I took the gun from my pocket.
I'd envisioned this encounter so many ways. All those nights, lying in a hospital bed, fantasizing about it, I'd realized I didn't want him to break down and beg forgiveness too quickly. I wanted to have to pull the gun. I wanted to see his expression. I wanted him to feel what I'd felt in that alley.
Now I pointed the gun at him, and he blinked. That was it. A blink. Then his lips twitched, as if he was going to laugh. I think if he had, I'd have pulled that trigger. But he rubbed his mouth instead and said, "You're not going to shoot me with your training weapon, Casey. You're smarter than that."
"Did I mention I had to drop out? This isn't my training weapon. Now, I want you to think hard, Blaine. Think back to that night, and tell me again that you let me run."
"Oh, I get it." He eased back. "You want me to confess on some hidden tape so you can--"
I yanked off my jacket. It wasn't easy. My left arm was still in a cast and my shoulder blazed with the simple act of tugging off clothing. But I got it off, and I threw it at him.
"Check for a recorder. Pat me down if you want. I'm not taping this. It's for me. I want to hear you tell the truth, and I want to hear you apologize."
"Well, then you're going to have to pull that trigger, because I don't have anything to apologize for. We ran and you must have doubled back."
"For what?" I roared. "What in fuck would I double back for?"
"Then they must have caught you. You were too slow--"
"I did not run! You know I didn't. I grabbed him, and you were supposed to pick up the gun he dropped, but you ran. Like a fucking coward, you ran and you didn't look back, and I nearly died, and you never even called the goddamned hospital to see if I was okay."
"You are okay. Look at you. Up and about, waving a gun in my face. Well, actually, I'm not sure I'd call that okay. I think you need help. I always did. You're fucked up, Casey. I bet a shrink would say you have a death wish."
I went still. "What?"
He shifted forward, as if he'd just remembered the missing answer in a final exam. "You have a death wish, Casey. What normal girl wants to be a cop? Does that martial arts shit? We get mugged in an alley, and I'm trying to play it cool, and what do you do? Grab the guy. Hell, thank God I did run, or I'd have had the shit beat out of me, too."
I hit him. Hauled off and whaled the gun at the side of his head. He staggered back. I hit him again. Blood gushed. His hands went to the spot, eyes widening.
"Fuck! You fucking crazy bitch!"
"We were not mugged," I said, advancing on him as he backed up, still holding his head. "You were selling dope on some other guy's turf. Apparently, you knew that. You just didn't give a shit. I grabbed that guy to save your ass, and you ran. You left me there to die!"
"I didn't think they'd--"
"You left me there."
"I just thought--"
"Thought what? They'd only rape me? A distraction while you escaped?"
He didn't answer, but I saw it in his face, that sudden flush right before his eyes went hard.
"It was your own fault if they did rape you," Blaine said. "You couldn't leave well enough alone. Now give me that--"
He lunged for the gun. I shot him. No thought entered my head as I pulled the trigger. It was like being back in that alley.
I saw Blaine coming at me. I was already pointing the gun at his chest. So I pulled the trigger.
The end.
Three
"And he died?" the therapist says.
I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up. Her expression is rapt, as if she's overhearing a drunken confession in a bar.
"And he died?" she prompts again.
"I called 911 on his burner phone. By the time I got through, he was gone." No, not gone. Dead. Use the proper terminology, Casey. Don't sugar-coat it.
"What did you tell the operator?"
"Dispatcher," I say, correcting her automatically. "I said I heard a shot, and I raced over to see two men fleeing the scene. One had a gun. I gave descriptions roughly matching two of the guys who beat me. I said I was going to follow them to get a closer look. She told me not to, of course, but I was already hanging up."
"You thought it through."
Her tone should be at least vaguely accusatory. Instead, it's almost admiring. She's been abused in some way. Bullied. Harassed. Maybe even raped. She's fantasized about doing exactly what I did, to whoever hurt her.
I can't even take credit for "thinking it through." A situation presented itself, and I reacted. One therapist explained it as an extreme response to the primal fight-or-flight instinct. Mine apparently lacks the flight portion.
