Broken (5 page)

“But how do I know if you’re—”

“Stop it. Don’t. Don’t start that, D. I’m too tired. Look—I’ll call you when I’m in Chicago tomorrow.”

“And then what?”

Lex pauses for a moment, and she hangs up on him before waiting for an answer. There’s no answer to be given. Not now, anyway.

He shifts in the seat of the rental car, takes a sip of his energy drink, and turns up the radio over the sound of the drizzle
and his own guilt.

I often wonder what it would be like if you were still alive.

I wonder how much one life affects another.

An infinity of limitless ways, that’s how much.

Every sunrise and every sunset and every full moon and every snowfall and every downpour and every breath remind me.

The motions and music of life remind me that there’s one missing.

And in a world so full of refutations and denials, I place the blame solely on myself.

I have to live out every single reminder of what is gone, what will always be gone, and what will never be mine.

J
ames watches Laila walk maybe half a block, then pulls his car next to the curb and rolls down the window.

“Get in.”

She glances at him and says nothing.

“I swear to God I don’t care about making a scene, little lady. Get in the car.”

As far as he can see, there’s nobody around.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” She continues walking, and he curses. “I’m not even gonna touch you, got it? Just get in.”

“What do you want?”

“I was being cordial yesterday at the bank when I thought we could meet over a drink.”

“Did you sneak into my apartment last night?”

“Nope.”

“You’re lying.”

A woman strolls by but doesn’t bother him. “I watched the outside of your building all night. My butt is imprinted onto this
seat, lady. I didn’t see anybody strange coming and going. And I sure didn’t sneak in. If I had, I would’ve spent the night
in your guest room.”

“I don’t have a guest room,” Laila says in an arrogant, dismissive tone.

“There you go then,” he says. “Get in the car.”

“No.”

“Lady, I swear…”

“I’m getting a cup of coffee, so if you want to follow me down there, we can talk.”

James curses, and he lets down on the gas as he finds a place to park. Anything to get out of this car is fine with him.

She doesn’t say anything to him in line, and when she orders her drink, she ignores him as she pays. He gets a coffee and
finds her at a table in the middle of a room full of people.

“I’m not going to do anything to you.”

“Do I look worried?”

This chick has some kinda attitude, he thinks.

“You look like an Oscar-winning actress.”

“What do you want?”

He takes a sip, and the burn on his tongue wakes him up. “How did it happen?”

“What do you want?”

“You know—for such a good-looking chick, you sure are feisty. Anybody ever tell you that?”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“Wasn’t trying to win a prize,” James says.

“What do you want?” Laila’s words are slow and deliberate.

“Connor Brennan was my brother.”

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“No, you know him. It was the man you left spilling his life out onto the carpet in some swanky suburban mansion.”

“You could be anybody as far as I know.”

“I’m not here to waste your time or mine. Here.”

He gives her his Illinois license. She examines it.

“Never seen someone look so intently at a license,” he tells her.

“Older or younger?”

“Connor was three years younger.”

The woman stares at him.

“ ‘Was’ is the key word there,” he says.

“James.”

“Yep.”

“What do you want from me, James Brennan?”

“Is that really all you have to say to me?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me something. Anything about that night.”

He studies the freckles on her nose as she bites down on her lower lip.

“How did it happen? I need to know that.”

“You’re a long way from Chicago, Mr. Brennan.”

“So are you.”

“This is my home now.”

“That was fast.”

“Did you come here just for me?”

He nods. “Yes. Aren’t you lucky?”

“I need to get to work.”

“Maybe.”

“If you’re going to threaten me, why don’t you go ahead and do it. I’m not in the mood for any games. Your brother got what
was coming to him. And so will you if you continue this.”

He laughs. “You’re a real piece of work.”

“You don’t even know.”

His eyes move all over her. “I can imagine.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Or what? What are you going to do, Laila Torres?”

Something in her eyes catches.

He knows he got to her.

“That’s right. I know your last name. Sure took some doing, but I know. That’s why I’m here in June and not February. Anybody
can be tracked down these days. Unless you’re Osama bin Laden, anybody—and I mean anybody—can be tracked down.”

“My last name is no big secret.”

“I’d bet a hundred dollars your license doesn’t say Torres. Then again, I don’t have a hundred bucks to bet with. But you
most certainly do.”

James smiles as she stands. “You can leave now, but we’ll continue this conversation.”

“We’re not continuing anything.”

“What are you going to do, Laila? Who are you going to tell? Who can you go to to help you out? I dare you to go to the police.
Go ahead.”

James examines every inch of her as she moves away. Then he takes the napkin on the table and starts to rip it in even, clean
strips, dropping them into the coffee cup.

He’s going to enjoy every second of this.

•   •   •

This is what it feels like to be a murderer.

No different than the day before. No different except for waiting for someone to come and get you, waiting every morning and
afternoon and night, waiting for the inevitable.

For six months she has carried this guilt carefully wrapped in a black cloth and bundled in her backpack over her shoulder.
For six months Laila has forced herself to move on. Not feeling any different than she did before it happened, yet knowing
that she will never be the same.

But just as the waiting feeling was beginning to subside, this man shows up and every fear that she’s been carrying with her
finally gets unpacked and laid out on the side of the road.

For four hours as she’s dealt with customers and counted money and deposited checks and slips, Laila has been debating about
leaving work, getting the three or four valuables she has in her apartment, and taking off.

She knows how to do this.

She’s a seasoned veteran at leaving everything behind.

The question isn’t whether she can do it. The question is how far she can get without being followed.

Every time she passes by a grinning Kyle, she wonders if she can tell him.

She wonders what he would say if she did.

