Page 37

Twenty
Patrick
I stopped at Gino’sand picked up her favorite—sausage, double olive, extra cheese—and gave myself a pep talk on the way home.
You’re going to eat some pizza.
You’re going to watch some TV.
You’re going to be her friend.
You’re going to let her go.
The parking lot is packed so I park down the street and make my way back to Gilroy’s, weaving in between groups of drunk college kids heading in and blue-collar types, heading out. Unlocking the side door, I use the mass of bodies squeezed around the bar as camouflage as I slip in and up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, I balance the pizza box in one hand to open the door.
It’s locked. Skin tightens at the back of my neck.
She never locks the door.
Digging my keys out of my pocket, I unlock the door. Push it open. It stops short, bouncing hard against the security chain. I can see the couch and chair in the wedge of open space. “Cari?”
Behind the door, in a space I can’t see, I hear a commotion. Harsh breathing. The rumble of a man’s voice and my gut clenches.
I told you yesterday, bitch—I’m going to kill you.
Dropping the pizza box, I take a step back and lift my foot, planting it hard against the door, snapping the chain like it was made of paper. The door flies open. Wood explodes across my field of vision.
James is on top of Cari, straddling her chest, hands locked around her throat while hers are wailing and clawing at his face and arms. Her face and neck are soaked in blood.
That’s the last thing I remember.
“You can’t remember anything after that?” The cop standing over me asks, skeptical glare aimed at my swollen, bloody knuckles. The blood stains on my shirt. The trail of it splattered against the stairs behind me.
I shake my head because I’m tired of repeating myself.
The cop sighs. “Alright,” he says scratching his head before looking at me. “Take me through—”
“Is he under arrest?” Conner calls out from behind the bar. The place is deserted, the crowd cleared out by the police and EMS hours ago.
The cop standing over me aims a look at Con and shakes his head. “No.”
“Then take my client’s complaint, the forty-three witness statements you gathered—all of which attest to the fact that my client was acting in defense of the victim, the surveillance footage I gave you—” Con flashes his megawatt smile. “and get the fuck outta here.”
The cop narrows his gaze at Con for a second before reaching into the shirt pocket of his uniform. “If you remember anything, give me a call.” He flips the card at me and stalks off, stopping next to his partner who is questioning Cari on the other side of the pool table. She’s wearing a BPD t-shirt, Tess’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. The cops took her shirt as evidence. Took pictures of her. The busted door. The blood spatter in the stairwell behind me.
They talk for a minute or two, throwing me side-eye. They think I’m lying about remembering what happened after I found Templeton on top of Cari. Not that they can do fuck all about it.
Finally, one of them hands Cari a card. And then they leave.
As soon as they’re gone, Declan comes out of the office, Tess’s cat winding around and between his legs with every step he took. Interactions with BPD always go smoother if Dec’s not around.
“You alright, man?”
I look up and over to see Conner standing next to where I’m sitting, glass in one hand, bottle in the other.
I take the glass and slam its contents in one gulp. “I’d feel better if I’d killed him.”
I know that much. When they took James out of here on a stretcher, he’d been breathing. Broken and bloody. But alive.