"What did you do with the gun?" she asks.
"I wiped it down and threw it in the river. It was never found."
"Have you ever pulled the file? As a cop?"
She doesn't even bother to say "police officer" now. All formality gone.
"No, that could flag an alert," I say. "It didn't happen here anyway."
"Was the boy's family really connected? Like capital F family?"
She says it as if this is an episode of The Sopranos.
"I guess so," I say, which is a lie. I know so. The Saratoris aren't major players, but Blaine's grandfather, Leo, is definitely part of the Montreal organized crime scene.
"Don't you worry they'll find out and come for revenge?"
Every day of my life, I think, but all I grant her is a shrug.
"Biggest therapist fail ever." I down a shot of tequila two days later, my first chance to have a drink after work with Diana. "I might as well have confided in that chick over there." I point at a vacant-eyed girl in the corner. Hooker. Crack addict. If she's old enough to be in a bar, I'll turn in my badge.
"Remind me again why you put yourself through that," Diana says. "Oh, right. You're a sadist."
"Masochist," I say. "Also, possibly, a sadist, but in this situation, it's masochism."
She rolls her eyes and shifts on her stool. She's already sitting on the edge, as if placing her ass--even fully clothed--on the surface might result in lethal contamination. At least she's stopped cleaning her glass with an antiseptic wipe before drinking from it.
Another shift has her sliding off the stool, and she does a little stutter-jump to get back on, tugging down her miniskirt as she does. One of the guys across the bar is checking her out. Or he's checking out her hair, blond with bright pink tips. He squints, as if suspecting he's had too much to drink. They don't see a lot of pink hair in here.
"So how was work?" I ask. Diana is in accounting. Her exact title seems to change by the month, as she flits about, not climbing the corporate ladder, but jumping from rung to rung, testing them all for size.
"We're not going to talk about your therapy session?"
"We just did."
I down my second shot of tequila. The bartender glances over and jerks his thumb at the soda fountain. It's not a hint. Kurt knows I have a two-shot limit. I nod, and he starts filling a glass.
"So work ...?" I prod Diana.
She runs a hot-pink fingernail around the rim of her martini glass ... which is actually a regular whiskey glass, but it's currently holding a lemon-drop martini. I know she has something to say. Something about therapy, I presume, but I pretend not to notice, as Kurt brings my Diet Coke.
"You staying till closing?" he asks me.
"Maybe."
A smile lights his eyes. When I stay until closing, I usually end up in the apartment over the bar. His apartment.
"You should," he says. "Looks like you could use a break."
I'm sure he's about to make some smutty suggestion about ways to relieve my stress. Then his gaze slides to Diana, and instead he heads off to wait on another customer. He thinks he's being discreet, but Diana knows about us, and she's just as horrified as he suspects she'd be. Diana does not approve of casual sex, especially not with an ex-con bartender who works at the docks by day. She has no idea what she's
missing.
Normally, she'd make a smart comment as Kurt walked away. But tonight she's lost in the mysteries of her lemon drop.
"You okay?" I ask.
"It's ... Graham."
"Fuck," I mutter, and sit back on my stool.
Graham Berry is Diana's ex-husband. Respected lawyer. Community pillar. Also one of the most goddamn brilliant psychos I've ever met. He knows exactly how to stalk and torment her while keeping his ass out of prison. Restraining orders? Sure, we can get them. But any cop who's spent time in SVU knows they're as useful as cardboard armour in a gunfight.
She downs her martini and signals Kurt for a refill. Diana rarely has more than one, and when he comes over to deliver it, he gives me an "Is everything okay?" look.
"Rough day," I say.
When he says, "Maybe tomorrow will be better," I know he isn't talking about Diana.
"It will be," I say.
"Graham's in town," she blurts when Kurt leaves. "He claims he's here on business."
"And he wants to see you, because he loves you and he's changed."
