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“I like my independence more.”
Beth and I have been friends since kindergarten, and in that time she’s had various security-type people following her around. I remember thinking she was a princess when I was young because all she would say about her bodyguards was“My grandpa is an important person in Russia.”I assumed that was code for king.
I met him when I was ten years old, and he definitely didn’t seem like a king. He was just like any old grandpa. My current theory is that he is a nuclear scientist and knows all of Russia’s military secrets.
Her family gave her an ultimatum when she started dancing. They weren’t going to keep paying for her security detail or her luxury condo if she insisted on putting herself in seedy situations.
She obviously chose dancing. And a small, shitty apartment with me.
An unsettling chill sends bumps down my arms. She calls it an occupational hazard, but what if he’s out here right now, lurking like a skeevy shadow behind one of the many cars filling the lot?
It’s funny, you’d think a strip club’s parking lot would be filled with muffle-less muscle cars that roar as they putter into their spot. Or old Cadillacs jacked up on oversized tires with spinning rims and thumping bass.
Instead, it’s packed with mid-grade SUVs and simple sedans. Decals for the local golf course and “my student is on the honor roll” stickers. Bird shit splattered on their windshields and “wish my wife was this dirty” smudged into layers of dirt.
So painfully average. I can almost hear their wife on the other end of a phone asking if he picked up that milk she asked for and his shoddy lie about being at a stoplight with one of those kids blasting that crappy rap music.
“I’m parked at the theater.” I nod over my shoulder, and she follows me to the alley that cuts between the club and the neighboring movie theater. At nearly eleven on a Wednesday night, their lot had available spaces.
“I just threw my keys in here, how are they already buried at the bottom?” I pause to rifle through my bag for my car keys while Beth keeps walking toward my car in the near-empty lot. “And this is how you get murdered,” I mutter to myself with a laugh, remembering a self-defense lesson in high school PE where the instructor told us to always have our keys ready as you approach your vehicle.
The sound of a zooming car, muffler rumbling, covers Beth’s shout. I look up at the indistinguishable sound, and she’s yelling again with wide, panicked eyes, “Run!”
I only make it a few steps when the sharp, burning zing spreads like wildfire from my back to my limbs, immobilizing me. I go down on the wet pavement, my head sounding like a crushed melon as it breaks my fall. The last thing I see before the humming blackness takes me is Beth pedaling backward with a scream that I can’t separate from the ringing in my head. She hits the side of my car, nowhere else to go as a black figure cages her in. Her bright-pink jumpsuit is like a burst of light amidst the dark.
Officer Quincy wordlessly hands me a crumpled napkin, and I begrudgingly take it to wipe my eyes. You’d think I would have drained myself of tears at this point, but apparently not. I have reason to be crying, I know that. I just witnessed my best friend get murdered by a serial killer. Survivor’s guilt doesn’t even begin to explain this overbearing, crushing pain fracturing my bones and soul. Yet I still hate crying in front of these men.
Their patronizing tone when they suggest a break is the reason why. I want this to be over. I want to be out of this concrete hellscape, and if I’m crying, I’m not talking. And if I’m not talking, I’m not answering their questions. And if I’m not answering their questions, then I’m not going home.
Home.
The apartment I shared with Beth.
Fuck.
“No, I’m fine. Let’s keep going so I can get the hell out of here.” I swallow the rising knot in my throat and shrug back any remaining tears.
“Okay. At what point did you come to?”
A shiver runs down my spine as I remember the grisly sight. “He was crouching over her and…and stabbing her…repeatedly.”
“Who was it, Miss Hargrave? Was it this Doug character?” The detective leans forward, his palms flat on the metal table. His eyes are glowing with a determined fire. For the briefest moment, I have the passing—and extremely inappropriate—thought that he’s shockingly attractive. A square, handsome jaw, like Superman or a small town’s star quarterback.Where the hell did that come from?I’m officially delirious.
It takes me a second to even remember his question. “No…I don’t know…maybe. I don’t know what Doug looks like.” He tenses at my answer, his fingers whitening again on the table, and his jaw ticks.
“But if you knew what Doug looked like, could you identify him? You saw his face?” There’s a slight rush to his words, and he pulls out the chair opposite me and sits. Quincy steps closer too, though he’s worse at hiding the clear anticipation on his face.
“No. I already told you. I didn’t see his face. I didn’t see anything. And all I know about Doug is he is some old creep, which doesn’t exactly narrow down suspects.” The last word is scratchy and cracked as I’m reminded how utterly useless I am. My best friend was slaughtered—slain—right in front of me, and I can’t tell the police a damn thing. Quincy’s face falls to an uncomfortable grimace when my voice cracks. You’d think the police would be used to dealing with crying people. He needs to work on his poker face.
The detective runs a hand over his mouth and chin with a sigh, leaning back in the chair. His intense blue eyes have softened when he starts talking again. “You saw something. That’s why we are driving you mad going over this again.” He forces a laugh, but it’s dry and weak. “Your memory is sharpest right after the incident. And believe it or not, you’ve given us a lot already.”
He reaches forward to place a hand on mine, and I don’t like how soothing it is. “If we find this son of a bitch, it’s going to be because of you. We will get justice for your friend because ofyou.“ I rub my chest with my other hand like his words, his reassurance that I am helping, is a salve for my splintering heart.
I can do this.
I will do this.
For Beth.
