I say nothing. Spoons and cups clang about in the kitchen, and Marco’s twitchy. His leg shifts, and the pillow beneath it nearly falls from the coffee table. I reach out to catch it—instinct, really—but the gesture is almost too much for him.
“You don’t have to do that,” Marco says. “And you really don’t have to make coffee,” he shouts toward the kitchen, holding his ribs and wincing. “We need to talk.”
“Start,” I tell him. “I’m listening.”
Marco gives me a look of mingled exasperation and discomfort.
“I need . . . Jake, man, could you just leave the coffee? I really need you
both
to just sit and listen for a minute.”
Jake obliges and sits on the arm of my chair, his long legs dangling to the floor.
“Thank you,” Marco huffs. But after his passionate insistence that we listen, he doesn’t say a thing. It’s infuriating.
He scratches his knee fourteen times, and then he finally opens his mouth. “I would never, ever hurt Ali. She was my life.”
I need more than a nostalgic declaration and well-timed tears from this actor, but as much as he seems to have something to say, Marco is painfully quiet.
“What about the bruises, Marco?” For Jake’s sake I work to keep the sting of accusation out of my voice but am only moderately successful. “When I returned from Europe—”
“Ali has—had—anemia,” Marco interrupts, avoiding my stare. The next words are hushed. Like the brush of silk, like a lullaby, they are precious and delicate. “She was having a baby. My baby. The pregnancy made her severely anemic. So she bruised. A lot.”
In a world of possibilities, this one had not occurred to me.
“She . . . Ali would have told me if she was pregnant,” I stutter.
“She was planning to tell you. She wanted to wait, but she knew the bruises were freaking you out.” Marco pauses, giving me time to digest this new scenario.
“But the detective, or her mom—someone would have told me.”
“No one else knows, Brielle. And Jimmy Krantz wouldn’t have told you anything anyway,” Marco says bitterly.
“Why? Why wouldn’t he tell me? Detective Krantz was nothing but helpful. For weeks he called me daily to follow up. He told me about your fingerprints on the gun and your confession—”
“Did he tell you they couldn’t find any gunshot residue on my hands or arms? Did he tell you I’d also been attacked?”
His words throw me back in the chair. “No,” I say. “No, he didn’t.”
For the first time I wonder if I’ve been wrong. If what seemed true was nothing but a clever lie. I have no idea what to believe anymore.
“Will you tell us what
did
happen, Marco?” Jake asks, taking my hand.
Marco’s face wrinkles, the memory aging him, but a tremulous smile breaks through the folds. “That’s the reason I’m here. The reason I came to Stratus.”
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hear this. Strong enough to live this nightmare again. And through the eyes of the man accused of Ali’s murder. But not knowing won’t make it go away.
“I met Ali at her dorm,” Marco begins, “interrupting your study session, Brielle, to give her the news. The film was done, the editing complete, and Horacio was going to be in town that night to view it. Well, he was going to be in town, at least. I planned on surprising him with the finished copy.”
I remember that day so well, but it seems Marco remembers it even better, and while it hurts to hear the details from his perspective, it seems to pain him more deeply to tell it.
“Horacio made my film a reality, and while hands-down, the guy was creepy, I felt I owed him. I couldn’t wait to show him what his money had paid for. Ali’s acting was superb. The story was fresh and thought provoking. And with my connections around the city, even the soundtrack turned out okay—always a concern with low-budget films.”
His gaze settles on a spot above my head, and again he’s the consummate actor—telling a story, drawing us in.
“Jake, man, when I first met Horacio, he was throwing down thousands for a rookie piece of art. I thought perhaps he’d be willing to invest in an innovative, albeit green, filmmaker as well. I’d never imagined it could be this easy. I mean,
he
approached
me
. See, my dad owned a chain of warehouses—rented them out to small businesses or whatever—but when the economy went belly-up, most of his renters did too. A couple years ago he ran off, left my mom. I didn’t think a thing about his warehouses, right, until my mom called. Her name was on the mortgage, and if she couldn’t get rid of the warehouses, and fast, she was going to lose the house. Something about the way they were purchased, I don’t know. And then, out of the blue, there’s this guy Horacio, and he’s got tons of money and he wants the warehouses. He agreed to finance my film—the whole thing—if I’d transfer ownership of the warehouses to him and keep the deal quiet. Anyway, I jumped at it.”
