Abnormal Lives (31 page)

Stefan walked in the bathroom while Simone was putting on her earrings. “I'm about to step out for a minute.”

“What you telling me for?”

“I need to use your car.”

Simone squinted. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“You've been getting where you need to go without my car,” Simone said. “Why can't you walk?”

“Well, aren't you a bitch.”

“Whatever.”

“I was only going to the drugstore to pick up my prescription.”

“Damn, Stefan, you better hurry up,” Simone said. “I have to meet Wayne in an hour.”

Stefan went into Simone's room and grabbed her keys off of the nightstand. “I'll be right back.”

“You better be.”

Stefan started up the car and drove out of the backyard into the alley. He was on a mission. He had to go to the drugstore, swing by a fast-food restaurant to get something to eat, and get back home in enough time for Simone to meet up with Wayne.

Raindrops fell on the windshield. Stefan turned on the wipers and adjusted the rearview mirror. He caught a glimpse of someone sitting in the backseat as he was directing his attention back to the road. He looked back into the mirror and a pair of hazel eyes looked back at him, but they weren't his own. It was the guy that he'd seen sitting in the Impala across the street from his house. The guy looked back at him with a menacing grin. Stefan slammed on the brakes and grabbed for the door. Before Stefan could bail out of the car, the guy forced a plastic bag over his head. Stefan lost control of the car and ran into a neighbor's fence. He tugged at the bag, trying to rip a hole in it to get some relief but it was too thick. Stefan grabbed the metal fingernail file Simone kept between the seats and stabbed the guy in his forearm. The guy screeched and then he tightened his grip on the bag. Stefan jerked forward, hoping to make the guy lose his grip. He almost pulled the stranger over the front seat.

The guy was flustered. He couldn't believe how strong the woman that he'd come to kill was. He had to end things quickly before the situation got out of hand. He braced himself by planting his feet on the back of Stefan's seat and held a tight grip on the bag. All of a sudden, the struggling stopped. Stefan was
slumped over with sweat dripping down his lifeless body. The guy sat there for a few seconds, trying to gather himself. He then got out of the car and rushed down the alley and around the block to his car. The guy got in his car, wiped the sweat off of his forehead, and then drove off. He called Wayne on his cell phone to tell him that the job was done.

28

T
he clock ticked past nine. Simone paced the living room floor. She'd told Stefan that she had to meet Wayne and he said he'd be right back. She wondered did the phrase “right back” have a different meaning to Stefan than it did to her. It had been three hours since he'd left and he wouldn't even pick up his cell phone when she called. Simone was tired of Stefan's shit. She was tired of him undermining her and taking advantage of her kindness. It was going to stop. As soon as Stefan walked through the door, she was going to tell him off and she didn't care how he felt about it. She was about to get a half-million dollars. If Stefan was going to carry it like that with her, she didn't need him. She could pack her bags and go about her business without him.
He's doing this shit on purpose,
she thought. He didn't want her to be better off than he was.

That was the problem with all the hating-ass bitches on the planet. They wanted it all for themselves, so they could scoff at the ones who were not as fortunate as they were. Like the chick with the new shoes and fresh hairdo that would poke fun at the woman whose shoes were worn out and whose hair wasn't done. The woman could be smarter, more lady-like, and have her priorities straight while the woman with the new shoes and hairdo could be unconcerned about expanding her mind, vulgar as hell, behind on her rent, and have no food in her refrigerator but knew she was better than the other woman because she had a nice pair
of shoes and her hair was done. Then you had the ones who didn't do anything but sit around and complain about how bad things were for them.
If so and so can have that, why can't I have it, too? That bitch ain't no better than me; it's not fair.
They'd hold a grudge, not because someone harmed them or had taken something that belonged to them, but because someone had something they didn't have but felt entitled to.

Simone could not wait to get away from there and build a new life. With a half-million dollars she could make things work for her. Stefan was not the only one who could make friends.

She planned to make a lot of friends, friends that could introduce her to important people, friends who could teach her things and help her go places. Maybe she would be able to have her own line of clothing one day and Stefan would be somewhere strung out on drugs when he caught a glimpse of someone wearing something from her clothing line and he would eat his heart out.

Simone plopped down on the sofa and folded her arms over her chest.
I need to get the fuck away from here,
she thought.

Simone heard a knock on the door.
Damn, who the fuck could this be!
Simone swung the door open. Paris stood in front of her with tears in his eyes, and the smell of vomit covered his clothes and his breath. Simone wanted to give him the third degree; ask him had he heard from Stefan. If he knew where he was, he better call him and tell him to bring her car back, but she didn't want to seem insensitive when he appeared to be in so much distress.

