Page 16 of Deja New
EIGHT
Angela could feel her pulse hammering away in her own ears, which was distracting. And what was worse, it wasn’t because she was nervous about facing her uncle.
Jason Chambers. He was why she was especially grateful for the invention of antiperspirant. And why she was irritated to catch herself giving thanks to the good people at Degree.*Since they’d met a couple of weeks ago, she had found the sober cop in the understated gray suit (or black or navy) to be the human equivalent of catnip. There was just something she liked about him, every single time. He was a big bundle of contrasts: brutally short brown hair, bright blue eyes. Lines of wear bracketed his eyes, but a dazzling smile (when she could coax one from him). Underwhelming sober-colored suits, wild socks.
Yes. She liked the man for his socks. She would admit it, but only to herself. Oh,God,if any of her family found out she had a sock crush she’d have to leave town. Perhaps the country. And then the planet.
But there was no denying it: She was hooked the moment she spied hisMona Lisasocks. Subsequent visits had revealed Vincent van Gogh’sTheStarry Nightand Gustav Klimt’sThe Kisssocks.*
It was her fate to find such a man irresistible: The cop who knew just how fucked up her family was and thus, sensibly, would want nothing to do with her on a personal level. He kept her at arm’s length, always, and she couldn’t fault him for it. They’d never be more than coconspirators. Wait, that wasn’t the right word...
Never mind. Focus.
Here, again, the visitation room: white walls, shiny white floor, long wooden benches with long tables, all set up (as comfortably as mass-produced benches and chairs could be) to seat fifty or so. The far wall had a line of chairs against the glass so people could talk to inmates who for whatever reason couldn’t come into the visitation room itself. It looked like a well-lit classroom and smelled like a gym.
It was a large room that always felt claustrophobic. The first time she had visited her uncle years after the murder—since her mother had refused to give consent, she’d had to wait until she was old enough—she’d been terrified the guards
(correction officers, that was the phrase. just like it wasn’t a prison,it was a correctional facility; they’re not guards, they’re correction officers who cheerfully work at a correctional facility—so it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad)
wouldn’t let her leave. It seemed inconceivable that uniformed strangers could now tell her up-for-anything uncle where to go and what to eat and when to sleep. And if those people had control of him, surely they could easily take control of her?
Even now, years later, a part of her brain frets until the gates close behind her, until she’s walked through the lot, until she’s gotten in the car and driven away. That small scared scrap of brain finally,finallyshuts up when IDOC is in the rearview.
’Til next time.
Here he came, her uncle, and she was struck all over again by the irony: Prison agreed with him. Dennis Drake was in his sixties, but other than de rigueur salt-and-pepper hair, cropped close in a buzz cut, and laugh lines,
(are they laugh lines if they’re caused by stress?)
he could have passed for mid-forties. She knew that Dennis looked as her father would have if he’d lived long enough; born thirteen months apart, they’d occasionally been mistaken for fraternal twins.
Dennis was in a Minions-yellow IDOC jumpsuit, socks, loafers. Clean shaven and pale, with the grayish complexion of someone long years away from sunlight. His light blue eyes scanned each of them and she could practically feel him adjusting to their new, adult ages in his head. Hell, whenhadhe last seen his son? Had to be...
“Hi, Dad.” None of them had taken seats, so it should have been the easiest thing in the world for Archer to take thosethree or four steps and embrace his father. But it seemed to take forever for him to get there, and the hug was as impersonal as a hug could be: arms forming a stiff A-frame, nothing touching below their shoulders. “’S been a while.” To put it mildly... This was Archer’s third visit in ten years.
“Archer.”
“This is my fiancée, Leah Nazir.”
“Yeah, I remember her from your letters.” Dennis nodded to Leah, who was probably the least uncomfortable person in the group,
(what a pleasant change that must be!)
and extended his blocky hand, the knuckles slightly swollen.
(he’s getting so old in this cage)
“Nice to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drake. It’s nice to meet you.”
A small, crooked smile. “Is it?”
Leah smiled and shrugged, and tightened her grip just a bit.
This.This.This was the moment. The Aimee Boorman of Insighting would, in this one grasp of hands, see something momentous from his past that would help them figure out what really happened. From there they could figure out how he’d ended up in that particular room on that particular night, and from there, they could deduce and find the real culprit and justice would finally finallyfinallybe served.
It would work because the universe practically demanded it. It would work because it was no coincidence that Archer got involved with Leah at the same time the irritating jackass in charge of her father’s murder case retired. Events such as those were too momentous and perfect to be written off as “random coinkey-dink,” as Mitchell would put it.