Marco shrinks into the couch cushions. Reduced somehow. Ashamed even.
“We’d just found out Ali was pregnant, and we were planning to get married. I needed the money. Needed the opportunity. He even lent me one of the warehouses for filming. The whole thing seemed perfect. I look back on it, and I know it was a little too perfect.
“You didn’t want Ali to leave that day, Elle. I wish she’d stayed. You have no idea how badly I wish that. But in true Ali fashion, she rolled her eyes at your concern, and I was happy to have won her time. I heard what she whispered to you before we left. She said, ‘You’re wrong. He’s good for me.’ ”
“I remember,” I say. “That’s the last thing she ever said to me.”
It’s a minute before Marco continues. “We walked to the subway and rode toward the docks, toward the warehouse we’d been using. I’d shot several scenes there, and it housed our production and editing equipment. Horacio kept a small office there too.
“Ali and I talked about the film and about the baby. She figured her parents would withdraw their support when they found out, and she couldn’t stand that you hated me too. She made up her mind that day to tell you, Elle. She wanted you on her side.”
“I’ll always be on her side,” I say, my chest knotted.
“I know.” Marco runs a hand through his hair and lets it rest behind his head. “Have you ever been to the industrial district, Jake?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“The downside of working there is that it’s rarely ever quiet and always smells of diesel fuel. As soon as the smell hit us, Ali got sick. Right there on the street. I ran to the mini-mart on the corner for crackers and soda, and Ali took my keys so she could let herself into the warehouse. She just wanted to lie down.”
He swipes both hands across his face, but the effort is a waste. The tears he pushes aside are instantly replaced with a fresh batch.
“I watched her walk away, swinging my keys and singing a show tune.”
Jake hands him a box of tissues, but Marco just holds it, his thin fingers denting the cardboard.
“When I arrived at the warehouse, I could see the bumper of Horacio’s car in the narrow gap next to the building. The engine was running, but I couldn’t tell if he’d just arrived or was heading out, so I hurried, anxious to catch him, hoping he’d stay to watch the film.”
The tears run fast and furious down his face now, but he leaves them and continues on.
“When I reached my hand out to the door, I was knocked to the ground. Three sobbing children tumbled out of the warehouse and landed on top of me. Children. In the industrial district. It didn’t make sense.
“And then this voice was yelling from inside the warehouse, telling them to shut up. To stop crying. It was unreal. It wasn’t until I reached out a hand to help one of the girls to her feet that I noticed the cuffs.”
“The cuffs?”
I cross my arms across my cramping stomach.
“The children—all three of them—were handcuffed together. They were dirty and scared. It was . . . awful. And then Horacio stepped into the light.
“I asked him what was going on, what the children were doing there. He was too busy smiling to answer, enjoying their pain. When he shoved past me, I saw the blood. His hands and arms were freckled with it, and his boots left red footprints on the pavement.
“Until that moment I’d just been confused, you know, but when I saw the blood . . . I’ll never forget that moment. And then he said, ‘Today was a bad day to bring your girlfriend down here.’
“And I just lost it. I swung at him, tried to get between him and the kids. Tried to find Ali in the darkness. Yelled for her over the cries of the children. Eventually he pulled a gun from his belt and pointed it at my face.”
Marco is sobbing. His chest heaving. I can hardly stand it, this story. This reality. But I have to know. “What happened next, Marco?”
“Another man stepped in then. Big. Really, really big. It was like he materialized out of the air. For the first time I saw Horacio balk. He asked the man for instructions. Said, ‘What do you want to do with him?’ I’d never seen Horacio defer to anyone, ask anyone else for advice.”
