A Quiet Neighbor (29 page)

Tess thought of all the times she brushed Loral
aside for a man, for work, or for simple vanities. She had always lived by one
motto: act now and ask for forgiveness later.

But now there was no time for forgiveness. Tess
winced at the thought as she parked in the driveway. She made her way inside
and, seeing no one, slipped upstairs toward the master bedroom with the
Smirnoff cradled under her arm.

Frustrated and lonely, leaning against the
closed bedroom door, she gulped down the rest of the fiery liquid and feebly
threw the empty bottle at the full-length mirror across the room, at her own
hideous reflection. The bottle struck harmlessly against the soft edge of the
bed instead. The barely audible thud from the bottle hitting the carpeted floor
was drowned out by her booming headache.

In frustration, Tess began tearing the room
apart. Screaming. Pulling out drawers and sweeping the tables bare with the
length of her arms. Ripping the clothes from her body, she collapsed face down
on the bed, muffling her screams into the pillow in ragged, clenched breaths
and smears of makeup, booze, and tears. She cried out in pain, in anger and
regret. In shame. In disgust and contempt. She wanted her life back. Demanded
she get another chance. Wanted nothing more than a chance to be a better wife
to Brett and mother to her now, two little girls.

“I’ll get sober…stop drinking…change
everything…” she blubbered to an empty room as she fell into a catatonic sleep.

11:11
P.M.

HUDDLED IN THE CORNER BEHIND THE CLOSED
bedroom
door was Tory, with her knees pressed into her Dora the Explorer nightshirt and
her spindly arms hugging them tight as she spilled quiet tears. Loneliness
seemed to be a genetic trait in the Holmes family.

Bella was tucked into bed—content, sucking on
her thumb, protected—by her big sister, which was now only Tory. Bella was
still too young to understand that Loral wasn’t coming back. All she was able
to comprehend was that Loral was not home right now.

Thirty minutes ago, Tory was changing Bella’s
Hello Kitty sheets. Bella wet the bed, a bad habit she suddenly fell back into
since Loral’s murder. In the past, Loral was the one to change their sheets.
She would always make them feel better, and would hide the embarrassment from
their parents. Now, it was Tory’s job. Just like making dinner used to be
Loral’s job, it was now hers. Unable to reach the stove or the top shelves in
the fridge, she looked to the lower cupboards for a meal. Tonight, she took out
a pack of gummy bears and animal crackers and poured them into a bowl. Although
it wasn’t something they would normally have for dinner, it was chewy and colorful.
Bella had fun with it and that’s what mattered most. She was the older sister
now, so that meant protecting Bella above all else.

During the day it wasn’t as lonely because they
were allowed to watch television and play with their toys. They were never
allowed that much television before; now, it seemed like they couldn’t watch
enough. What was also nice was having Mommy home more. What wasn’t so nice was
that Loral wasn’t there anymore and now Daddy was also gone. The nice detective
lady and her scary partner took him with them. She missed her daddy and sister
so much.

Tory knew her mommy was drinking again; the
smell seeped out through the crack under the door and wafted into her nostrils.
A moment ago, sounds of animal cries and soft thuds from inside the room—from Mommy—sent
a new set of tears streaming down her splotchy face. But now, no more sounds
could be heard and the silence was worse. Tory stood up, shaking.

Hesitating, she placed one hand on the brass
doorknob. Her other hand gripped the hem of her nightshirt. Pressing an ear
against the door’s glossy painted surface, she confirmed the silence and turned
the knob. Ever so quietly she poked her tiny head inside.

Cringing at the acrid smell and disarray of the
room, her eyes bugged wide at what she saw: her mother, sprawled out on the
king sized bed, naked. Her skin looked dull and clammy in the dim light. The
curtains were skewed, empty bottles were strewn beside her maple wood bureau,
and a few drawers were thrown haphazardly onto the carpeted floor. One bottle
wasn’t entirely empty; the carpet was a few shades darker beneath the bottle
top. The digital clock that once perched on the bedside table was now hanging
by the cord in midair, the display flickering teasingly as the plug slowly
slipped loose.

Plugging her nose with the hand used to turn
the doorknob, she inched her way closer to the bed. Her mommy’s arm hung limp
over the edge, her nails still held the perfect pink polish (which oddly enough
brought Tory some comfort), and her rouged lips parted open with only a
semblance of breathing.

