We Are All the Same in the Dark - Julia Heaberlin Page 0,101
she was saying … Wyatt killed Trumanell.”
“Not news to me.”
“The doctor is … messed up, don’t you think? She seems so alone.”
“If you sell your soul to the devil enough times, that’s what happens. You end up in prison. Her prison just has big windows. Dr. Andrea Greco made snap decisions on testimony for criminals. Karma is paying her back. I have some cop buddies in Dallas who celebrated her retirement like it was theirs.”
He rolls down the window and spits. It doesn’t fly back in, pretty much a redneck Olympic skill at this speed.
Rusty has his eyes focused on my profile, not the road that’s whizzing by. Like he’s reading my mind. Like he’s a completely reckless human being. Like this is one of the interview techniques that got him the name Wonder. Maybe all of the above. Inside, I’m screaming for him to slow down.
“It was probably another dead end,” he says. “Don’t feel bad. I hit the brakes on Odette all the time.”
“Can you hit the brakes right now, just a little?” I beg.
“The twins have a soccer match at six. I want to make it.” But I watch the odometer pull back five miles an hour.
“I saw them at the memorial ceremony,” I venture. Anything, to cut the tension. “So cute. What are their names?”
“Olive and Pimiento. Unless, you’re asking for the names on their birth certificates. That would be Olivia and Penelope, after their grandmothers. But Olive and Pimiento is what I call them, Angelica, Angel, Angie.” I hold my breath as he swerves around an eighteen-wheeler. “The name on my birth certificate is Russell Arnold Colton, for my grandfathers. How about yours? I’m guessing not Angelica Odette Dunn.”
“I think you already know what it says.”
“Yes, I do. It’s pretty. Montana. The lovely Spanish word for mountain. That’s the name your mother gave you, isn’t it? The one you had to erase like it never existed. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry your mom died. And I’m sorry that your dad is the fucking son of a bitch who erased her.”
One of my tears splashes on the seat. Did Rusty see? Does he know not just my name, but about my eye, too? Is he one of the stupid people who think I can only cry out of one? I still cry out of both, you asshole.
“Do you worry about your father wanting to … kill you?”
“You’ve gotta know I’m the reason he was sent away.” It rushes out of me, angry. “You want to know why I don’t trust cops? The cops lied to me. They told me if I testified to a grand jury he would get twenty years to life. Then the prosecutor pled him down to three because they couldn’t find the gun or another witness. I try to keep track of him, using social media, calling his parole officer. He shows up on Facebook for a month and disappears for six. I only know where he is if he makes the mistake of standing by a historical landmark, and anonymous bar stools aren’t historical landmarks. He’s had nine parole officers. Most of them call me honey, as in you have nothing to worry about, honey. I just take it one day at a time. And I’m doing fine.”
Because of my magic eye.
And Odette’s words.
Resilient being one of them.
Resourceful being another.
“Let me help you, kiddo. I can get cops to watch him until he fucks up and is put back where he belongs. Do you know where he is right now?”
The kiddo is grating. It strikes a creepy old person note, like dear or honey or babe. I just spilled everything to a man I don’t trust. Maybe that’s a sign that somewhere inside me I know that all of this is almost over.
“My partner and I have a very good idea where he is,” Rusty announces. Is this true? I feel like Rusty is inching toward some goal and I’m a lot of inches behind.
“In return for us taking care of your dad, you go on home to Ms. Bonita Martinez on Cliffdale Avenue. Deal?”
And there it is.
“You know about Bunny?” I can’t hold the panic out of my voice. “You talked to her?”
She was so proud when I walked across the stage for graduation. She wore a yellow-flowered dress and red heels, and she never wears heels because she says they make her sound like a goat. I never lied to her before, except early on about my eye.