“Who was he, Marco?” Jake asks.
“Horacio called him Damien. Scary, right? I’d never seen him before.”
Damien. Isn’t that what Canaan called the monster? The fallen angel?
I turn to Jake, my eyes pleading, but he shakes off my silent question. “Go ahead, Marco.”
Marco’s head falls to the side then, like he’s tired, like he’s done.
“After that, the world went black. When I came to, my head was pounding. Worst headache I’d ever had, but there was Ali, her face angelic, her eyes closed. It looked like she was praying, you know? I was lucky—I remember thinking that—how lucky I was.
“And then I saw the blood. And then the gun. Horacio’s gun was in my hand.”
He weeps openly, unashamed.
I’m physically ill, sickened by this man Horacio, mortified that Ali died at his hand. And for what?
“An hour before, I’d had my own little family, and now . . . nothing, no one. It was my fault, Brielle. I know that. I brought Horacio into her life. But I swear, I didn’t kill her.”
If it hadn’t been for the halo on my wrist and Jake’s proximity, panic would have swallowed me. Even now it threatens to overtake.
Jake’s face is stoic, and he stands quickly. “I’ll be right back.”
“Jake?” I’m shaking again. The halo is on my wrist, and still I shake.
“I’ll be right back,” he repeats, leaving the room.
“Brielle,” Marco says, blanching as he adjusts his leg again. “Horacio isn’t going to let me live very long, and the shrink knew I wanted to speak to you. Horacio will find out. You and Jake have got to get out of here. Go somewhere and hide. Call the authorities, not Detective Krantz. Elle—Krantz is on Horacio’s payroll. Find someone who can keep you safe, and don’t leave until Horacio and his men are dead or behind bars.”
I don’t know what to say. My fragile snow globe of a world has been shaken, and instead of the snow swirling, it’s me. I’m upside down and sideways, seeing things from a terrifying new perspective.
There’s a knock at the door.
I throw a blanket over Marco in a panic and dash to the peephole.
Wimby.
Shoot.
I open the door, careful to block his line of sight with my body. “Everything okay, officer?”
“Well, Miss Matthews, looks like I’m outta here.” The pudgy man extends his hand.
“Oh?”
“Yup. Precinct got a call from that Detective Krantz fella.”
“Detective Krantz?”
“Looks like they got this Marco character back in custody.”
I choke, then try to cover it as a sneeze. “Excuse me. Um. Wow, that’s . . . that’s great, Officer. Thank you.”
He tips his hat. “Been my pleasure, miss. You tell your pa I said hello.”
“I will. Absolutely. Thank you, Officer Wimby.”
He trips down the stairs and back to his cruiser. I close the door and turn my back on it.
Marco lowers the blanket covering his face, and I lean back against the door, my mind spinning.
“Detective Krantz will do anything for a few twenties,” Marco says.
Jake’s cell phone vibrates on the table between Marco and me, drawing our attention. I rush the table and scoop it up. Canaan’s name flashes on the screen. I’d gotten so lost in Marco’s story I’d forgotten all about him.
“Jake!”
I run through the kitchen and down the hall. I find him in Canaan’s room, kneeling in front of the chest, holding a beeping cell phone. I pull up, embarrassed and out of breath.
He’s praying.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay,” he says, opening his eyes and holding the beeping phone out. “This appeared in the chest.”
“Whose is it?”
“Screensaver says it’s Horacio’s.”
Why would the Throne Room send Horacio’s phone to Jake?
“Who’s on that one?”
“It’s Canaan,” I say.
He stands and trades me the phone in his hand for the phone in mine.
“Canaan?”
I hear only Jake’s side of the conversation—a lot of yeses and okays. At one point Jake grabs a pen off Canaan’s side table and scribbles something on his palm. But I’m not really paying attention to their conversation. My focus is arrested by the phone in my hands.