Page 94 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“We’re sorry about the mix up,” Officer Daniels says, remorse ringing out in his tone. “From our perspective, it looked . . . well, I’m sure you’re aware that we need to take domestic abuse allegations seriously.”

I nod, his voice and words barely registering. “Right.”

He lets out a long breath. “But the statements from the diner employees made it very clear that you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re free to go. Here are your personal items back—wallet, keys—and your car is parked out back.”

I take the brown envelope from him. “Thanks.”

“Any questions?”

“Where—” I clear my throat. It aches from the pressure of grinding my teeth for hours on end. “Where is she?”

The officer sighs. “She was taken to the hospital by one of our officers, but we got a call from triage saying she left.”

I sniff and nod.

“You should get that girl some help,” he says.

I don’t say anything. All I feel is defeat. I back toward the door, trying to hold it all together before I fall apart. Stepping out into the warm midsummer night from the stagnant air of the police station, I head around the back for my car. My station wagon is at the far end of the lot, and it’s as if I’m a marionette. Some other divine being puppeteering my body through the motions.

Unlocking my door on autopilot, I get into the front seat and slam it shut. In the privacy of my own car, I finally let everything out. I break down. A horrible sob wrenches its way through me, and I can’t stop. I cry like I’m five years old and fell off my bike only for my dad to tell me my mom couldn’t kiss my scrapes all better because she was never coming back. Now, in the back of the police station parking lot, all of that pain comes rushing out as tears stream freely down my face.

I’m hurt, betrayed, heartbroken—but most of all I’m angry. Angry at everything. At how, no matter what I try to do, the good things in my life always get fucked up. My luck always runs out. The anger tears through me, manifesting in my fists until I’m punching the steering wheel and the dash until my knuckles are bloody and my hands are shaking.

I just wish I could fall asleep. Everything would quiet down if I could just sleep. Because if I leave this parking lot, I’ll have to face the real world and everything that’s broken, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that yet.

Wiping my face with an old bandana from the back seat, I finally pull out and head toward Sam’s house. I won’t go home. My dad didn’t even answer the phone when I called from the police station. I suppose I finally lived up to everything he always thought I’d achieve. At least I won’t have a record, but he won’t ever believe I didn’t do anything wrong. So I head to Sam’s.

I wonder if Emily will be there. Will they know whathappened? Will she have told her cousin the same story she told the police? Is she still so drunk she can barely stand? Will they ever forgive me for not showing up at the studio?

When I pull up,the garage door is still open, my headlights illuminating Sam as he sits on a folding chair with a cigarette between his lips. As I kill the engine, his eyes find mine through the windshield. For a long moment we stare at each other until finally, he takes a deep breath and looks down.

The door opens and my whole body is tense as I walk toward him. I stop short when I’m a few feet away.

“Where were you, man?” Sam asks quietly.

“Jail.”

His eyebrows shoot up, some of the anger he’s hiding in his features disappearing with my answer. Obviously, he hadn’t expected that.

“What the hell for?”

What do I even tell him? That Emily, his cousin, is an alcoholic? That she was so drunk she accused me of hitting her? That she’s the one who’s been stealing money from him? How is it fair that I have to be the one to tell him everything?

“Is Em here?” I ask, looking toward the door into the house.

“No, we’re not doing that. You’re going to fucking tell me what the hell is going on before you race off to her.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that. I—I just want to make sure she’s somewhere safe.”

“She’s in her room.”

Letting out a breath, I rub my chin where some stubble is already growing. “Good.”

“Dave?” I look up, and Sam’s eyes are angrier than I’ve ever seen them. “Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

I cross my arms over my chest, my heart anxiously pumping as I try to decide how to tell my friend. “Em . . . she’s . . . She has a drinking problem.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “A drinking problem?”

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