The Complete Collection (11 page)

I sit at my desk, finishing the last of
this story—one of several in a series I’m hoping to pound out to get Ray
off my back. I print out what I have and head to his office.

I know he’s been waiting.

As I get up from my desk, my phone
rings.

“DeRosa,” I say into it.

“Lila, it’s Scott.”

Sigh.

“Hi, honey, what’s up? I’m kind of
busy,” I say.

“You’re always busy these days. What
time did you get home last night? Why didn’t you wake me up? And you were gone
before I got up this morning.”

“Scott, I’m working on the most
important story of my life. I need to get some of it to Ray because, like you,
he's getting impatient with my mysterious comings and goings,” I reply. “And
right now I need to get it to him, because,
un
like you, he can fire me.”

“Don’t be too sure about that,” Scott
mumbles.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

“It just means that I’m getting a little
tired of you pushing me away. You’ve been totally distant since your obsession
with this murder case started, and it’s not only unhealthy for you. It’s also
unhealthy for us,” Scott snaps back.

“Scott, I do not have time for this
right now,” I say, calmly.

I am trying very hard to curb my anger
and frustration.

I think momentarily of Sam, so sweet and
emotional, able to understand and love Ainsley, despite what appear to be
unthinkable flaws.

And my own man can’t be patient with me after
losing my attention for five minutes? What kind of man is that, anyway?

Scott pauses. He hears something new in
my voice, I think.

“Fine, Lila, but I would appreciate if
you could fill me in when you get home tonight—hopefully at a decent
hour,” he says.

“Fine,” I say.

There are no good-byes to soften our
respective hang-ups.

* * *

I sit quietly across from Ray at his desk
as he reads what I've written.

I am nervous and excited. I can't read
his face.

Finally, he puts the papers down.

“This? This is what you’ve been working
on this week?” he says.

“Well—yes,” I start. “Don’t you
like it? It’s an exclusive!”

Ray sighs deeply.

“Lila, the stories are good. They always
are. But, as a community newspaper, do we really want to take the position of
sympathizing with a local murderer?” Ray says.

My disappointment is like blood in my
throat.

“This is real, Ray. This is
news
.
It’s way deeper than any of these big papers have gone. I got evidence. I got
sources,” I argue.

Ray opens a draw in his desk, takes out
a bottle of Maker’s Mark, and shakes out two aspirins into one hand. He pours a
shot of the bourbon into a glass on his desk and downs it with the aspirins.

“Lila, I appreciate your integrity here,
but I play golf with the police chief every Thursday afternoon. The mayor’s son
and mine play football together,” he says.

I feel my teeth grinding.

“If I run
this
—” he says,
dropping my pages onto the desk, “—I’ll be chased out of town.”

“Bottom line is that she killed people,
Lila. She killed them viciously. She killed a lot of men. And she did worse
than that,” Ray says. “In a small community like ours, people need to believe
there are good guys and bad guys,” he continues, “and unfortunately for us, no
one—”

I don’t let him finish.

“No one cares why,” I whisper.

My eyes are burning with watery rage.

“Lila–” he starts.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “So, you won’t run
it?”

He meets my gaze almost shamefully.

“Lila, I
can’t
run it,” he says.

I stand up and take the papers from his
desk.

I deliberately rip them to shreds in
front of his face and leave the pieces lying there.

“Lila…try to understand,” he begins.

“Ray, try to understand this,” I answer.
“I quit.”

It’s early, and I’m not ready to face Scott
yet.

I stop at a local bar I frequent on the
way home, usually accompanied by Scott or work friends.

I just need some time to think.

And a drink.

Badly.

“Hey, DeRosa! Rough day?” says the
bartender, Henry.

“You have no idea,” I say.

“The usual?”

“Yes, please—and a shot of
something—thanks, Henry.”

“A shot? Wow. Must be a really rough
day. You don’t do that stuff.”

I do now, I think.

“Here you go,” he says.

I grab the cold beer in front of me and
take a long sip.

I brush back my auburn hair and pull my
glasses off to rub my tired eyes.

Ten years on the job and I’ve got what
to show for it?

A boss with no balls and even less
integrity will do that to you, DeRosa.

I’ve got more balls than any man I know.

Maybe Ainsley was on to something, I
think. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I laugh.

I pick up the shot.

Here’s to you, Ainsley. Wish we could
have hunted ‘em down together!

I take another sip of beer and laugh
some more.

“Hey, honey, what’s so funny over
there?” a man in a wrinkled suit down the bar asks.

“Excuse me? Are you talking to me?” I
say.

His eyes travel down to my legs, which
are crossed under my skirt.

“You better believe it,” he slurs.

Let me guess, you sad, drunk man. You're
still out from a martini lunch and will probably sexually harass your poor
secretary when you get back.

This guy reminds me of Daniel, Ainsley’s
bastard, hedge fund ex-husband twenty years from now. Doesn’t he?

Yes, yes, he does, Lila.

“Well, sir, that’s really none of your
business,” I say, smiling.

“You okay over there, Lila?” Henry asks
meaningfully.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fine,” I say.

“Hey, Henry, I’m jush bein’ friendly. Right,
honey?” the drunk man says.

