knows that Emily was having an affair and he’s already asked Katie for another interview. It has to be because of the apartment and the rumors. He’s going to ask Katie, and Katie isn’t going to lie.
“Clay?” Katie asks from a million miles away. “Clay, I was going to tell you but he called me this morning bef—”
“It’s okay,” I reply, mechanically.
In the span of two seconds, I’ve already forgotten her and Detective Mendez and the blood in my car and the fact that I’ve been set up by a murderer. I’ve forgotten all of it because moments after Detective Mendez walks out the door, someone else walks in.
Henry Parker; the husband of the late Emily Parker.
And he’s walking right towards me like he has something to say.
He’s wearing jeans and a button-down blazer.
I quickly shoot a glance to my left. Genevieve’s head is up, watching us, completely ignoring the middle-aged business guy who’s trying to talk to her.
STOP! TURN AROUND AND WALK OUT THE DOOR, PLEASE! I mentally plead to Mr. Parker.
Unable to read my mind, he continues towards me, stopping directly across the bar from where I’m standing. He sizes me up like he’s looking at an unwashed child.
My response is instant, automatic, ingrained, and under the circumstances, ridiculous. “Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”
“I understand that you knew my wife,” he says, quietly.
“Sir,” I say, lowering my voice to match his. “I’m sorry but this is not the time—”
“Shut up and listen to me.”
I’m too stunned to respond.
“I know. I know everything about you and Emily.” He pauses, and snorts in derision. “Do you do that often? Hmm? Screw other men’s wives? Does that make you feel important? Like you’ve actually done something with your shitty, wasted life?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“No. You listen to me,” he insists.
There’s a couple sitting at the bar two seats down from where we’re standing. I don’t think they can hear what we’re saying, but they’ve definitely noticed the tension and they’re trying to hide the fact that they’re watching us.
Sooner rather than later, and by that, I mean a few seconds from now, people are going to start recognizing him like Genevieve has.
“Sir,” I repeat with emphasis. “I’m not going to ask you again—”
“‘My sweet little cupcake’,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.
My knees buckle momentarily, but I’m able to stay upright.
He continues to pin me to the spot with an intense stare.
“I know the trouble you’re in … That we’re both in … And as much as I hate to admit it, Mr. Davis, we have to work together, all right?”
We have officially crossed into The Twilight Zone.
The trouble that we’re “both” in? What does that even mean?
“I … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, not yet. That’s why I need to talk to you. You need to know what’s going on. It’s the only way you and I get through this.”
“‘You and I’? Is there a ‘you and I’, here?” I’ve gotten good at telling when people are lying and he’s not. He’s tense, earnest, and maintaining eye contact.
“I need your help with something,” he says, reaching for his inside breast pocket. “We have to figure out what this means so we—”
“Stop, stop, stop,” I insist.
He blinks at me with his hand just inside his blazer. This is a guy who is not used to being contradicted.
“Not here,” I say.
Another quick look over the crowd reveals that Genevieve is out of her chair, notebook in hand, poised like she’s about to charge us.
“But I need to talk to you.”
“Okay, but not here. Too many people are going to see us and it’s only going to make things worse. We have to meet somewhere private.”
He considers and comes to a conclusion. “All right. Once you get done with work, come to the house.” A disgusted expression crawls across his face. “You know where the house is, right? You’ve been there?”
I lightly nod. “Yeah. It might not be until around midnight, though.”
“Fine. Midnight.”
He turns, walks straight to the door, and out into the night.
There’s movement out of the corner of my eye. Here comes Genevieve.
She stands at the bar, and looks from the door to me, frantically trying to make a decision; stay here or follow Mr. Parker.
“Okay. Kick me out if you want, what just happened?” she asks breathlessly. “What was that about?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, come on. Mr. Parker. The guy who was just here, talking to you. What did he say?”
“Was that Mr. Parker?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“Cut the crap. What did you two talk about? Why did he leave so quickly?”
“He asked if we had root beer. I told him ‘no’, and he wasn’t happy.”
She glares at me, turns, and hurriedly fights her way to the door, rudely shoving people out of her way.
Good.
She’s figured I’m not going anywhere for a while, so she’s going after Mr. Parker, who I assume is going back to his house to wait for me, but she doesn’t know that.
I need to get out of here before she comes back.
I find Katie on the other side of the bar. Thankfully, she missed my brief interaction with Mr. Parker and Genevieve.
“Katie, I need a favor.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to close for me tonight.”
She
