Page 9 of Vipers & Roses

Then it dawns on me, and a strange sensation trembles along the skin of my stomach when the image of the handsome silver-haired detective enters my mind. “Surely not.”

Detective Gabriele Bernardi, Detective – just call me Gabe from the Sex Crimes Unit at Torres Island PD. Apparently, he was first on the scene, but I didn’t meet him until I awoke several hours later in the hospital. Going to that time and place in my mind is too hard, so I reach for the joint and light it back up again. I’d rather do something that’ll make me ill the next day than spend the night lying in bed, crying and scratching my skin until raw.

After the third drag, my head starts spinning, and I stub it out and head back inside to hunt for something fatty and substantial to stuff my face with. I swing open the fridge door while chatting to myself because there’s no one else here except my pot plants and that spider on the wall, and I will respect his personal space if he respects mine.

“Bernardi. Does that mean they’re related?” I take a swig of full-fat milk out of the bottle, but it’s not hitting the mark. “Is the silver-haired detective related to Cormac, the next best thing in men’s 200 and 500-meter freestyle?” Ignoring the half-empty bottle of Sav Blanc. “My favorite stroke. Ah, a chicken leg. Cowslick Cormac. Now Smiler has paid me, I can fill my fridge with food.”

Good high school swimmers like me went to Keele Uni to train at the elite level under Mr. Lyons. We were given special privileges and often missed class, and we didn’t care. I was in a group of four girls, and three dropped out quickly once the intense training started. I was placed in a team with university students years older than me, yet I was still faster than many older girls. So Mr. Lyons gave me special treatment, one-on-one in the small hours of the morning or very late in the evening.

But that was another life, a world away, even though it was only two years ago. I’m nineteen, almost twenty, but I feel much older. An ancient.

Mr. Lyons, the rapist’s office was always located in the Sports School on campus, but I don’t know if it’s still there. I guess there’s only one way to find out. Maybe I’ll make that my mission tomorrow between class and learning to shoot a gun.

I sit on the edge of my bed and flick the small TV on while attacking the chicken leg with my teeth. Salty fattiness and some mind-numbing sitcom show are exactly what I need right now to curb my appetite away from the joint outside on the balcony or the Sav Blanc in the fridge left there by Zara. “Damn that, Zara.”

My phone beeps, and it’s my little brother Rory sending me a pic of his pet cicada that he found and keeps in a jar, so I call him for a chat.

“Does Larry sing?” I ask Rory.

“No. He Forgets to sing,” he answers in an utterly gorgeous, sweet voice.

“Maybe it’s time to let him go to be with his family. What do you think?” I subtly suggest. Okay, I’m not subtle at all.

Ignoring my suggestion, “Are you coming home this weekend?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes, and I can’t wait to have a spin on your new bike,” I say enthusiastically.

“You’re too big,” he scoffs.

“That’s a bit rude,” I tease. “Is Mom about?”

“Nah, she’s out,” he answers, “I can’t remember where.” I sigh in relief because I avoid talking to my mom as much as possible. Not because she’s an awful person but because she’s not. She’s the best Mom in the world, and that’s why I feel so tarnished and ashamed that spending time with someone who’s so flawlessly strong makes me feel weaker.

“And Dad’s there?” I ask the obvious.

“Yeah, he’s watching the news on his iPad,” he answers, then yells at Dad that I’m on the phone.

“Nah, buddy,” I tell Rory, “I can’t talk. I’ve got company. I have to go, okay? Love you and see you this weekend.”

“Love you,” he answers, and the line cuts out.

I exhale in relief that I’ve dodged another family bullet, although I won’t be able to do that this weekend. I’d have to grin and bear it.

Me: Any ideas of what to get Dad for his birthday?

Max: Wrong number

Me: Pleeeease!!! ??

Max: His fave whiskey. That Scottish brand.

Me: Great idea. Thanks, bro.

Alone again, the sound of the TV blasts into this small space in an attempt to distract me from my stupid thoughts. Half a bottle of Sav Blanc is in the fridge.

“Shut up! I don’t like wine that much and after being in the fridge for several days, it probably tastes like urine.”

However, there’s only one way to find out.

---