Paris stooped down, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath so he could break the news to Simone.

“What's wrong?” Simone asked.

Paris's face scrunched up and tears begun to flow from his eyes.

Simone didn't understand Paris at first. His moaning and crying distorted his speech. The only word she understood was “Stefan.” Paris's emotional state worried her.

Simone laid her hand on Paris's shoulder. “What did you say?”

Paris took a deep breath and repeated himself.

All Simone could decipher were the words “Stefan,” “alley,” and “dead.” Simone ran down the porch steps, through the backyard, and down the alley. Paris staggered behind her, his vision blurred by grief.

Simone saw the coroner and medical examiners lift Stefan's body out of her car and lay him on a stretcher. She didn't want to believe that it was him but she couldn't convince herself otherwise. Although the bag still covered Stefan's head, she was too familiar with the sight of his arms and legs, the shoes on his feet, the dress on his body, and the necklace that dangled from his neck.

Simone's screams echoed throughout the neighborhood.

The neighbors, who had not come outside to snoop, opened their windows and backdoors to look outside and see what was going on and then made their way to the scene.

Simone ran over to the stretcher.

A police officer grabbed her. “Ma'am, you can't go over there.”

“The hell I can't,” Simone snapped. “That's my cousin.”

Simone wiggled from the police officer's grasp and ran over to Stefan. She pulled at the bag on Stefan's head.

“Get her!” one of the medical examiners yelled.

The police officer grabbed Simone and tried again to restrain her. “It's going to be alright,” the police officer said, trying to console her.

“What do you mean, it's going to be awright? Take the fucking bag off his head! He can't breathe!” Simone shouted. “He can't breathe!”

The neighbors stared at Simone. Some had tears in their eyes and some of their eyes were only filled with amusement.

“What the fuck y'all looking at?” Simone yelled. “Y'all bitches don't ever have two words to say to us but when something happens
to one of us, y'all want to come and be nosy!” Simone kicked gravel on them. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Her comments filled the neighbors with guilt and they made their way back to their homes.

Mrs. Sandra stepped out of the crowd and put her arms around Simone and Paris. “If there is anything I can do, just let me know.” She kissed them both on the cheek.

Paris's cries became more intense. “I love you, Stefan. I can't believe you're gone,” he cried out.

Mrs. Sandra held Simone and Paris tightly, hoping to comfort them.

The detective walked over to them. “Excuse me.”

Mrs. Sandra looked up at the detective. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Detective Warner; I heard one of these girls say the victim was her cousin.”

“I'm a
woman
and he's my cousin,” Simone said.

“And I'm a man, you bitch,” Paris snapped.

Detective Warner's face turned as red as a garnet. “I suggest you two watch your tone. I'm the law and you need to show me some respect.”

“No, you're not the law. That's scribed on paper,” Mrs. Sandra said. “You're an officer of the law; try not to forget that. And anyone with decent sense could appreciate that these two have been through a lot tonight.”

The detective huffed. He did not care what they had been through; he had some questions and he wanted answers right that second. He looked around and saw the police officers at the scene looking in his direction and decided to settle down. He had made an ass out of himself too many times, dealing with lowlifes. He would disrespect them to attempt to make them feel worthless or throw off on them because he'd had a bad day; in return, they
would tell him how much of a joke he was, how fat and worthless he was. He'd roughed a few of them up and had taken them to lock up, but he could not live down the stories the officers carried back to the precinct. He was not about to give them any more ammunition for their jokes. So he nodded his head and agreed with Mrs. Sandra.

“Yes, I can understand that,” Detective Warner said. “Maybe we got off to a bad start. All I want to know is whose car was he driving.”

“Mine,” Simone answered.

“So your name is Virginia Simmons?” Detective Warner asked.

“No, that's my grandma's name,” Simone answered.

Detective Warner nodded. “What's your name?”

“Simone Simmons.”

“And your cousin was Stefan Brown?” Detective Warner asked.

Simone sighed and nodded her head.

“Well, that's all I need to know right now,” Detective Warner said. “I'm going to let you all go home. We'll have to take your car because it was involved in the crime, but we'll let you know when you can get it back.”

“We understand,” Mrs. Sandra said.

“Goodnight,” Detective Warner said as he made his way to his car.

Detective Warner was sure that he'd overheard one of the detectives that he worked with describe the car. A 2010 pink convertible Saab registered to a deceased woman. He had to get back to his office and refresh his memory. He was sure he had found the culprit of another crime. It had been seven years since he had solved a case. He had become the butt of his coworkers' jokes. He was tired of hearing them whisper amongst each other, asking why he still had a job. This was his opportunity to redeem
himself. It was his chance to show the arrogant bastards at work what he was made of.