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Gil Gates is an odd man.
“And… they just shot her?” I ask.
Something isn’t right about this story.
A normal burglar doesn’t just shoot people. They’re usually way too pussy-ass for that sort of thing.
Charleigh nods. “Yup. The police investigated it and everything. The odd thing was, they didn’t take anything, the robbers. Cops figured they got scared, shot my mom, and took off.”
And there we have it. The ‘police investigated.’ How many times have I heard that in my life? Police are about as useless as an ashtray on a motorcycle.
“So that was that? Just a run-of-the-mill hold up? Your mother was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
She nods, clearly having bought the police story hook, line, and sinker. Probably better that way. Why should she torment herself wondering about the truth?
Truth is a funny thing. Sure, Charleigh’s mother was murdered in a hold up. Pawn shops get robbed because they have cash, jewelry, and usually, shitty, low-tech security. I guess even a dump like Gates’s could be robbed.
And while what Charleigh believes may be the truth, or some version of it, something tells me that’s not the end of the story. I’d bet my every last penny that Mrs. Gates was offed because of something her dumb fuck husband did. Once again, the asshole was in debt, or he did something to tick off the wrong person. So they took out his wife.
Harsh, yes. But I’ve seen it done before.
“How’d your dad take it?” I ask.
She looks at me, wide-eyed. “He never got over it. Sank into this deep depression. My older sister had to take care of all of us. She still does, really, even though she lives in New York. Pops took down all photos and reminders of Mother, and we’re not allowed to even mention her.”
Mystery solved. Itwashis fault his wife took a bullet. That man has been eaten alive by guilt and the secret he’s kept.
But again, I’ll keep this piece of information to myself.
“So, that’s when the youngest one lost her shit?”
Charleigh pulls her hair over her shoulder and starts making a long braid. I want to reach over and run my fingers through those long locks. But I don’t.
“Yeah. Seems like it. Although who knows. Maybe she would have been a troubled kid even if my mom hadn’t died.”
How many murders are labelled random, which are anything but? Charleigh’s mom, my parents… such bullshit.
“You’re a good sister, Charleigh.”
She shrugs and pulls an elastic band off her wrist to tie off her braid. “I try. Evie sort of… responds to me. At least more than anyone else.”
“My brothers and I are tight. They really supported me… in the past.”
She looks my way. “Did… something happen? Something bad?”
Well, fuck. I had to go and open my big goddamned mouth about the lowest period of my life.
“I… I lost my girlfriend a few years back. She was killed in a car wreck. I was driving and walked away without a scratch.”
I look straight ahead, chafing at the thought of Charleigh pitying me. I can’t have that. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. Not one of my favorite topics, and yet I’m the dumbass who brought it up.
I force myself to stretch out my fingers, to get the blood circulating through them again.
Everyone says it wasn’t my fault, but that’s bullshit. It was my fault and I’ve suffered every day since. I will continue to. As I should.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charleigh says. “Must have been awful.”
Still is awful, truth be told. I hope it always will be. Best way to atone, if you ask me, is to let yourself suffer. Endlessly.