Frightened at the thought her mommy was also
gone like Loral was gone, Tory shook her mommy’s limp hand with the perfectly
manicured pink polish vigorously until she heard a faint groan. Relief flooded
over Tory’s shivering body when her mommy stirred and let out a belch that on
any normal day would make Tory crinkle her nose and giggle in secret. Today was
different. Today Tory relished the vile smell of rancid potatoes fermented in
vodka and scotch.

Climbing on top of the oversized bed, Tory
snuggled in, with her head under her mommy’s flopped breast and her tiny feet
tucked beneath the disarrayed covers. She draped one of her mommy’s limp arms
over her body and fell asleep to the rhythm of her mommy’s beating heart.

Saturday,
June 30, 2012

1:45
A.M.

IT WAS A QUARTER TO TWO IN THE MORNING.
The
air was crisp and still. Looking up at the dark shadowed house with its blue-shingled
roof he felt a false sense of calm and a wave of strength.
I can get through
this
, Brett mused. He was no longer the seventeen-year-old boy, naïve and
hiding behind his father’s golden fist. He was a man, with a wife and kids. And
if the interrogation room and Loral’s death had taught him anything, it was to
snap out of it, grow the fuck up, and move the fuck on.

Seeing Ky again brought back a flood of
emotions and memories, which he wasn’t at all ready or pleased to deal with.
But the hours pacing in a ten-by-ten locked room forced him to process Ky and
everything else that followed.

Memories of the afternoon in his childhood
room, at a time when he seemed invincible—the instant when Ky was on top of
him, with her heart and body exposed—a mix of compounding feelings and urges
exploded. How could he explain those feelings out loud? She was just a kid, his
kid sister’s best friend. The girl who was so innocent, with a quick smile that
lit up her face. She was pretty, sure. Interesting, funny, and kind. Until that
moment, he never considered her more than another kid sister. But then, in that
instant when he felt her quivering soft skin, heard the break in her breath,
and felt her soft dark hair skim his face, something inside him changed.

Repulsed and angered by his sudden rush of
despicable thoughts, he hid from them. Buried deep, the thoughts burned and cut
away—piece by piece—his reputation, his life. When his best friend, Scott
stopped over to visit the day after, and cunningly unveiled picture after
scandalous picture of the private moment Brett and Ky shared—taken from one of
the disposable Kodaks placed on the outdoor tables for special candid camera
moments—Brett experienced an internal collision. He could not hide from something
and face it at the same time.

“I thought you’d want a memento,” Scott
chortled. At this, Brett pinned his now former best friend against the wall
with a forearm chokehold, grabbed the photos, tore them into confetti-sized
bits, and left. He said nothing. The bits were left sprinkled across the beige
carpet of Brett’s room, and Scott was left gasping beside them.

One minute he was cracking jokes and laughing
with his friends during his graduation party—a time when their lives were just
starting—and the next he burned his relationship with his best friend, lost the
trust of his family, and ultimately lost himself. After that day, Brett Ficks
was dead and gone. Straddling between living and dying was Brett Holmes.

Wishing he had been the one to take up some
nasty habit like smoking cigarettes or drinking to oblivion or frequenting
Tijuana brothels, Brett muttered a string of choice words, took a deep breath,
and walked into his house. The stale and sour smell, the cluttered rooms, the Unfaithful
Bitch. Dust twinkled in the air with each puff of breath. Toys were sprawled
out in sections—dolls in one pile, paper and crafts in another, blocks and
Legos stacked up on the coffee table, and books piled high on the sofa—in an
organized chaos of kid’s clutter.

Heat bloomed on his scruffy cheeks as he kicked
shoes out of the way, mostly his wife’s. Storming up the stairs into the
bedroom they shared, he reeled back on his heels when he saw his little girl
tucked in beside his passed out wife—who was naked and sprawled out on their
bed. Empty bottles littered the carpet. The room was trashed, and smelled dank
and dirty like the inside of a motel room that charged by the hour.

Desperately wishing he could turn back time and
erase the moment when things all went so wrong, he bent over and carefully
separated his little girl from his pitiful wife. Their skin was glued together
by a thin film of sweat, and when Brett pulled his resting Tory from his wife’s
sweat-soaked body, Tess stirred awake. Bleary-eyed and with a pounding
headache, she winced. The blurry shape standing before her turned away and was
heading for the door.

“Brett? Is that you?”

