Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
He waits until I have a mouthful of scrambled eggs before he asks his next question. Fitzy is really good at catching me off guard; I'll give him that.
"So, what's going on with you and Jenna?"
He knows a lot of the history. He saw us close, and then not close. Well, at least he should have. He was just a boy and could have been quite unobservant at the time.
"What do you remember about how Jenna and I got along?"
He pauses for a minute and takes a sip of coffee. He's not eating the eggs. He made them just for me. It makes me feel special and loved, which I know is stupid, but let's face it, my brain is not firing on all pistons at the moment.
"You were always in cahoots, and then you couldn't stand each other. Used to drive Brady crazy the way you two fought. He always wanted to come over to my house, just to be away from the drama. Have things not improved?
"Um, that's putting it mildly." Chewing again. This man could cook. He's still looking at me, waiting for an answer. "Jenna has spent her life being Jenna. Spoiled, selfish, and mean. For some reason, she has taken it upon herself to make me miserable every chance she gets."
"How so?"
"I think the big one is that she had an affair with my boyfriend, got him to propose to her instead of me, and then ended up causing a car accident that killed him."
"Oh, right. I remember hearing about the accident."
"So you remember the gory details." He nods, encouraging me to go on. "And, the icing on the cake is that she's pregnant with his child."
"Jenna's pregnant?" Even though he's asking a question, there isn't any surprise to his voice. Maybe no one sees how badly this is going to go but me.
"Yeah. It's going to be a disaster. She isn't fit to be someone's mother. She's not even fit to be a human being."
"You know, your mom thinks something happened to her. That she's missing. What do you think?"
Do I tell him what I think? Do I tell him what happened here the other night? I can't. I now know, in hindsight, that I did the wrong thing. I'm going to have to deal with it at some point, but I don't want Fitzy to know what I did. Not yet.
It doesn't matter, either way, because we're interrupted by a banging on the door. Fitzy jumps up. "Let me get it. You stay put." It's a statement, not a suggestion. His voice has an air of authority to it. He's a lot different than the last time I saw him. Yet, still, the same and familiar. He definitely likes being in charge. Fitzy being here, showing up like this, picking up like the last seventeen years haven't happened, is sort of off-putting. At least enough to knock me off my bearings. Not as if that's hard at the moment.
"Oh my God, Sadie! Are you all right?" I can hear Max's voice before he reaches my kitchen.
"Yeah." I say glumly. I really feel like crap. I don't want Max rushing in, thinking that—wait, why is Max here in the first place? Didn't we fight last night? All this—Jenna, Max, Fitzy—it's all too much for me to process in my hungover state. I really hate people showing up unannounced all the time. I need some peace and quiet. And sleep. I just want everyone to leave so I can go back to sleep.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name." Fitzy is addressing Max. The sight of the eggs on my plate is making my stomach churn. Fitzy certainly is bossy. I should ask Fitzy what he does for a living. He must be in some high-power position or something. Maybe we can catch up someday over coffee in the near future. Not now. I need them both to leave so I can pass out again. My head feels like it's about to explode.
"That's because it's none of your business." I've never heard Max so abrupt. Normally, he's jovial and light. Today his voice is hard. It's disturbing. He must be really pissed at me. He has no right to be mad at me—he's the one dating multiple people or whatever is going on with him and Tracy. He can't blame me for wanting no part of that. I'm mad at him. "Sadie," he squats down next to my chair. "Are you okay? What's going on?"
Oh, I get it. Max can do whatever with whomever but now he's gonna get all pissed that I have another man in my kitchen. Well, two can play at this game.
"This is Fitzy. He's a
friend
. You know, like you and Tracy. And he's making me breakfast. Max, Fitzy. Fitzy, Max."
Fitzy extends his hand as Max stands up, still glaring. "Henry Fitzsimmons."
Max has no choice but to accept. "Michael Schultz."
Fitzy cocks his eyebrow. I used to love it when he did that. "I thought Sadie called you Max."
"I thought she called you Fitzy."