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t mind me walking home with you?”

“It’s not a long walk.”

“The way you’re walking it is.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

She surveys the sidewalk and the street she is on carefully, yet she doesn’t see anybody she recognizes. No hiding faces or
parked cars or eyes peering out of the shadows. No trace of James Brennan anywhere.

Her nerves almost make her forget Kyle is walking right next to her.

“Laila, what’s gone on the last couple of days?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some type of cloud moved over you and stayed. Something— I can’t really explain exactly—it just seems like something’s wrong.
And yet you also don’t mind me being around. It just makes me think—well, that’s crazy.”

“What’s crazy?”

“It makes me think you’re—that you’re scared of something.”

She stops and looks at him without moving or blinking. “I’m not scared of anything.”

“I know. And that’s what—I believe that, Laila. I don’t know you that well, but I know you well enough to know you’re not
scared of anything. Remember that jock harassing you when you first started work? That’s what showed me that, man, you better
watch out for this girl.”

“He was just some idiotic muscle head. I’ve dealt with my share of them.”

“You know—you say that, and I believe it. But looking at you—it just doesn’t add up.”

Laila rolls her eyes and keeps walking.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Maybe you should stop looking then.”

“I didn’t mean anything—Laila, come on. Stop a minute.”

“What?”

“You wanna know something? You want to know one of the reasons I look forward to this dead-end job every day I wake up? It’s
because maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to hang out and have coffee with you. Do you realize that?”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Kyle—”

“No, just—look—I don’t claim to know you. But I’ve spent enough time with you to know that something’s up. So what’s going
on? Tell me. I know it’s not me because I haven’t done anything. God knows I do things and I’ve done plenty in my life, but
I haven’t done anything this time.”

“It’s not you.”

“Then what is it? Did something happen at dinner last night—did I say anything wrong?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m missing something. Just fill in the blanks for me.”

“I can’t,” Laila says. “Not now.”

“How long does it take to really get through those walls of yours?”

Laila scans the sidewalk. This city is so clean, so picturesque, so much so that she sometimes wonders what she’s doing here.

For a moment she thinks of the sidewalks of Manhattan or the city streets of Chicago. Then she thinks of another city, a place
of refuge and secrets, a dark place she knows she belongs.

“Nobody’s getting through,” she tells Kyle. “Because there’s nothing to find once you’re in.”

•   •   •

Lex follows the stocky, hairy legs in plaid shorts and black socks ascending a third flight of narrow stairs. When they reach
the top and enter the apartment, he’s surprised the studio is so expansive and bright, with sunlight coming in from every
possible direction except the floor.

Breathing in, Lex is more winded than the landlord it took him half a day to find. He spent much of the time in a library
searching for Laila’s name online. He found one mention of an address somewhere after an hour and a half of Googling. Half
a dozen calls later, he was talking to the short and round man next to him.

“You’re not the first person that’s come around looking for her,” the man says with a slight Eastern European accent.

The man’s name is Robert Farnick, and he agreed to come out and show the apartment after a couple of calls.

“Who else did?” Lex asks, walking across the vacant floor and hearing the creaks in the wood.

“I don’t know. Some guy—dark-haired, cocky guy. Not very friendly.”

“What’d he want?”

“Same thing as you. Looking for her. What happened to her?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Lex Torres.”

“Brother, huh?”

Lex nods as he looks around the empty loft. He can imagine Laila in this space, living out the dream of a young girl making
it in the big city, seemingly living out another person’s life. He can picture art on the walls, framed shots of her from
the New York days, modern furniture, everything neat and orderly just like the way her room used to be back in Brady when
she never seemed to spend much time there.

Perhaps she didn’t spend a lot of time here either.

“She left everything behind?”

“Even clothes. Crazy thing too. Called her cell number and discovered it was out of service. I eventually decided to sell
most of the stuff. Haven’t been able to find a taker for this loft. Times are tough, you know.”

“Any personal things that you still have?”

“Personal like what?”

Lex glances at the man’s necklace that’s almost hidden underneath a jungle of hair. “Like anything.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Mind if I take a look through them?”

“I don’t know.”

Robert Farnick appears to know a lot and wears a face as if he knows it too.

“Look, man. I haven’t seen my sister in years, and I’m really worried. You got any siblings?”

Farnick doesn’t answer him but instead examines him to see if he’s lying. Lex stares back. He’s tired and isn’t in the mood
for games or negotiation.

“I’ll see if I have anything.”

“Can you just—can I look around here a little?”

“Nothing’s here. But fine by me. Looking for an apartment?”

Lex wants to say he’s going to look for a bar of soap and some deodorant to try and get rid of the foul body odor Farnick
is carrying around with him, but then shakes his head. The guy is just trying
to make a living and obviously couldn’t give a rip about a missing woman. Farnick wanders away and slams the door shut, leaving
a haunting echo in this hollowed-out shell of an apartment.

Lex walks over imaginary footsteps, trying to find any semblance of Laila, seeing nothing but emptiness.

He is afraid there’s nowhere else to go.

I never knew what I wanted to do with my life when I was younger. Each day was all that mattered, living in the moment. I
never thought about life after school, life after Texas, life after everything. I would open my eyes and see the day before
me and take it in. They say that’s a good way to live, but I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure about a lot of things.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to live those days down.

What good is living in the moment when the past always inevitably overshadows it?

Sometimes I tell myself I need to find a good shrink, someone different than the ones in New York and Chicago that needed
more help than they could prescribe. Sometimes I tell myself I need to find someone, anyone, that will accept and love me
for who I am. But I can’t imagine–I can’t begin to imagine the layers I’d have to go through to get to the core.