She was up now, confused and unfocused, caught
in a balancing act between keeping herself on two feet and off of the floor.
She was still unaware of the fact that hours ago her six-year-old daughter
witnessed her fall into a drunken stupor, stark naked and utterly pathetic.

Hidden in the door’s shadow was a silhouette of
man holding child. Brett didn’t turn, but paused long enough for Tess to
question if her husband was really in the room or if it was a figment of her
imagination. Her mouth was coated in a thick slimy substance that made her
choke each time she attempted to swallow. Bile burned her throat. She blinked,
trying desperately to focus and clear the fog that hovered over her blue
irises.

His neck muscles tensed into long, thick cords
and his voice quivered as he tried to speak.

“Go back to sleep.” He paused. “We’ll talk in
the morning.”

Tess watched her husband slip away into the
darkness, away from her. Shivering, she tumbled to the floor and inhaled deep
sobs as she cried herself back to sleep. Tess realized she might have just lost
her only chance at real happiness.

What happened to you, Loral…why did you leave
that night? Was it because you were angry with me? Is it my fault? Are you
blaming me, too?

Brett tiptoed into the girls’ room so he
wouldn’t wake Bella. Staring wistfully at the empty bed with its creamy blue
sheets and white duvet perfectly made in the far corner, Brett prayed Loral
didn’t suffer and was in a better place. Brett tucked his little girl into her
Dora the Explorer purple sheets and kissed the top of her salty forehead.

Stirring awake, Tory held onto Brett’s hand and
mumbled, “Don’t go, Daddy. Please—”

Chapter
Twenty-Four:

Saturday
June 30, 2012

1:50
A.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

Back at my desk, I collapse in my chair and put
my head in my hands. All I want to do is scream, punch, kick, and run until I can’t
run anymore and then sleep in my bed for days. But I know my days of catharsis
and restful sleep are far to come.
Miles to go before I sleep.

The fluorescent lights are too bright and cast
the room of overworked and underslept officers in an unfavorable light. A fresh
batch of double-strength coffee wafts through the room, indicating the
unofficial second-wind of the night shift. Just the smell gets my wires
buzzing.

“You still here, Kang? Go home. Get some rest.
Looks like you need it.”

Lifting my head, I open one eye and see Malone
standing over me with a worried expression. Besides his tired eyes, he looks
clean, pressed and refined in his black suit.

“Do you always have to look like that,
Lieutenant?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t ever need sleep. Like you put
on a fresh suit every hour. Argh, maybe you could move a foot or two away so
people don’t start comparing us.” I turn my face back into my hands.

Smirking, he takes a step back. “Thanks for the
complement.”

“Mmm hmm.”

He clears his throat. “I think you should go
home and take a few days to recoup.”

I look up, concerned, and stare at him for a
minute before speaking. “You want me off the case.”

“It’s not that, it’s just I think that with
your past—”

“Past?” I groan. Scanning the few officers left
in the room, I notice that most make an attempt to look away, but there are a
few that aren’t as courteous. “Great. Just great. One stupid mistake at eleven
and it’s going to ruin my career and my sanity?”
How much does everyone
know? How much did Brett spill? It sure doesn’t take long for word to travel.
I’ll
have to ask Pickering about it, once I can brave facing him. He must be pissed
at me.

“I don’t know about your sanity but your career
is fine…for now.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Leaning in, he lowers his voice. “Ky, I’m just
saying you need to go home. Take care of yourself. And return once you’re
refreshed and ready to work.”

“How long do you suggest I take? A day? A week?
For as long as I live?”

“Be serious. You should be grateful the
department is giving you the chance to rest. If I were you I’d take it.”

“But on another case. When I return from my
restful hiatus all glowing, you want me off this case.”

“Come on Detective. You know I would have demanded
you off the case if I found out earlier. Isn’t that why you failed to tell me
about your connection to Brett Holmes?”

Miffed, and still slightly in denial, I say, “I
thought seventeen years separation would be enough time to warrant being
considered strangers.”

“But he affects you. Admit it. Even Pickering
could see that.”

“Pickering! That prick—shit!”

“Don’t get mad at Pickering. He did the right
thing confiding in me. He cares about you, and so do I. So…Pickering will take
over as lead from now on.”

Grumbling, I say, “I understand. Sir.”

“Look Ky, I’m not judging you. Your past and
personal life is yours and yours alone. You’re a great detective. About that, I
have no doubt. But as long as Brett is a suspect, you need to stay off the
case.”