They were practically peeing on each other to mark their territories. I guess I should be flattered, but I just couldn't appreciate it at the moment. I was feeling all sorts of crappy and wanted to crawl into bed for about a week.
Max squats back down and grabs my shoulders. "What's going on? Are you okay?"
I shake out of his hands. I don't want him touching me. "I'm fine. I mean, I feel terrible, but that's because I did a battle with vodka and lost. Why are you so antsy?" It was a big word for my limited brain cells to come up with in their alcohol-infused state.
"Why are the police here?"
"Police?" I look around and see Fitzy standing over us, his hands on his hips, pushing his sports coat back. There it is—his gun. And not in a penile-euphemistic kind of way. An actual gun in a holster, his shiny badge on his belt. I guess that answers the question about what Fitzy does for a living. "Oh, yeah. Fitzy just stopped in—" then it occurred to me. "Why
are
you here?"
Max doesn't let Fitzy answer. "It's not just him. There's a police car in front of your house, too."
Police car. Police ... car. Police ... man.
Oh shit. No way. With a speed I didn't know I could muster at the moment, I run to the front of the house. As I approach the front door, bits and pieces start to flash in my mind. Uh oh, I think I'm going to throw up.
"Sadie, what's wrong? You're three shades paler than a ghost." Max puts his arm around my waist, as if he's afraid I'm going to pass out. I let him because I might.
"Max, did you stop by here during the night? Wearing your leather vest and chaps?"
I hear Fitzy behind me, snickering.
"Um, no. Why do you ask?"
A small surge of relief passes through my veins. "No reason. I just remembered a weird dream I had." As more of the dream starts to come to my consciousness, I can't believe how real it seemed. Max was there, first as Cupid, then as a police officer. Then, there were two Maxes. But it wasn't two Maxes, it was Max and Fitzy. Thank goodness that was just a dream. I'm pretty sure I was rather crass with my suggestions about handcuffs and where he could put his nightstick.
You know, if I wasn't somewhat clairvoyant, this whole dream thing would have freaked me out. But I've become used to premonitions that later become real—or turn out to have a basis in reality.
I open the front door and step onto my porch. I can see that there is a uniformed officer sitting in the front seat. He lifts his hand in some sort of signal. Like some gang sign, as if we had gangs in this small town.
"Are you with him?" I ask Fitzy. "What's going on?"
"Sadie, I'm going to need you to come down to the station with me."
"Wait, what?" I look between Fitzy and Max. Max is just as bewildered as I am. Two more cars pull up. Neither their lights nor their sirens are on. Still, it's enough of a spectacle that the neighbors are going to notice. Great. What a way to make a first impression.
"Sadie, let's go."
"Um, Fitzy, I don't think so. I'm not feeling great. I'm going to go back to bed."
"Sadie, this isn't a request. We have a search warrant for your house. You need to come with me and answer some more questions."
Max jumps in. "
More
questions? Sadie, I don't know what's going on, but please tell me you didn't answer any of his questions without your lawyer present."
"Lawyer? I don't have a lawyer. And no, I didn't answer ..." I trail off. It occurs to me that everything Fitzy said to me before was a question. There was a lot of him asking and me answering. Oh no, what did I even say?
"I'll call Tracy. She's a legal secretary. I'll get someone for you."
I make a face at Max. Tracy again? I look at the police cars surrounding my house. Looks like I don't have much of a choice here. "Okay, Max. Thanks." This was all happening so fast. I didn't even really know what this was.
Now I address Fitzy. "Fitzy, what's going on? Why do you want to talk to me? Do I need a lawyer?"
His jaw was set in a hard way that didn't look right on the face that I know. Or used to know. The Fitzy I pined over as an adolescent would not do this.
"Am I under arrest?"
"No. Not yet."
"Not yet? What did I do? What is this about?"
"Your sister."
Oh shit. Did they know what happened? How could they? Did everyone know what I did? Oh shit.
