Page 68 of Dying to Meet You
“By accident. I was walking past the restaurant where we worked when I was in college. I heard the band, and I saw his face on a flyer. I went inside and found my daughter with a friend at a table.”
She gives a low whistle. “And you had no idea they were in contact?”
“Look, have you ever raised a teenager?”
“No,” she says, her voice softening. “I haven’t had the pleasure. Did she tell you when they first made contact?”
“The date? No. I can try to ask, but she’s really mad at me. I took her phone away for lying to me about her whereabouts.”
“Okay, but I need that information. Either you get it, or I’ll have to interview her myself.”
Oh no you don’t. “We need a cooling-off period, but I’ll ask her tomorrow. Were you even going to tell me that he came to my house?”
“My responsibility is to the deceased, Rowan. It’s my job to ask more questions than I answer.”
Like that’s not infuriating.
“Listen,” she says. “I did some research on Harrison’s first offense. The bar fight.”
My stomach bottoms out, the same way it does every time I think about that night.
“You never mentioned they were fighting overyou.”
“They weren’t,” I argue. “It wasn’t like some TV love triangle.”
“Then tell me how it was.”
The steel band around my chest tightens again. I hate remembering. Hate talking about the night that took my relationship from doomed to eviscerated.
“It was date night, I guess. We weren’t doing that well as a couple. We had a toddler who didn’t like to sleep in her own bed, and he had just lost his job. So we spent money we didn’t have on a babysitter, and we went out to a comedy show.”
“At the Parker House. That’s in the police report.”
Why do I have to tell this awful story if it’s all in the report? “Harrison was really... off that night. Sort of hard to reach. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how to fix it.”
“Like, mentally off?”
“Yes. I thought he was depressed. But he also kept asking me questions that didn’t make sense. And that made me livid, because it meant he’d probably taken drugs.”
“He did that a lot?”
“Well, yes and no. Not when I met him. He said he occasionally did some Ecstasy when he partied with his friends, but after Natalie was born, he started smoking pot. He was careful to smoke only outdoors, but it annoyed me because we had money issues. He told me it helped him feel less anxious.”
I remember yelling at him that getting another goddamn job would makemeless anxious.
“Anyway—that night he was acting so weird that I thought he was on something new. I was afraid, and I was angry that he’d get high on our big night out together. So I picked a fight. I told him I was pissed off, and we might as well go home if he was going to act like a zombie.”
“And he got mad?” she asks.
“No, that’s the weird thing. He hardly reacted at all. Like he waschecked out. Until this stranger butted in and said, ‘Hey dude, your lady is trying to tell you something.’ And finally Harrison sort of woke up and asked the guy, ‘Who are you talking to?’ Which sounds like a smart-ass thing to say, but Harrison really meant it.”
“Weird.”
“It was. Then Harrison asked, ‘Who sent you?’ and the guy starts laughing. He calls Harrison a freak and a bunch of other names. Harrison flipped out. He started screaming questions at the guy. The whole bar kind of stops to watch. The bouncer steps in and tries to grab him. And Harrisonfreaks.”
“Meaning... ?”
“Punching. Kicking. Like the devil possessed him. And this is a man I’d never seen violent in my life. The guy’s friends pulled him back, but Harrison grabbed a bar stool. It was heavy. Made of steel, I think. And he charged the guy.”