“I stayed out of the interrogation room, didn’t
I?” He gives me a warning eye and I wave it off understandingly. “Sorry I
didn’t come to you about it sooner. I just…well, never mind.” I jerk my thumb
back at the group of hacking monkeys eavesdropping from a few desks away and say,
“How long before these jerks stop harassing me about it?”

“No one’s harassing you.”

I raise a brow. “Sure, Lieutenant. The new
title fogging your common sense? You forgot what it’s like over on this side of
the line?”

Ignoring the comment, Declan eyes the yellow Post-it
on the blank computer screen and picks it up. “Ask me what?”

“Huh? Oh,” I shake my head, “It’s nothing. Had
to do with the case…I had some questions I wanted to run by you.”

“All right.”

“I thought I was off the case.”

“Come on, Ky. If you have something relevant,
spill.”

Taking a deep breath to clear my head, I focus
on my notes. “I was looking over old cases trying to find a match to the
killer’s MO. Nothing good really popped up in the database, so I was wondering
if you remember an old case or maybe your grandfather does? I know he’s
retired, but last I heard, he was still clear in the head.”

“Off the top of my head, I don’t remember any
case that fits, but sure, I’ll ask Granddad if he remembers anything. He’ll
like to hear from me and about the case. He’s getting restless being retired.
There’s only so many books and so much golf he can take in a given day. Doesn’t
sit too well for him.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine it would. He was a great
chief.”

“And an even better detective.”

Running on a treadmill set at 7.5 mph isn’t how
I assumed I’d be spending my free time. But after being cut from the case and
humiliated—in front of the more chauvinistic members of my team, no less, who
never need a reason to pester me—running is the only thing I can think of
doing.

Running away was my first thought, actually.
Alas, running in place on the treadmill will have to suffice. I can still
pretend to run away. At this thought, I bump the speed up to 8.0 and turn up
the volume on my iPod.

After being sent home, I stepped into my
apartment, took a twenty minute hot shower, went to bed, and spent a few hours tossing
and turning, eyes wide open, brooding. Frustrated, I jumped up and dressed in a
sports tank and yoga pants, tied my thick hair into a ponytail and took the
elevator down to the gym to work off my aggression.

Passing the second mile, I can feel my calves
seizing up, so I slow down. It has been a while since I was able to set aside
some time for a decent workout. My body is now feeling the consequences.

When tears start building behind my eyes I
again crank up the speed and sweat it out. Pushing through the pain, I manage
another three miles before fatigue gets the better of me. I stagger off the
treadmill and flop onto the gym mats lining the mirrored back wall.

I am the only one working out this early. Only
one of the three fluorescent light banks is on, the one in the front of the
room above the flat screen TV. The TV is set to Headline News. Here, in the dim
shadows, I just want to pass out and lie forever, but the chill from my
hour-old sweat only allows me to rest for a mere five minutes before I drag
myself back upstairs to my apartment on the third floor.

Feeling mildly rejuvenated but mostly
exhausted, I don’t even recognize my landline ringing until I am out of the
shower. The answering machine kicks on and when I hear Malone’s rock steady
voice I am brutally reminded of everything I was trying so hard to forget: the
case.

Frustrated, my voice comes out sharp and
irritated as I pick up the receiver, cutting Malone’s message off mid-sentence.
“What?”

“You know, I was so close to coming by and
making sure you were okay, but now I see that your little feel-sorry-for-me act
was a bone you decided to throw out. Hoping one of the big burly men in the
office would bite, eh? Well, congratulations—you got me.”

“Oh save it. I’m tired, okay? I just ran for
the first time in months and was about to pass out for a day or two when you
called.”

“Well, I called because of the favor you asked
me before you left.”

My ears perk up, cop mode stepping in for the
sexually frustrated victim mode I was rigorously nursing. “You found
something?”

“Actually, my granddad did. He remembered the
case quite vividly. He never forgot it. The instant I brought up the killer’s
MO he recalled it. He said every cop has that one case that makes them question
the law and life and this was that case for him. He said the boy was remarkably
stupid for trying to save his girlfriend and although unconventional, he got
the job done and my granddad was proud of him.”

“Who was the kid and what did he do?”

“The kid’s name was Neil Wilcox. As far as what
he did, well he saved his girlfriend’s life.”

The puzzle pieces start to click into place.
“Using our UNSUB’s MO.”

“Yes.”