bite into my mouth, grimacing at the clock. I’ve got an hour before I have to be at the station. A place I’ve tried to step foot in as little as possible since the chance of my dad walking around the corner hall to greet me left it. They want me to talk about Bryan, to lay out his habits and movements over the last few days as if I’d be clued into it all. I groan, slumping forward until my head smacks the arm of the couch. The idea of sitting in the stuffy building, that always smells like metal, cigarette smoke, and stale coffee, and explaining to my dad’s friends that he’d assaulted me…

Part of me screams don’t mention it.

Part of me cares about his mom and his sister, however mad I am at her now, or however shitty of a friend she was. Keep quiet, don’t tarnish an already tainted memory. Let them grieve the quarterback who took the Swindon Strikers to state. The boy whose portrait and jersey still hang in the shadowbox in the hall of the high school. The man who kissed, hugged, sweated, and slurred all over me when nobody else would. It’s odd, messy, and… gross feeling this sense of duty toward him at all. Fighting against bitterness and anger.

He was a bad person.

But he wasn’t evil.

He’d suffered a nasty head injury that extended down to his neck, ending every dream he’d ever had. What few of them there were. Once they’d given him those pills, he found what he thought he'd lost. Or at least he’d been numb enough not to give a damn that anything was missing. After that, everyone else was little more than passing notions. It’s not hard to hate him. Not at all, really. Panic sears my chest, dismantling my appetite as I jerk my head off the couch and toss what remains of my breakfast in the trash. Harsh hands, hot breath, and weight.

Hangovers, pills I never knew the name of, and heartache are all Bryan Jordan ever gifted me.

My knuckles tighten to the point they bleach of color as I grip the plate in my hands, staring at the stove. Suddenly, the bulky, sweaty, ungraceful form of Bryan is traded for something lighter, stronger, built from toned, lithe muscle. The sound of Gideon’s groan yesterday as he tried to get into the bathroom replaying in my mind shakes me from my thoughts. Staring at the pancakes at the bottom of an empty trash can.

He took out the trash.

Cleaned the house.

Made me food.