Have I mentioned that I hate my sister? Yeah. I didn't think it possible, but I hate her even more right in this moment. This moment, in which I'm being brought to the police station for questioning. I don't think I did anything wrong. Okay, that's a lie. I know I did. It's why I was so upset last night that I had to make like a Russian and drink an entire bottle of vodka. But I didn't think it was a crime. Maybe in the eyes of God it was. Not in the court of law. Or was it?
I guess I'm about to find out.
Max is back in the house, on the phone. Hopefully he's calling for a miracle. Fitzy is escorting me to his car.
And I'm guessing this pretty much ruins my chances with Max. Of course, now I'm not so sure I want a chance with Max. I don't like how he acted yesterday, and then showing up this morning was weird too. And I don't have to wonder whether my chances are ruined with Fitzy too. Not that I had been so much as thinking about Fitzy before today. Either way, I'd bet there are a lot more date-less nights in my future.
Which is fine with me. That's the way I want it. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me. Jenna was just the latest casualty. Except she wasn't the one I had a premonition about. Oh no. I often wished misfortune in her general direction, even more so than usual in the past few months. Like the opposite of praying for someone. A curse, if you will. And my curse came true.
How do I tell Fitzy this? He's going to tell my mother. I can't bear to hurt her. I can't bear to see the disappointment in her eyes. For once, I'm glad my dad is in the state he's in, so he won't be able to look at me like that too. I know I've done something terrible. It's not my fault, really. Okay, it is. It is my fault my sister is dead. I'm the one to blame. The eggs make a u-turn in my stomach. All over the rear tire of his Chevy Tahoe.
At least it wasn't inside the vehicle.
"Sorry about that," I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Fitzy's jaw is clenched even harder. "Let me just get the hose and wash it off." Since I'm not fully under arrest, he can't stop me from this, can he? I wonder if he thinks this is a ploy to delay the inevitable. It isn't—I'm not that clever, but the extra time to think is certainly welcome. The hose feels like it weighs about nine hundred pounds. It's taking every ounce of strength I have to drag it up to the front of the house.
I wash the tire off, aware that Fitzy and several uniformed officers are watching me. They seem to be amused at my predicament. Great. I'm glad they think it's funny that I booted all over a cop car. I can't believe that none of them is offering to help me. Jerks.
I hear one of them call, "Hey, Richards, why don't you give her a hand? Maybe she'll give you a tip." More laughter. "She looks like she knows how to handle a hose." What the hell is so funny anyway?
Then I see the red-faced young officer who appears to be the butt of the joke. Along with me, that is. And, immediately, I know why.
So, remember that dream about Max showing up as a stripper, dressed as a cop? Maybe that wasn't one of my vivid dreams after all. Maybe that was young Officer Richards that I tried to tip with a bunch of singles. Oh. My. God.
I put the hose back, square my shoulders, and try to pretend I have some dignity left. Marching up to Fitzy, I demand, "Tell me again, why you were in my house this morning?"
"Officer Richards called for backup."
"Because?"
"He couldn't fend off your feminine wiles." Fitzy is trying not to laugh.
"And where exactly did you come in?"
"He radioed for backup. I had already told your mom that I would handle the case, so I received his distress call."
He opens the door, and I climb up and sit down with a huff. "So, why aren't you arresting me for assaulting an officer?"
Fitzy is in the driver's seat and clicks some buttons on his dashboard. "Because, honestly, it was the funniest thing I've seen in a long time. I wish all D and D's were this amusing."
"D and D's?"
"Drunk and disorderlies. Although you were in your own home, so there's not a lot we could do about it. Poor Richards—never had a chance against you. You've learned some new moves since high school."
"Thank you. I think."
"Frankly, the guys are here to see what you look like."
Great. "So, then, after I molested poor Officer Richards, then what? You showed up? Why?"
"I told you, I had talked to your mom. We've so far determined that you were the last known person that we knew of to see Jenna. We're trying to trace her steps to see if we can locate her."
"I thought someone had to be missing for twenty-four hours before a missing persons case could be opened?" My palms are sweating and I sort of want to pass out.
"It was twenty-four hours last night. You were the last person to see her. And what time was that again?"
