Page 10 of Volatile Vice

I need to call Vinnie.

He’ll know what to do.

Won’t he?

He didn’t answer when I tried before. Maybe he was in a meeting or something, and I didn’t leave a voicemail. I didn’t—couldn’t—say any of this out loud.

I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking. I press Vinnie’s name and hold the phone up to my ear, my heartbeat thumping a wild manic beat. The ring echoes in my head.

I look around at the police officers whispering among themselves and at my mother who is now huddled in a corner talking in hushed tones with a tall man in an expensive-looking suit. The body bag on the bed seems out of place in my room. My favorite band posters still hang on the wall and a few books are scattered about. There are stuffed animals on a shelf next to my bed, and boxes full of DVDs of old comfort-food movies that I used to escape my illness.

The body bag has poisoned everything in my room.

I can never sleep here again.

I walk into the hallway, keeping the phone pressed to my ear.

But Vinnie still doesn’t answer.

Again, I hear his away message. And again, I can’t bring myself to leave a voicemail.

The man talking to my mother walks toward me. “Raven Bellamy?”

“Yes?”

“This is your bedroom?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “I’m staying here. Sort of. I was at my own place last night. But I’m recovering from leukemia, and I…” The words just stop, caught in my throat.

“Yes, your mother told us.” He pulls out a pad of paper. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

I simply nod.

“In the living room, maybe?” the man says.

“Sure.” I swallow.

“I’m Detective Harris,” he says. “Jeremy Harris.”

“Raven Bellamy.” But he already knows that. What’s wrong with me?

What’snotwrong with me would be a better question.

We head into the living room. He gestures me to have a seat. Mom sits next to me.

I sit on the edge of the couch, gripping the cushion beneath me as if it could anchor me to some semblance of reality. The room feels too bright, the morning sun streaming through the windows stark and unforgiving. Detective Harris stands in front of me, his notepad open. Another officer, Joel Martinez, stands by the door.

“Ms. Bellamy, can you walk me through your evening?” Detective Harris asks, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of suspicion.

I swallow hard, trying to steady my racing thoughts. “I was at my house last night,” I begin, my voice trembling slightly. “It’s on the ranch property, about ten miles from here.”

“Were you alone?”

My lips tremble. Do I tell them I was with Vinnie? That we saw a drone flying above us in my backyard? Is it all related somehow?

I suppose it’s best to tell the truth.

Vinnie would tell me to tell the truth.

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