Page 54 of I Did Something Bad
Dipar lifts her head, her eyes clouding over with an indistinguishable darkness that pierces the sheen of tears. “No.” She exhales. “I… cut him off. Completely.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
She gives an unthinking shrug. “It means that—” She pauses, swallows, and looks out the tinted windows. We go silent while a group of drunk teenagers stumbles past on the sidewalk. Once their voices fade out, Dipar continues, “Jared wasn’t a good man. Or even a good human being.” She turns to us, head slightly tipping like there are so many things in her mind she’s weighing whether or not to say aloud. “I don’t know why you guys are looking into him, but let me guess, it’s not good news,” she says, and even though she says “you guys,” she’s looking directly at me.
I shake my head. “He was—”
“I don’t want to know,” she interrupts. “I left him because I was tired of being collateral damage. I’m not happy that he’s dead, but I’m not going to be mourning him either. I can’t help you out with whatever it is that he dragged you into, but I hope you find peace soon.Ihave. Now can I please go?”
She sounds like someone who’s been through a lot. Enough, even. I’m about to admit defeat and unlock her door when Tyler’s gentlevoice asks, “Can you direct us to someone who might have seen him recently? We… have some questions.”
The sound of Dipar’s inhale and slow exhale is amplified tenfold by the car’s silence. “There’s a bar across the street from our old place,” she says, eyeing us, probably wondering if she’s making a mistake by telling us this much. “It’s called Devil’s Lounge. I’ll warn you, it’s dark and sleazy and almost exclusively filled with old white men. One of Jared’s favorite things to do was rack up a tab there. So if you do go, you should tell them that they’re not going to be paid anytime soon.”
“Thank you,” Tyler says.
A mild “Good luck” is the last thing she mumbles before exiting.
It’s nearing midnight when we pull up in front of Tyler’s building. “Thanks for coming.” I shoot him a smile. “I’ll go to Devil’s Lounge tomorrow and see what I can find,” I say, not expecting the frown that overshadows his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Khin.” He laughs through my name. “You have to stop.”
“Stop what?” I reply, pulling back.
“Stop trying to get rid of me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m helping you until we solve this. I’m seeing this to the end.”
I let out a “Ha!” into the dark. “And what if it ends with me going to prison?”
“You’renotgoing to prison.”
“What if I do?”
“Then—” In one fluid motion, he unbuckles his seat belt, the fabric emitting a softwhooshas it slides across and up his torso until he’s free to lean forward. One elbow rests on the center console, and his hand lowers onto my thigh. “—I’m going to watch the entirety of the 2005 American serial dramaPrison Breakstarring Wentworth Millerso I can take notes and come up with a foolproof way to, as the title states, break you out of prison.”
I burst out laughing, and a smile spills and seeps into every corner and crevice of his mouth andgodif the sight doesn’t ignite a flurry of embers in my gut.You are a good man,I think.
“Tyler, I don’t want you risking your job over my mess. It’s okay. I’m a freelancer, remember?” I say, hoping I’m not letting on that my insides are nowhere near as solid as my tone. “I’m used to going out on my own. Your assistance is appreciated, but I can get out of messes myself.”
He shakes his head, and, to my horror and misfortune, gives my thigh a light squeeze. I say “horror and misfortune” because it feels like he’s squeezedotherparts of me, and I know I need him to leave this car within the next five minutes or I cannot be held responsible for the actions I’m about to commit. Currently, my center of gravity is the spot where his palm is (still) connected to my thigh, the heat between our skin alleviated only by the blue satin of my skirt. If this were anyone else, I’d say this was intentional, amovein a dark car. But it can’t be, becausewecannot be; we are professionals, perhaps friends, but definitely not a “we,” not in this sense. If nothing else, there is a professional brick wall of aVoguearticle standing between us, even though, truth be told, I enjoy peeking over that wall every now and again, just to see what I’m missing out on.
“Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me now,” he says. “Like Elle and Emmett. But, you know, less white.”
“Oh, Tyler.” I extend my bottom lip as though I pity his delusional thinking. “You’re not nearly smart enough to be the Emmett to my Elle. You can be Bruiser, though.”
This timehelaughs in surprise, and I justknowthat my smile is bordering on psychopathic.
“Wow, that’s what I’ve been demoted to? A chihuahua?” He cocks his head. “Youdoknow I graduated from Yale’s drama school.”
“Look, buddy, either you’re Bruiser or you don’t get a role in the movie.”
“Well, Bruiser is Elle’s best teammate and she takes him everywhere, so,” he says, winking and hopping out of the car without waiting for my reply, which is just as well, because it would’ve been something absurd and embarrassing along the lines of,Isthatwhat we are? Teammates?
The next morning, I spot the car before the lot gate is even fully raised. I do a quick visual sweep, and, not seeing anyone I should be looking out for, power walk to Tyler’s trailer.
“Morning!” I chirp as I enter.
Tyler catches my eye in the mirror, script in one hand. “Morning!” he says, and whirls around. “You arrived just in time. We’re starting early.”
