Page 58 of Murder

Part II

“There are a thousand things I want.

Each begins with going back in time.”

—Jill Alexander Essbaum, from The Devastation

ONE

BARRETT

NOVEMBER 3, 2015

I do push-ups in the living room until I can’t feel my arms, and the fingers I can feel on my left hand are aching.

I’m interrupted by my phone flashing on the couch’s arm. Dove. I answer out of masochism.

“What the hell, dude? Haven’t heard from you in two days.”

“And?” My voice is tight with fury.

“And…you know. How are things?”

I grit my molars. Fucking Dove in his fucking compound out in nowhere Montana. Probably chopping wood and welding shit all day. Dancing on that peg leg like the happy fucker he’s always been.

“Don’t you have a wife to nag?” His wife’s an author. Thrillers.

“You know I’d rather get at you,” he says. “Anyway, Melinda’s in Cali. Had to go talk to someone about a script.”

I pace around and end up in the kitchen with my back against the refrigerator. I cast my eyes into the living room and lower my voice. “Quit calling every damn day.”

“I’m just standing in for my brother. He’d be doing the same thing.”

It’s true. Breck would. He might even be here with me. I sigh. “Well, you’re not him.”

“I know, man. But really, what the fuck is going on down there?”

I exhale—away from the phone, so Mr. Happy can’t hear it. “I wanted to tie up some loose ends. Do things right so it comes off clean and I have options. Like you claim to want.”

I glance down at my pants, where I’m still throbbing and half hard, then squeeze my eyes shut.

I hear Dove sigh. “You know, man… Did I tell you Bluebell’s been stateside?”

“No.”

“He went to Breck’s parents’ place, right? I talked to him, happened to mention where you were. That was two days ago. Since then, he just disappeared. I don’t know where the fuck he went.”

“Except you do.” I roll my eyes.

“It’s just a guess,” Dove says. He doesn’t even have to tell me what the guess is: that Bluebell’s coming here to interfere with my shit. Working together as long as we all did, I can read his mind, and he mine.

“How long’s his leave?” I rub my brow.

“Don’t know. But I can’t see how any good will come of this. You drawing that shit out with her.”

“You don’t have to, do you? It’s my shit.”

He doesn’t have the balls to argue—even though he could. Because it’s not just mine. Because of what I did, it’s all of ours.

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