Page 8 of Monsters

“Something wrong?” asked Detective Walsh.

There was a lot wrong.

“No,” I lied. “Goodnight.”

I steered Peter down the street, and despite his curious glances, we remained silent until we entered my apartment. I needed that time to stomach the events of the night. I needed to figure out why my past had reared its ugly head and how deeply I was implicated.

~

Wiping a circle of steam from the mirror, I pulled the brush through my long dark hair. Behind me, Peter sat on the edge of my bed, his face downcast to the floor.

There had been a huge shift in the evening’s mood, and I knew he had questions.

“So…” he finally started, breaking the silence between us. “Are you going to tell me who they were or are we going to pretend like everything is fine?”

“Who?” I asked, returning the brush to its rightful place in the drawer.

“The two detectives whose card you now have in your purse.”

I stood in the doorway to face him. The soft light from the nightstand cast a golden sheen over his already golden tan. He flew to LA every week and had acquired a healthy Californian sun glow.

“They just wanted some information,” I casually said hoping that would appease him.

He shrugged his shoulders confused by my indifference. “Information about what? Did something happen at work? Are you okay?”

“Nothing happened at work, and I’m fine. Really!”

“If you’re fine, you would tell me why they were at your birthday celebration hassling you. You’d tell me why they handed you their card in case you ever wanted to ‘chat.’” His tone was sharp. In his line of business, he expected everyone to cut to the chase. There was no room for misinterpretation if everyone got their point across the first time. He could be relentless.

“They just wanted some information regarding the neighbors I grew up with back home.”

Somewhat satisfied with my clarification, he crawled to his side of the bed, and I got into mine.

“You said you were from Delaware, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t been back there for almost a decade.”

“I know.”

“So how could they possibly think you’d have any information about the place? You left when you were a teen.”

My frustration at Peter’s insistence and anxiety over the past had formed a dangerous concoction. I snapped. “I don’t know, Peter! I had nothing to offer them, and they didn’t give much away either. So I don’t have any more answers to your persistent questions.”

He raised a hand in defeat, and I pushed aside the feeling of guilt. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to nag you.”

“It’s fine,” I reassured, my voice dropping the tone. “I’m really tired from the whole week.” I leaned over and kissed his warm cheek then turned away and switched the light off. Normally, when he was in town, we would make the most of our time together and not one night would pass without intimacy. Tonight, however, I couldn’t force it even if I tried.

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