The Good Kind of Bad (31 page)

‘You know that coffee shop you like? It got knocked over last Thursday. What is it, Jodi’s or something?’

‘Yeah,’ I replied, recalling the Elvis waiter from earlier that day.

Again the silence fell like a fog, so thick I felt dismembered from my thoughts. I looked down at my sorry carcass sitting in Evan’s chair, eating Evan’s food, entertaining the notion of normality.

Then Evan’s knife and fork clattered down onto his plate. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘What’s what?’

He adjusted his glasses. ‘This silence?’

‘You asked
me
here. You wanted to talk, so talk. I’m listening.’

Part of me wanted to shout, to scream and bellow and expel all my rage, but it manifested as silence. I looked away, caressing the scratches where the glass had cut me, the still-present battle scars from the alley floor.

Sometimes I dreamt of Joe, of Joe and Evan laughing together, each alive, no one still and silent with flesh rotting in a place in the ground. Sometimes it was Joe’s face instead of Evan’s ‒ different hair, olive skin, the eyes with nothing behind them and the smile that never emerged. There was only the memory of his sneer and the horror of the beatings that bruised my skin and made me bleed.

Eventually Evan’s face returned. It was the face of the murderer, the schemer; the visage of the man who’d buried a body in the earth.

There was no talk of Joe, no strategizing over Zupansky. I was here to be observed, checked up on, to ensure I was still in Chicago and willing to share in Evan’s company. That I was still willing to keep my mouth shut.

It was Monday morning, and Joe had been dead for over three weeks.

I’d been distracting myself with work, and a possible vacancy at the New York branch of Faith on 5
th
Avenue. I’d even spotted a jaw-dropping apartment on
The New York Times
real estate website. The East 13
th
Street abode was a glass-walled slice of perfection. It wasn’t a hotel suite, but an actual place to call home. It was another life. A good life. It was an honest life.

But there was a problem. New York was expensive; like, five-million-forbidden-bank-account expensive. Besides, I was trapped in Chicago for the meantime, until the police got tired of looking for Joe. As for London, my old friends and previous life? That girl was now someone else. It was now like looking at a photograph, instead of a mirror.

The idea of New York was enough of a distraction. It didn’t hurt to dream, and it was all I seemed to do anyway. I still hadn’t told Evan I was most likely leaving, not after his last reaction. I’d wait, like he said, but as soon as Joe’s time was up, so was mine.

I was back at work, though had only been in the building for ten minutes before attracting some unwanted attention, and doubted it was due to my Chloé shirt and leather skirt ensemble. People were staring; the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. I tried burying my head in a pile of work, though couldn’t escape the whispers encircling me like a cloud of venom. They knew, they must; a fresh round of gossip fuelled by Maggie, the prying receptionist. They’d learnt about my interrogation by Detective Zupansky, and discovered Joe was now missing, I’m sure presumed murdered.

The murmuring persisted until I raised my head and dared to notice the smiles. They were cautious grins, but smiles all the same.

Cherry rushed over, nearly pulling my arm from its socket as I launched out of my chair. She was beaming like the Cheshire Cat from ear to ear.

‘I hear congratulations are in order!’

‘What?’ I replied, reclaiming my arm from the wild woman in front of me.

‘Mr Renaud wants to see you, and right away. You’re
so
lucky.’

My heart sank. ‘Mr Renaud? What’s lucky about that?’ Whereas she was full of the joys of spring, mine had been ripped out from under my feet.

I’d met with Mr Renaud only once before, regarding my transfer from head office in London. He was a stern man with stern clothes and a stare that evoked the fiery pits of hell. Now he was going to send me there; steal my job, my life and put me on trial for murder in the first degree.

‘What about . . .’

‘What are you waiting for?’ Cherry ordered, now guiding me to the far side of the office.

The air was much colder here. It tasted stagnant on my tongue. Travelling the corridor at the workspace boundary was like the walk to the gas chamber. The corridor was institutional white, minimalist to the extreme and illuminated only by a flickering strip light. Each door passed and every numbered room reminded me of the clinic. At room 31, I stopped. Almost reaching for the handle to be sure my old room wasn’t behind it, I scolded myself before continuing reluctantly on.

