Page 2 of Whistleblower

Who did I just give a gun to?

“Grab a seat,” she says, nodding to the stools at the bar behind us. “We don’t have too long. The cops will be on their way soon, and Chandler, it’d be easier to pin this on you than to provoke Peroli by going after his men.”

“What?” The nightmare of this evening won’t end. I’m innocent. “But I didn’t—”

“Take a seat.” She pats my shoulder before she steps behind the bar. “We have a lot to talk about and not a lot of time.”

As my thudding heartbeat begins to slow and my adrenaline calms, the reality of this bizarre encounter really hits me.

Who is she? Why does she know my name? Why aren’t we calling for help? Why am I the only person uncomfortable with a dead person in the room?

“Who are you?” I growl, trying to sound more threatening.

“My name is Vesper,” she mutters absentmindedly as she scans the bottles on the glass bar shelves. She settles on one of Suzanne’s most expensive whiskeys. No one ever orders it because it’s sixty dollars for a single drink. And considering our customers were bikers, seedy poker players, and cheap drunks, that limited edition Macallan was more of a souvenir than anything. Suzanne always said we’d open it on my eighteenth birthday if I stuck around.

Of course I was going to stick around. She needed a barkeep she could pay peanuts under the table, and I needed a family. We were a good pair.

Pop. Vesper uncorks the bottle after fetching two glasses. “Do you drink?”

I pull out a stool, now eager to sit. My legs feel heavy, but also like jelly. It feels like I’m trying to run in a dream. “I’m underage.”

She snorts and pours two drinks anyway. “Good answer, but at sixteen you should also be in school, sleeping in a bed instead of an air mattress in a shitty studio above a dive bar, and certainly not bartending sixty hours a week for far less than minimum wage.” She slides the glass over to me. Planting her elbows on the bar, she leans closer to peer at me. “Funny…” she mumbles. “Your eyes are blue.”

I take a small sip of the whiskey, enjoying the burn on my tongue. “So?”

“I put green eyes in your file. I don’t normally miss the little details.”

“Why do you know so much about me? What file?”

“I know your father, in a way. He was involved with a case I worked a few years ago.”

“So you lied—you are a cop.”

She shakes her head. “Former FBI.”

I throw back the entire glass and wince as the whiskey sets my throat on fire. “I hope you’re the one who threw that piece of shit in jail.”

“I helped,” she says. “I was worried about what would happen to you and your mother when your dad was sentenced. So, I’ve been watching.”

My dad was an abuser, rapist, and murderer. Life in prison, without the possibility of parole wasn’t enough. My mother, on the other hand, was a trickier subject. Can you throw someone in jail for giving up on themselves, and their kid? Is that actually a crime?

“My mother has had pills to keep her company for the past four years. She didn’t even notice when I dropped out of school and ran away six months ago.”

“It’s a shame. You’re smart. Good grades, great test scores. You only had two more years in school and probably would’ve gotten a scholarship. A decent college could’ve gotten you out of here. Why’d you quit so close to graduation?”

“A scholarship won’t pay room and board.” I purse my lips, not sure if I should be honest. Why spill secrets to this stranger who emerged minutes after a murder? Then again, who else in the world do I have to talk to? “And also, because my stepdad threw even more punches than my dad.”

She nods like she already knows my sordid family history. “You’re a strong-looking guy. Why didn’t you hit him back?”

I wanted to. Every single time. I wanted to wrap my hand around my stepdad’s throat and watch the light go out in his eyes. But I couldn’t. “Because when he really felt threatened, he took it out on my mom.”

The drugs made Mom so weak, she couldn’t take any more hits. I was terrified I’d watch him beat her to death. I begged her to leave for years, for us to just run away and start over somewhere new. It took me a while to learn she’d already left without me… The pills, the needles, the smoke… They took her away.

“Let me tell you something right now. Something very important. Women are not weak. But the men who lay hands on them are.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Except my mom is weak.”

“Your mom is an addict who needs help.”

---