A Twisted Love Story(29)
She does stay in bed a little bit longer, curled up to him. So easy, in these moments, to think only of the good things. The bad doesn’t exist right now, and he’s just fine with that.
A few minutes later, she gets up and heads into the bathroom. The shower turns on, and he closes his eyes. He could get up and make breakfast, which would be a nice thing to do, since he doesn’t have to go into the office. Or he could join her in the shower. Another good option.
Wes closes his eyes, deciding more sleep is the right answer. He should dream of his girlfriend, or at least about some woman he has always wanted but never had. A celebrity, maybe.
But he doesn’t dream about anything or anyone, because he never falls back asleep. The detective prevents it.
Karen is a problem. He doesn’t have proof of that, and so far it doesn’t sound like she knows anything, but he feels it anyway. She has no reason to look into their past, especially not at something that happened seven years ago. Yet she is. It makes him wonder what she’s up to, why she even cares. No matter how many ways he twists it around in his mind, it doesn’t make any sense.
He thinks about her until his phone dings. And dings.
Again.
Again.
Again.
* * *
—
Karen has two stacks of case files on her desk. No shortage of work to do—there’s a never-ending stream of sexual assaults and related crimes that end up in her division. Most mornings start with a cup of bad coffee, a packaged pastry, and the latest tragedy.
The stack on the left has the cases she is still working on. The stack on the right, in the far corner, has the cases she no longer has to work on. If it were up to her, she would have just one stack. All the cases, each one receiving an equal amount of attention. The DA doesn’t see it that way, and neither does Karen’s boss. The stack on the right contains all the cases that will never be prosecuted.
The station is buzzing today; activity swirls around her. Fair Valley has its share of homicides, but not too many professional men are killed by women in fancy office buildings. Not even in self-defense.
Earlier this morning, Karen talked to Louis and his partner about the Tanner Duncan case, and she offered to speak to Bianca.
“It might help,” she said. “If she can talk to someone familiar with assault.”
“You mean it might help if she talks to a woman,” Louis said.
Karen meant because she has experience talking to victims of assault. But yes. That, too.
“I think we can handle it,” Louis said. “But we’ll let you know if we need you.”
He walked away, ending the conversation.
She turns to the file she is supposed to be working on. A man has been taking lewd pictures of women on the bus. He sits on the aisle, angling his phone underneath the skirts of the women standing next to him, and snaps a photo. So far, the women who have noticed either moved places or cursed him out, but none of them wanted to make a scene or disrupt their ride to work. Nobody wanted to be late because of a photo.
Upskirting is against the law in California, though technically it’s a misdemeanor. Makes no difference to Karen. Her job is to stop him.
She has a sketch of the man, who always appears during commute time, when the buses between Fair Valley and Sacramento are the most crowded. What she doesn’t have is manpower. No, the police force could not afford to put anyone undercover to catch some guy taking pictures on the bus.
Karen has been riding the bus herself, hoping to find this guy. The downside was having less time to work the other cases, both the stack at the station and the one at her house.
The third stack. Wes and Ivy are in that one.
26
Ivy has one dress for funerals. Simple, black, hangs to just below the knee. The last time she wore it was when her grandfather died. Today she wears it again, for Tanner.
The funeral home is stuffy; the air feels as still as the corpse in the room. The casket is closed—not a surprise, given how he died. She only knows the details because of Wes. The police haven’t released everything about how or why he was killed, but the Siphon employees know. The rumors are out there, which is why the funeral is small and private. Less than fifteen people are here: Tanner’s family, some of the sales team, and the CEO of Siphon.
Zànglǐ.
The Chinese word for funeral. She learned it especially for today, along with the word for corpse. Shītǐ.
When Tanner’s brother breaks down at the podium while telling a story about their childhood, Wes squeezes her hand. She squeezes back tighter. Ivy isn’t sure if she is holding him up or he’s holding her.
Until the other night, she had no intention of being here. She doesn’t want to be. Not for Tanner Duncan, a man who hated her and was killed while assaulting a woman.
But then Wes asked.
They had been in bed—his bed—a place they’ve been spending a lot of time this week, like the only way he can work through his grief is with sex. Afterward, he would lie awake for a long time, ignoring his phone, not turning on the TV, and staring at the ceiling, the wall, the window. Anywhere but at her.
She had been patient, staggeringly so, until he mentioned the funeral.
“You’re coming, aren’t you?” he said.
She thought for a second, deciding to hedge. Telling him she didn’t want to go to Tanner’s funeral probably wasn’t the best idea. “I wasn’t planning on it, no.”