This time, I noticed the shift into interrogation mode. "Did I invite you into my house then?" Two could play at this game.
"As a matter of fact, you did. Amongst other things." He smiles at me in the rearview mirror. It's still a panty-dropping smile.
Swallowing hard, I manage, "Did it involve your handcuffs and um, nightstick?"
"Sweet little Sadie is all grown up, isn't she?"
"Yeah, feeling so grown up right about now." I bend forward, holding my head in my hands. I try to think about last night, or actually early this morning. "So, if I invited you in, and you started hammering me with questions, then all of that must be grounds for your search warrant." I watch a lot of
Law & Order
, what can I say?
He's quiet for a minute. "Talking to you was not what I thought it would be. You said some things that were a bit on the questionable side."
"Can't I argue that I was not fully in control of my right faculties when I said those things, and so they would be inadmissible?" I wonder what I said? I tend to be loose-lipped on a good day about my feelings toward my sister.
"Been watching
Law & Order
, I take it?"
"Fitzy, we go way back. Apparently, it's my lot in life to constantly make an ass out of myself in front of you. But can you at least be up front with me and tell me what's going on? Why are you bringing me in?"
"Sadie, I ..." he breaks off. We're parking in front of the police station. I know he doesn't have much time before he has to be all official again. "You said some things. They were ... disturbing. If you can answer the questions, then maybe we can figure out what's going on with Jenna."
He gets out and is coming around to let me out. There's a news crew in front of the police station. I'm hoping against hope that they're covering another story. All I can picture is them hammering us with questions: "Detective Fitzsimmons, can you tell us about the disappearance of Jenna Perkins? Is there suspected foul play? Is this a person of interest?" "Aren't you the missing woman's sister? Did you have anything to do with her disappearance?"
Thank goodness they don't seem to know who I am, and really are there to cover another story. Maybe I do watch too much TV.
Fitzy's arm is around my back, and he's ushering me inside. Through the front office, down a corridor, and into an honest-to-God interrogation room. Even though I'd been mostly watching HGTV these days, this was something straight out of Investigation Discovery. I looked around for the cameras, wondering if this would be recorded for posterity. Or prosecution. Whichever came first.
"Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? Soda?"
"A file in a cake?"
Fitzy smiles at me. "I hope it doesn't come to that." His voice is serious under his light words.
"Fitz?"
He stops in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Don't you know—I'm the good cop."
He wasn't kidding. His partner—the bad cop—is a brick wall of a woman named Michele Abbott. She's in an ill-fitting suit and has unfortunate curly hair that probably wouldn't look half bad with the correct product. Detective Abbott didn't mess around with hair product. Or an iron. Or a tailor. Too bad. She's probably trying to project a tough image. I wonder if her outward appearance is a physical manifestation of her inward unhappiness. But I don't have that much time to armchair quarterback her psyche before she starts in on me.
The good news is that while my words seemed to flow endlessly when Fitzy asked me questions, Detective Abbott's piss-poor demeanor makes me clam up tighter than my jeans after Thanksgiving dinner. I'm a little less likely to say something stupid to incriminate myself. I mean, incriminate myself again.
"Tell me about your relationship with your sister," she barks.
"When was the last time you saw your sister?"
"What did you discuss?"
And so it goes. On and on. If I hadn't already had a headache when this started, I certainly would have had one by now.
I'm not saying much. In my head, I know I should wait for whatever legal help Max can find for me. Assuming he can find someone. What if Tracy works for a tax attorney or a patent lawyer? That would certainly be of no help.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that I've actually done nothing wrong. I mean, I was a terrible sister, no doubt about it. But I hadn't committed a crime. This realization helps me to sit a little straighter and take charge.
"Am I being charged with a crime?"
"Not at this moment," Detective Abbott says dryly. Her threat is thinly veiled.
"Then I think I'll be going. I've got work to do on my house."
"The search is still being conducted at your premises. You cannot enter until they are done."
"When will that be?"
"When they find what they're looking for."
"And what are they looking for?"
"The proof that you killed your sister."