Page 8 of Traitor

He grinned again. “Maybe I just wanted to see how you were—see what you know.”

I heard the threat beneath the smile. He was testing me to see if I knew the real reason Monica was no longer alive. If I gave him any indication that I knew the truth, I imagined that I’d end up just like she had.

I tucked my right hand into my pocket and wrapped my other hand around my bicep, willing myself to stop shaking. “Did Torch send you? If he did, you can tell him to man up and face me himself. I wanna know how Monica got those drugs—did he give them to her?”

It was a lie, but I needed him to think I was clueless.

He narrowed his eyes, studying my face for any signs that I was deceiving him. So, I tilted my chin up defiantly and looked him straight in the eyes. “You gonna cover for Torch now?”

He latched onto my upper arm, his grip causing me to cry out in pain. I tried to move out of his grasp, but he leaned into my face. “You want Torch, bitch? Go find him yourself. I ain’t his mother.”

I jerked my arm free and hissed through clenched teeth, “You think I haven’t tried? If I knew where he was, I’d be there. Instead, I’m standing here with you, getting nowhere. Oh, and call me bitch one more time and I’ll remove your balls.”

My stomach wasn’t feeling my sudden bravery streak and was instead trying to talk me out of it in favor of vomiting. My time with Mike had convinced me that I was invincible. It was only after my mouth began picking fights that my body couldn’t win that I remembered he was gone. I was going to have to keep my wits unless I wanted to end up dead.

The biker took a step toward me and I knew that I’d crossed a line. And then something strange happened.

A sense of calm washed over me and death was no longer something to fear, but something closer to a friend.

I think he was expecting me to cower, but I stood my ground as he advanced, readying my body for the blow that was undoubtedly headed my way.

He stopped at the last second and leered at me. “You better watch your back, bitch.”

Then, he turned and climbed back onto his bike as I exhaled a shaky breath and fought to remain upright. Once I was sure that he wasn’t coming back, I fell into my car and drove home to my apartment, feeling completely spent. I’d just challenged a biker and lived to tell the tale.

If I’d had even the smallest of doubts that Monica had been killed, my encounter with the man in the parking lot put all of that to rest.

I made it up the stairs on wobbly legs and let myself in. There it was. The box. It sat on the coffee table, mocking me. I knew that I needed to open it and go through her things, but doing so added a sense of finality. If I left it alone, then it wasn’t real.

Never mind the fact that there was an urn up on the mantle; my mind still held onto this hope that it was all a nightmare. I stared up at the gunmetal vase—the funeral home had talked with me about caskets, but it wasn’t right. She’d lived her entire life in darkness. I couldn’t bring myself to put her down in the earth to live in it for eternity.

I blinked away the tears that seemed to form at the drop of a hat and turned back to the box. A few weeks ago, I’d mustered up the strength to touch it, but couldn’t bring myself to pull off the lid.

I took a step forward and then another until it was right in front of me. I could do this. I was going to just rip it off, like a band-aid. With a deep breath, I lifted the lid and tossed it to the floor.

Her purse was lying on its side, the wallet sticking out from the top. With numb fingers, I pulled it out. That was it. There was no letter naming her killer or a clue that would lead me down the right path. It was just a wallet and a purse. Her cell phone was missing and I briefly wondered if the police station still had it, before remembering that they weren’t treating her death as a homicide and therefore would’ve had no reason to hold on to any of her possessions.

I can just have Mike track it…

The thought hit me and sent a fresh round of tears streaming down my face.Why?Why did I do this to myself? What part of me was sadistic enough to continue digging at the open wound instead of letting it heal?

I ran the back of my hand and forearm across my eyes before opening up the wallet. Everything seemed to be there. There was cash in one pocket and her driver’s license in another. Another cursory search of her purse turned up nothing other than a business card.

I’d put off opening this box for a month and it held nothing. I’d spent many nights lying in bed, wondering what she’d left behind. In frustration, I flipped the purse upside down and held it open, shaking vigorously.

Just before I could work up the nerve to launch it across the room, the fabric separated beneath my fingers. I turned it right side up and sure enough, there was a hidden pocket.

I exhaled softly and pulled a bundle of papers free. She’d known that they’d go through her things. A hidden pocket inside a purse wasn’t something a man would typically look for.

A folded piece of notebook paper caught my eye and I slid it from the stack. I slowly unfolded it and blinked until my vision cleared. In her loopy handwriting, she’d written:

1) Lauren

2) Torch

3) Future Grandchildren

I stared at it in confusion until it clicked. I’d asked her before if she missed using and she’d said,“Yes, every day, but I keep a list in my pocket of all the reasons not to.”

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