“Sure,” I say, smiling mysteriously.

I know! I’ve got it. I’ll write a book,
I think.

I’ve got money saved. I can sell this
one easily!

I smile widely to myself.

“Another beer, Henry. I’ve got something
to celebrate over here,” I say.

“All right! You and Scott finally get
engaged?” he says.

“Nah, nah, something better than that,”
I say, without thinking.

But, there is still Scott to think of...

Before I can sell it to anyone else,
I’ve got to sell it to him.

“You
quit
?”

“Yes, but let me explain,” I try to say.

“You quit? I don’t understand,” Scott
says.

“I had these great exclusives and Ray
just didn’t have the balls to print them, Scott. I put my heart and soul into
these stories and they were just the beginning—this is bigger than a
stupid community newspaper! I know that now,” I say.

“Lila,” Scott says quietly, “this isn’t
more about that murderer, is it?”

I feel myself grow cold.

“Yes, it is, but let me explain!” I
implore him.

Scott gets a beer from the refrigerator
for himself, and for me, and then sits down.

“Explain,” he says.

But I can feel that his mind is already closed.
I, too, know what that feels like. It feels like…

Like that.

“I went back to the house again, Scott.
I knew there were more answers there after I read the journal—”

“
What
journal?” he says.

Sigh.

“I found a journal there the first time
I went. I didn’t tell you because—”

“Because you knew you shouldn’t have
been there, and because it was likely evidence in an active investigation that
you now may or may not have sabotaged?” he says. “I mean, you’re only a police
officer’s girlfriend. But we don’t care about careers anymore in this
household, do we, Lila?” Scott’s voice is raised.

“You quit. I get fired and lose my badge.
Who cares, right?”

“You said you would listen,” I say. “If
something happens, I will swear under oath you knew nothing about it.”.

“Oh, so I’m stupid on top of it, eh?”
Scott says.

“This ISN’T about YOU!” I yell.

Scott pauses.

“No one ever
listens
to me,” I
say, enraged. “When I went back to the house, I met Sam—Ainsley’s
long-time friend. She was in love with him.”

“Oh good, now we have a soap opera. ‘Connecticut
06897—The Murder Years,’” Scott says bitingly.

I stop speaking. I shut down entirely.

It’s no use.

I have to do this alone.

“Hey Scott,” I say.

“What?” he says, the beer beginning to
show in his voice.

“Fuck you.”

My cellphone rings.

I don’t recognize the number, but I
answer it.

“DeRosa,” I say.

“Lila,” I hear a man’s voice on the
other end.

“Yes?”

“It’s…it’s Sam,” and then a breakdown of
sobs.

“Hold on one second. Don’t hang up,” I
say desperately.

I turn back to Scott and grab my bag.

“I’ll be back to pick up my shit in the
morning.”

I close the door just in time for the
beer bottle to smash as it hits behind me.

“Sam, where are you?” I ask.

 

Here I am again.

I drive up the gravel driveway, but it
no longer frightens me.

It's beginning to feel like home.

Sam is broken-hearted.

His grief attacked him again after
reading the journal. He feels terrible.

Not only does he feel responsible for
Ainsley's death, but for the death of all at her hands.

Sam sits at Ainsley's side in the dirt.

He has a bottle of whiskey he's done
some damage on.

His tears make tracks on his face
through a faint dust of dirt.

Journal in hand, he hands me the bottle.
I sit down and take a sip, and he reads:

 

“Lila, I was
so
blind,” he says,
weeping.

My heart breaks for him.

“I'm such a stupid bastard! I killed her
heart.
Me
. No one else. It was me!” he yells into the woods.

“Sam — Sam it was so much more than
you! You can only do so much! She carried so much pain. You were the sunshine
for her!” I try to console him.

He buries his fingers in his dark, soft
hair and rocks back and forth.

Shhhhhhhhhhhh,
says the wind
.

It's okay, Sam. It's all right.

I move toward him.

“It's okay… Sam, it's all right,” I echo.

Sam wraps his arms around me and I feel
his damp face on my neck.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It's all right. Everything is all
right...

Sam's mouth finds mine as the wind
teases in our ears and plays its bone violin against the trees.

The ancient secrets whisper to one
another.

Yes….yes...it's all right. Soon it
will be spring. Soon all will grow.

Soon the dirt will be fertile and
filled.

Sam's hands tighten against my back. My
fingers find his hair.

We are both lost. We need something to
hold onto.

And it's all right.

Isn't it?

Yesssssssssssss.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Sam leans me back into the dirt.

I find the buttons of his shirt. My face
is wet with tears — his and my own.

Give him peaccccceee.

Our kiss is deep, deeper than the dark.
It's right that this is happening here.

He pushes my skirt up and swallows my
sighs.

This is so good. So right.

Oh, Lila…

"Yes..." I whisper with the
wind.

Oh, Sam…

Is it our own writhing shadows that
dance against the watchful stone tablets? Or others?

We are one, our sounds gently drowning
out the wind and trees, echoed by something wild in the distance.

The wind sighs back at us — sounding
out words.

My eyes open lazily and it is only in
that moment's bliss that I see him:

The Blacksmith has watched over all.

I cannot see his face — but I know
he is smiling.