I look her in the eyes as I say this, steeling myself for the guilty flash that says she's considering meeting with him. Like many abusive relationships, theirs is a complicated one. He'd beat the shit out of her, and then he'd be so very sorry, and she'd go back to him, and the cycle would start again.
It's been two years since she left him and we'd both moved to a new city so she could start a new life. This time I don't detect any guilt in her eyes, any sign that she wants to see him.
"Okay, step one," I say. "You'll stay at my place tonight and work from there tomorrow. Call in sick."
She nods. This is just part of the routine for something that should never become routine. How to stay alive when your ex wants you dead.
"With any luck," I continue, "it'll take him a while to track your home or work address, and if he really is on business, he won't be here long ..." I catch her expression. "He's already found you."
"He--he stopped by the office. The usual crap. He just wants to have coffee, talk, work things out."
"And then?" I say, because I know there is an and then. In public, Graham plays the besotted ex-husband. But as soon as no one is around ...
"He waylaid me in the parking garage."
I reach for her wrist, and she flinches. I push up the sleeve to see a bracelet of bruises.
"Goddamn it, Di!"
She gives me a whipped-puppy look.
"Graham showed up at your office and you didn't call me? You walked into the goddamn parking garage--"
"Don't, Casey. I feel stupid enough."
Her eyes fill with tears, and that's when I really feel like a bitch. Blame the victim. I hate it so much. But Diana never seems to learn, and I'm terrified that one day I'll get a call that she's in the morgue because she gave Graham another chance and I wasn't there to stop her.
"He's going to do it one of these days," she says, wrapping her hands around her glass. "You know he is."
I don't want to follow this line of thought, because when I do, I think of Blaine and how easy it was to kill him. I fear that one day I'll decide there's only one way to protect Diana.
"I've been researching how to disappear," she says.
"What?" I look up sharply.
"We could disappear. You and me."
I don't ask why she includes me. The last time she ran, I joined her because she needed me and I had no reason to stay where I was. Nothing has changed. I have a furnished apartment I've never added a picture to. I have a lover whose last name I've never asked. I have a sister I speak to three times a year. I have one friend, who is sitting in front of me. I do have a job I love. But that's all I care about. My job and Diana. The job is replaceable. Diana is not.
"Let's just focus on keeping you safe for now," I say. "Graham will go home, and then we can discuss how to handle this long-term."
I put money on the table and catch Kurt's eye as he deals with a drunk. I mouth, "Tomorrow." He nods. Smiles. Then I turn to Diana and say, "Drink up, and let's go."
Four
I'm at work the next day, trying not to worry about Diana. Of course, I do. I've felt responsible for her since we met, back in tenth grade. She'd just moved to my district, and I spotted her in the cafeteria with her tray, looking like a rabbit about to dine among wolves. I'd waved her over to join me and my friends, and she never left.
I keep thinking about Graham being in town. About the other times he's tracked her down and what he did. Got her fired. Trashed her apartment. Beat the shit out of her. And, the last time, tried to run her down with his car.
"Detective Duncan?"
I look up from my desk. It's Ricci, a new detective from Special Victims.
"Are you, uh, busy?" he asks.
I resist the urge to glance at the piles of paperwork on my desk and say instead, "What's up?"
"Got a, uh, victim in hospital and she's ... She won't talk to me. My partner's off with the flu and she said I could ask you."
What he means is that he has a rape survivor refusing to speak to a male detective. Our division is small enough that the lines aren't drawn in permanent ink.
When I hesitate, my partner, Timmons, leans over. "Boy's giving you the chance to escape paperwork for a few hours and you're arguing? Go. I've got this."
Ricci fills me in on the ride. The young woman kicked out her addict boyfriend a week ago. He came back for his things ... and took what didn't belong to him, raping her. Then he strangled her. Or that's the story given by her roommate, who spotted the ex fleeing the scene. The victim herself insists it was a random home invasion.
As I listen to the story, I try not to think of Diana. I still send her a text, reminding her that she's supposed to order takeout for lunch and not leave my apartment.
I know the rules, Casey, she replies, and I mentally hear her add, I'm not a child. As an apology, I tap back a note that I'll grab her a chai latte on my way home.