A smug Detective Zupansky was waiting in Renaud’s office. A strike team of officers had been assembled, carrying the arrest warrant, handcuffs, and a back catalogue of witty put-downs. As I was dragged out of the building in handcuffs, my head down and eyes averted, the swarm of news crews would be ready to grab a sound bite, besieging the police van as I was ferried away to jail.

Harrowing questions awaited in a stuffy room, about why I’d been in a wood in Kane County ‒ the same wood my husband’s rotting corpse had been exhumed from. Asking why Joe’s blood was between the kitchen floor tiles and why so was mine; why there was soil under my heels, guilt in my eyes and why a Herve Leger dress, ripped and bloodstained, had been recovered from behind the bath panel during a search of my suite.

At the end of the hall stood the door. I couldn’t run any longer, from the truth or myself. I may have thought I was back from the brink, but I knew the truth, the
real
truth.

After knocking too loudly, the heavy footsteps approached, the door was flung open and I was met by the smiling president of Faith’s North American operations.

‘Ah, you’re here. Come in,’ Renaud said.

There had to be a mistake. I was shot a warm smile rather than a fiery stare. A wrinkled hand ran across a scalp as smooth as an egg as I was shown to an orange bucket chair by his desk. There were no police, no questions, just every inch of wall space jammed with rows of books and sizeable journals; a lifetime’s collection of knowledge on display.

‘How are you today?’ With the city as his backdrop, a glass of water rested by his mouth.

I took my springy seat cautiously, ready for Zupansky and his cronies to burst out of the cupboards.

Renaud was not the same man I remembered. Every word was given time to rest, each syllable tongued in turn. The tone was deep and slow, recalling the Santa Claus at Rosencrantz’s, every Christmas of my childhood. I smiled to myself. Renaud would’ve made a good Father Christmas.

‘To be honest, I thought I was in trouble.’

‘Heavens no, what gave you that idea? Did nobody tell you? As of today, you’re promoted to Senior Project Manager, on a temporary basis of course, though there’s no reason not to apply when I put out the vacancy.’

My reaction was bewilderment through the smiles and gratitude, the polite nodding and fervent handshakes. I was expecting the police, not a promotion. ‘What about Quentin?’ I asked. ‘Did he resign?’

‘He’s been on vacation since the start of the week, but I received a backdated letter this morning.’ He pointed to an envelope on his desk. ‘He mentioned a breakdown, stress . . . he spoke highly of you, even suggested you as his replacement, and with the Apple Rosenbaum campaign in full swing, we need someone now. He
is
my nephew, but if he wants to go I can’t stop him. I’d rather he be healthy than dig himself further into depression. Between you and me he never lived up to expectation, was never the right man for the job, but you can’t say no to family.’

After a little more small talk, we were both on our feet and edging for the door, and after one more handshake, I was out on the road to new opportunity. I’d survived
and
been promoted. Not bad for a morning’s work.

Now everyone wanted to stand next to me. I’d received recognition, not infamy. It was enough to lift my mood, and for the first time in weeks.

I was already outlining plans, constructing ideas and acquiring acquaintances in the hallways when I spied Nina hunched over her desk.

‘Nina, you won’t believe what just happened,’ I announced, tapping her on the shoulder.

Her crestfallen body lay slumped in the chair. At least my arrival caused her head to raise and the hair to part.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, like I’d dared to interrupt her floor-staring.

Her eyes were cold, her dress black and shapeless and her face was, well,
odd-
looking. It was like she’d applied her make-up with a trowel.

‘Um, I got promoted?’ I replied, almost unsure I had. ‘Quentin’s left. Are we glad to see the back of him, right? No more sex pest. No more sweater vests.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Her eyes fell back on her lap.

‘Well, thanks for being so supportive, Nina.’ She could have at least congratulated me. I’d have done the same for her. I gave myself two guesses what was up, and didn’t even need the second. ‘What’s Mickey done now?’ I asked in my softest voice, crouching by her arm.

