Page 35 of Haven't Killed in Years
The door reopened and I whipped back around to face my mother.
She took the appropriate seconds to register it was me and not hardworking Carol. She knew how to proceed. She was intuitive and prison-smart. “Carol,” she said. “It’s great to see you.”
“Sorry to drop in on you like this, but there’s a burst pipe in my apartment and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I was hoping I could stay for a couple of days.”
“Of course.” Reanne smiled.
I lunged forward and threw my arms around my mother. It was a manufactured display of affection, trumpeted on the doorstep for my stalker, but it didn’t make the physical contact any less real. I was enveloped by the deep stench of cigarettes in her hair and she hesitated a fraction of a second before wrapping her arms around my waist.
I loosened my grip and she separated from me, backing up to allow me inside the house. I stepped through the doorway knowing exactly what I was doing.
I stood on the edge of the living room, designed out of necessity rather than taste—mismatched furniture, stained carpet, a television six or seven versions behind the latest model. Gustus lowered himself back into a ragged recliner. If he was suspicious of who Carol was or how she knew Reanne, he wasn’t going to say it.
“Baby,” my mother addressed her husband, “why don’t you go see your brother about the car so Carol and I can catch up?”
Gustus considered it, then leveraged himself against the armrests and back out of the chair. “How about a compromise? I’ll go catch the end of the game at O’Brien’s.” He walked toward her, stopping to lean down and kiss her on the top of the head. It was kind of sweet. My mother’s superpower was clearly getting awful men to love her unconditionally.
The door slammed shut behind Gustus and we were alone.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Reanne offered.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“I’m surprised to see you,” she said. “Is something the matter?”
“Yeah.” I rested my bag on the tattered couch. “There’s a burst pipe at my apartment.” I repeated it with a bit of attitude toward her for not believing it the first time…even though it was a lie.
“Damn shame. Well, you can stay here as long as you’d like. And you don’t have to worry about Gustus. He’ll keep out of your business.”
I took a seat, sinking into the couch. I was here, in the house, feigning a relationship with my mother. That was the plan; the rest was irrelevant. She sat down on the edge of Gustus’s recliner, resting her hands in front of her and waiting for me to say something.
“You seem happy,” I said.
She smiled in the affirmative. “I know it’s not going to be all butterflies and rainbows, but it’s good to be out.”
“I’m sure.”
“Tell me about you. I’ve missed everything.” She scooted toward me.
“Someone cut off James Calhoun’s arm,” I blurted out, and she ceased trying to enter my space. “Probably killed him. Do you remember him?”
“I heard that,” she said, shifting her body language back to what I was comfortable with.
“And the other guy, Oswald Shields. You knew him too.”
“What’s going on, Marin?”
She’d called me Marin again. Just like that. Out loud and so natural in conversation.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But be careful. Lock your doors and don’t be stupid.” I was actively trying to put her in the crosshairs of my stalker, but I guess I did feel guilty about it. Seeing her face, even though it looked like it had been soaked in a corrosive substance for the past eighteen years, I saw my childhood and I saw my family and I saw the last time I had belonged to anything. Maybe if I warned her, she would be ready and hit the asshole in the throat with a shovel or something. That was really the best-case scenario.
“Do you know who did it?” she asked, the casual delivery of her question reminding me that my family was different.
I shook my head. “I’m trying to figure it out.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I shrugged. “It is what it is.”