We arrive at the hospital and take the stairs to the room, which is being guarded by an officer I don't recognize. He whispers to Ricci, "You aren't supposed to take anyone else in there. Doctor's orders."
"Constable Wiley, this is Detective Duncan," Ricci says.
I shake his hand. He stares a little too long and then covers it with a laugh that's a little too loud as he says, "Guess the force doesn't have height restrictions anymore, huh?"
"They haven't in years," Ricci says. "That would be discrimination against gender and race."
He slides me a look, as if expecting a pat on the head. He's referring to the fact that I'm also half Asian--my mother was Chinese and Filipino.
"Is Ms. Lang ...?" I wave toward the room.
"Uh, right," Ricci says, and grabs the door for me. As we walk through, he whispers, "Thank you for doing this. I really appreciate it. Maybe we can grab a drink after shift?"
I really hope you're not hitting on me in the hospital room of a rape survivor, I think, but only murmur something noncommittal. Then I tug back the curtain around the bed and--
It looks like Diana.
It isn't, of course, but that's the first thing I think. I see a blond woman wearing pink barrettes that, for a moment, look like pink-tipped hair. Her face is purple and yellow and swollen. A ring of bruises circles her throat. She wears a cast on one arm, has one leg raised, not unlike me twelve years ago.
I imagine Diana here, in a hospital bed, like me and like this girl, beaten and left for dead, and I realize I can't keep ignoring Graham. I owe it to Diana to make sure she never ends up like this.
Then I push that aside, and I see this girl. Only this girl. Our eyes meet, and there are traces of defiance in hers, but only traces, as she clings to that, as if refusing to turn in her ex is her choice. As if he doesn't have her so terrified she can't see any other option.
I move to her bedside, lean over, and whisper, "Let's make sure he never does this again," and she starts to cry.
I ban
g on Graham's hotel room door.
"Casey," Graham says as he opens it, grinning like I've brought his favourite takeout. "You found me. I was hoping you would. Come on in."
As I enter, I put my back to him. That's my way of saying he doesn't scare me. Only once I sit on the couch do I face him. Graham Berry. Forty years old. Looks like he should be the spokesmodel for some high-end law firm, all white teeth and perfect hair and chiselled jaw. I can still hear Diana's excited whisper. "Oh my God, Case. You have to meet him. He's gorgeous, and he's brilliant, and he's charming, and he asked me out. Can you believe it?"
I wanted to, because Diana deserved some good in her life, having gone through a string of abusive losers since high school. Except she was right--it was hard to believe a guy as outwardly perfect as Graham Berry was madly in love with Diana. That's cruel, isn't it? But there's a dating hierarchy, and though you can move up or down a notch or two, when you're attracting the attention of someone a half-dozen rungs up? You need to ask yourself why.
In Diana's case, the answer is that Graham sees the same thing her loser exes had--her deep vulnerability and eagerness to please. Like my parents, Diana's set a higher standard of expectation than she could reach. Unlike mine, hers vented their displeasure in more than words, and she'd spent her childhood convinced she deserved every beating she got. That made her the perfect target for Graham's particular brand of sadism.
"You look good, Case," he says, those white teeth glimmering.
"Knock it off. We both know I'm not your type."
"Mmm, not so sure about that." He walks over and sits on the coffee table, right in front of me, so close our knees brush. "How about a deal? You give me a night, and I'll go home happy. I'll let you bring the handcuffs. We can arm-wrestle for who wears them."
"If I ever got you in handcuffs, Graham, I don't think you'd like where it ends up. I want you to leave Diana alone."
"Oh, I know, but Diana doesn't really want me to leave her alone. I'm wearing her down."
"If you hurt her--"
"I never hurt her. Not against her will, anyway. You've got me all wrong, Casey. You always have. I love Diana, and if our relationship is a little unconventional, well, that isn't a crime."
He smiles. I know exactly what that smile means--that if I'm wired and trying to entrap him, I'll catch nothing. He's so damned careful.
"I want you out of town," I say.