Page 12 of Dark Ugly Places

Emmy shrugs. She dives into her veggie-filled bun. “Death is extreme. That’s why I prefer not to eat it if I can help it.”

Later on, while I’m sorting through a few past-due bills, Emmy emerges in her PJs and plunks down on the living room couch, her head in a towel. “I’ve been thinking,” she says calmly. “Maybe we should drop the case.”

My body swivels to her, as if on cue. “What?”

“With Steve. About Daddy. Maybe we should just drop it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no wrongful death case, that I can’t get Steve to take it on. That there’s not enough evidence, not even a sufficient police report to go after the driver. That we can’t pursue it much further, even if we wanted to.

“Someone broke the law. They hurt us, and they—”

My words get stuck, a clog in my chest, then the top of my throat. “They took your Daddy.”

“Exactly,” Emmy says, moving her feet onto the coffee table. “And nothing we do is going to bring him back.”

From the kitchen stool, I pull myself down and sit next to her on the couch. “Someone did something very wrong that day,” I explain. “They deserve to pay for what they did.”

Emmy looks at me, her eyes clear, certain. “Yeah, but that’s the thing. They can’t pay for it. No matter what we do, even if we catch the person who hit us, we can never make them pay. Not really. We can never be even.”

My clog grows bigger.

Even Steven.

Even Steven.

What does it mean to be even Steven?

“What if we find who did it and they go to prison for a very long time? Forever, maybe?”

Emmy shrugs. “I don’t know. To me, that’s not good enough. They’re still alive. And Daddy’s dead. You know?”

I do know. I know so well that some moments, it’s hard to breathe without feeling the familiar chirp of anger in me, my little parasitic friend.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “No amount of punishment would ever bring back your father. It won’t change our lives now.”

Emmy nods. “That’s why I think we should drop the case. Because we can never make them pay for what they did. It’s impossible.”

It’s not a them. It’s a him. And I know who he is now. The thought of Jason Redfern at the Whitmore burns in my gut.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, even though I won’t. In fact, I will do the opposite and go see Steve again to get him to reconsider taking the wrongful death suit on contingency. And I will tell him what I saw.

I stare at my wedding ring, the diamond glittering faintly under the low lights of our tired little rental kitchen. It’s the last thing of value we have.

Emmy says making them pay would be impossible.

But it’s not impossible. Not really. I can’t help but think it. It’s a dark, angry little thought that muscles its way up from somewhere deep and private. An intense wave of shame washes over me, like the thought is out loud for everyone to hear.

You can make him pay. An eye for an eye, after all.

5

Nicola

If it weren’t Nubia’s birthday, I would not be here in the staff lunchroom watching Nubia place about 132 candles on her enormous cake. The windowless corn-yellow room feels damp, the air heavy with heat since we’re so near the on-site laundry room. It’s a sharp contrast to the air-conditioned hotel and the light scent of lavender they mist in every part of it.

The room fills slowly with more housekeeping and maintenance staff, plus a few bellboys and front desk people. Normally, we would be in two separate break rooms—back of house and front of house—but tonight, we are all one. A small radio in the corner plays mariachi music, and the smell of authentic, home-cooked Mexican food hits me.

I help Nubia light the candles. A bellboy barely over eighteen that I don’t recognize approaches. “Nubes!” She turns, smiles big, and gives him a huge hug. “Happy birthday!”