Page 33 of Shattered
CHAPTER 10
Mel
My phone buzzed. This was the fifth text I had gotten from my mother that morning.Are you excited about today?as if this were the most groundbreaking interview I would ever partake in.You do remember that today is your interview for the Instructor of the Arts position, yes?Which quickly devolved into,Are you on your way yet?
I had responded every time. I texted back to this one too:On my way now.
The private girls’ boarding school where my mother worked was in the same city as The Dahlia District. Cresting Heights was the kind of place that city dwellers often forget about, or loved to make fun of. One gas station, one bar, one upper-class hotel and restaurant combination, was all that the town needed. The main focus was, of course, the Dahlia District and Sage and Ivy Preparatory Academy, where my mother worked.
I drove down the road to the academy, but my gut clenched the closer I got. If I was offered the position automatically, like my mother had said, what then? I would still owe Dahlia hundreds of thousands of dollars so that anything I made through teaching would go back to her anyway. Rourke’s overprocessed voice inserted itself into my mind:You are who you are. Never give up on being your most authentic self.
The tall buildings with the white paned windows came into view.We’re waiting, my mother sent. I checked the time; I was ten minutes early. I had gone to school here. I wasn’t a rich kid like the rest of my classmates; my parents’ employment connections got me the discounted tuition, grades got my scholarships to help with the rest, and hand-me-down uniforms helped me fudge my way through the dining halls. But I had never belonged here, even now. Did I want to work with or under my mother? More importantly, did I want to be an art teacher when I was hardly motivated myself?
The Dahlia District was better for me. At least there, I would have the opportunity to paint what I wanted.
I turned around in the parking lot and headed back to Sage City. I drove without a purpose. I didn’t want to go home, but I didn’t know where to go either. I ignored my vibrating phone and drove near the coast, wanting to see the ocean to calm myself, to remember that there was always beauty in the world, even when everything else seemed to go to shit.
I found myself parked outside of a small tattoo shop off of the beach. The parking lot was dusted with sand.Anchored Hearts Tattoowas posted in an intricate design on the window.
The doorbell jingled when I went inside, and the receptionist glanced at me, looking up from a magazine. Cotton candy hair cut into a pixie cut, with ear lobe gauges bigger than a whiteboard marker.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m just looking,” I said, “Thanks.”
Her eyes lazily went back to the magazine, and I thumbed my way through the binders of portfolios, in awe of the artwork. Arms, backs, and stomachs with full portraits, gardens encapsulated in full sleeves, dragons and tribal bands, watercolor and traditional designs, and even some quotes written in a loved one’s handwriting. I checked the cover of the green binder for a name or a social media account but didn’t see anything. I quickly took a picture of the binder so that I would remember it. My favorite.
I thought of Garrett’s tattoo, wondering where and when he had gotten it. The serpent eating its own tail. Life and death. It reminded me of a flower’s fleeting beauty. Like the cherry blossom, life bloomed, and then it was gone, leaving us only a moment to enjoy its wonder.
What would Rourke think of a tattoo like that?
My phone buzzed again. I got ready to ignore the message from my mother and turn off my phone completely when I saw the message was from Garrett. Speak of the devil.Can’t make it tonight, he sent. A few seconds later, the notification for my account at the Dahlia District popped up, stating that he had added funds.
It had been a while since Garrett had been to the Dahlia District. It seemed even emptier there. While I liked Rourke’s attention, his crimes were scaring away the customers, as if everyone had reasons to hide. But what annoyed me more was that it had been a few days since I had seen Rourke too. The man had made me come like I was an animal that couldn’t get enough of him, and then heleftme there to figure out what the hell it meant. And by now, all I knew was that I could finally admit that I wanted him.
If he was ugly, scarred, or more treacherous on the outside than I could have imagined, would I still want him to fuck me like he would break me in two?
Yes. More than anything,yes.
Maybe this was how he was trying to save me, by disappearing from my life as if he had never existed. But I hated that. Being abandoned never erased the emotions, the pain, the longing for what once was.
A few hours later, back at the house, the doorbell sounded through the empty walls. I expected it to be my mother, coming to ring me a new one for ditching the interview, and if so, I planned to ignore her. But Detective Foreman’s skinny frame showed through the peephole. I opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Foley,” he said, his voice even-tempered. “Do you have time for a few questions?”
I let him in, taking a seat on the couch. He sat on the opposite end, fidgeting with his notepad, asking if he could turn on a tape recorder.
“All right. We’re recording an interview with Melissa Foley. How are you doing today, Ms. Foley?”
“Fine.”
“Do you know anything about Nick Vantage?”
I shrugged, and Detective Foreman wrote down a note, then pointed at the recorder, reminding me to talk. “No. But that was the Angel’s latest victim, right?”
“Right.” He sat up. “He was forty-two. Left behind a wife and two daughters. Does that mean anything to you?”
My mind went to Rourke’s reason for killing. Would Detective Foreman ever protect a sex worker, instead of simply prosecuting her?
