Page 11 of Ghosted in Arkadia
Dark humor and violence, that’s how we cope.
“I’m not keeping the fucking dog.”
He moves on, laughing at me, but the sound is drowned out by the scream of the sirens when the ambulance peels away.
I hope he fucking dies on the trip to the hospital.
“Hey, Tommy,” I call out, making him stop and turn to face me. “Can you make sure I get his name?”
“It’s Todd Angler,” Tommy calls back.
I nod, feeling the familiar craving that comes from my kit. Looking at the growling shepherd in my backseat, I know I’ll have to stop at the store for a few things.
Might as well add vodka to the list.
I stand apart from the group of mourners dressed in black. The only thing I own in the color is my little black dress, which I wore along with the thigh-high black boots. Cathy wouldn’t have wanted me any other way.
Rex sits beside me, his ass half leaning against my calf while he endures the service better than I do. The three empty mini-bottles of vodka in my purse are proof enough.
Several other mourners stand around the rectangular hole Cathy’s casket has been lowered into. Tommy and James are huddled together with the other officers from our precinct. Captain stands stoically in his freshly ironed suit, which will soon be drenched by the impending storm.
I can’t help my gaze from wandering toward the front of the large cemetery. A large group of black stands in rows of pairs. That is the funeral of Todd Angler. Of course, theyhadto plan his service for the same time as the woman he killed.
Todd had arrived at the hospital in critical condition and was stabilized by the next day. His sudden and complete turn for the worse is still a mystery to the doctors.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter that he had jumped off the deep end and killed a police officer. All that was swept under the rug of ‘pain caused by the loss of his soulmate.’ Yet, the police officer, the hero he killed, is lowered into the ground with hardly a dozen to mourn the loss.
It isn’t fucking right.
This is how the mateless mourn. With a slap to the face in death, just in case we thought that was the end of our torment.
The first drops of rain fall. A heavy one lands on my shoulder, and I imagine the sky is crying just for Cathy. At least the world knows what it lost.
I look at the other congregation, and a lone patch of darkness catches my attention. While everyone else stands in pairs, a person dressed in black sits atop a matching electric motorcycle. A helmet blocks the face, but the build suggests it’s a man.
He’s looking our way.
I stare back, feeling his gaze directly on me even though he’s at least a hundred yards away. He wouldn’t be able to make out my features from that distance.
“May she find peace reunited with her soulmate,” Captain says, the send-off for every funeral, and I look back at Cathy’s casket.
I’m being paranoid. It’s probably one of Cathy’s one-night stands coming to pay his respects. She was known for her blowjobs, which is undoubtedly something to mourn.
I glance back and the motorcycle and the driver are gone. As if it had all been a figment of my imagination from the start. I am fucking paranoid. Guess that’s what I get for standing in the same cemetery as the man I killed. Writing his name on my arm in blood had been easy. My bullets should have done the job the first time.
A self-driving cab takes me home while rain pounds against the wide glass windshield. I sit in the backseat, putting my life in the hands of computer programming. It’s not like I could drive any better with the last two bottles of vodka added to the empties in my purse. Rex sits on the seat next to me, panting and fogging up the windows.
“Can you not?”
I raise an eyebrow at Rex; he looks my way and seems to mirror the expression before shutting his mouth.
“Thank you,” I huff, turning back to look out the window.
As soon as I unlock the front door, Rex rushes past me. He heads straight for his bowl and sits down, looking back over his shoulder with his mouth hanging open again.
“It’s not time for dinner,” I say, heading into the kitchen to grab another bottle of vodka from the shelf. “But it’s five o’clock somewhere,” I mutter, unscrewing the cap.
Rex whines. It sounds more like an accusation. To avoid further guilt trips, I give in and serve him an early dinner.