It was only as Nina mounted another attempt to hide behind her hair, that I noticed it. Her bottom lip was cut and, despite the concealer, the skin encircling her eye appeared darker.

‘Oh my god.’

‘God had nothing to do with it,’ she wavered, her hand pushing me away.

‘Mickey did this?’ Nina’s silence was the only answer I needed. ‘Come on, you have to talk to me.’

She released one long laugh. ‘Talk is all Mickey wanted to do, and look what happened. I got his talk all over my face.’

‘Go home and pack your things, you can come and stay with me. The suite’s big enough. I can help you report Mickey, make sure you’re safe.’

‘Will you listen to yourself? You want me to leave Mickey, hole up in a hotel and accept help from
you
? I’ll take my chances all the same.’

I rose to standing, my gaze constant. ‘Why are you being like this?’

‘Like what, a
bitch
? I know you’re Mother Theresa and all, but maybe you should try saving yourself for a change.’

‘Nina, this isn’t you.’

‘You’re right, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I was such a nun before and I’m such a
whore
now.’

‘You’re not a whore.’

‘Mickey doesn’t think so.’ She pulled at her nail, trying to snap it.

‘Don’t let him sour you like this. Don’t let him win. Mickey doesn’t deserve you, all right? And no one deserves to be hit. Remember, like you said, when Joe . . . I know how you feel, Nina. Don’t hide behind your mask. I’m here for you.’

‘We’re in the presence of the golden girl, people! Forget the promotion, you’ve been saved! Joe’s gone. You won’t spend the rest of your life hating him, hating yourself, or being too scared to come home. You got it all, girl. You got out. Hell, you got away with it.’

Now shouting dangerous threats through the office, it was a day I’d feared, when an enemy was left in place of my only confidant. Her sniping cut deep. She was angry and hurt, though it wasn’t enough to excuse her outburst. I was trying, but she didn’t want to hear it. And now? She was telling everyone Joe was
gone
, and maybe that I had something to do with it. I might’ve known all about Mickey, but Nina knew more about Joe. Nina knew dangerous things about Joe.

‘I’m only trying to help you, Nina. Don’t throw it back in my face.’ With arms tight to my chest, I stared down at my battered friend.

‘I tried to help Mickey. I tried to get him to quit it with Victor before he ended up dead, and he didn’t just throw it back, he threw it
into
my face. So, your help? Thanks, but no thanks.’

I snapped. After Joe, Evan and the secret, my glass went from full to overflowing. ‘Oh, yeah . . . Victor,’ I pondered.

‘Yeah Victor
what
?’

‘It’s funny he’s always there when Mickey’s crossed the line. Are you sure this guy even exists?’ I might’ve doubted the Victor stories, might’ve had an inkling it was Nina’s way of excusing Mickey, but I’d never accused her of it before, and especially while she was wearing Mickey’s bruises. But once started, I couldn’t stop.

Nina was on her feet now too, pulling me by my wrist to the windows and finally lowering her voice. ‘What are you talking about? Of course he exists. He threatened to kill me, remember?’

‘It’s so convenient, Nina. Mickey’s not the criminal, someone’s making him do it, some guy no one’s seen. You’ve told me what Mickey’s capable of. Are you sure Victor’s real at all?’

‘And I thought I was crazy, girl.’

However much I wanted to, my pride wouldn’t let me back down. ‘Mickey’s nothing but a criminal, hiding behind a badge. You live in a fantasy because life’s more thrilling that way. You used to model for, who?
Elle
,
Vogue
? You used to jet set the world. Now you live with a cop in an apartment. A nice apartment, granted, but Mickey couldn’t just be a police officer. Where’s the excitement in that? He had to be a
dirty
cop, had to be
above
the law. You couldn’t stand my life being more exciting than yours so suddenly 
Victor
’s back, or there’s a new predicament to face.’ I pushed her further toward the edge where I knew, in time, she’d stumble.