Chapter 38 - Comfort is the Night Gone Black
Friday, June 26
12:30am
Gai
A breeze blows through the night, bringing with it the potent scent of night jasmine and, underneath that, the salty brine of the ocean. Gai pulls his cardigan tight around his ribs, enjoying the electric feel of the air on his cheeks.
It feels so good to be out, to be home. The only time he can draw a full breath anymore is when he's wandering the streets alone, at night, and Grandpa Keith was way too on top of it to even try sneaking out during his nights in Neptune.
Hearing a car behind him, Gai glances back and steps back into the shadows when he recognizes it's Zach's. Once it's gone, Gai ducks down a familiar alley and runs until the breath in his chest burns. He's not afraid of the asshole, but also not interested in being his pet lock picker. No, the running is because his body needs the release. Every day it feels like the weight bearing down on him presses even harder.
An hour and three miles later, he's considering heading back when a For Sale sign catches his attention. There's no cars in the driveway and someone perfectly mowed the yard. Every light in the house is out; not so weird at 2am, but the place has that feeling about it, like no one's been there for days.
Still, Gai does the easy check of ringing the doorbell and hiding himself around the side of the house so he's out of sight. No answer.
As quietly as possible, Gai climbs the fence and drops into the backyard. He peeks into windows, noting the rooms are overly neat, without a spare dish or even a jacket thrown over a chair to hint anyone's actively living there.
He checks out every window, cupping his hands around his eyes to see clearly. No sign of an alarm. Doesn't matter. He can scat before the cops have time to show up, anyway.
Every window and door is locked, though. He crouches down beside the garage door and, before reaching for the lock pick set in his pocket, pulls out his library card. After all these nights out, he's no longer surprised when the easiest route into a house is a card slipped between the weather stripping and the strike plate. Something he sure never occurred to Zach.
Pay dirt, he thinks, when the door swings open.
The door from the house to the garage isn't even locked. Gai wanders from room to room, not interested in their contents, but because he can.
It's an old person's house, he's sure, going by the smell, the dated photographs, and more knickknacks than anybody with a job would want to dust. Plus, there're bowls of peppermints and butterscotches on the table, which he ignores.
And so what if he gets caught? He's not stealing or hurting anything. It's not even like he's putting himself in danger, since the houses are empty. I mean, it's not like he's going off on his own, chasing down a murderer, or something.
1pm
Veronica
Fifth time's the charm? Veronica can only hope. Cycling through therapists to find the "right fit" is a good time waster, but one her boss, Maristella, will see through easily. Anyway, her options are growing fewer. None of which she would care about if it didn't all feel like time wasted, taking her away from solving Sam's case.
Solving—there's a joke. She spent several days traipsing around the Bay area, looking for a ghost. Daniel Reitman hadn't shown up in any of the many shelters and food banks she canvassed, and now she had to spend another fruitless hour trying to bamboozle a therapist.
The receptionist directs her to a door around the corner and at the end of the hall, to what Veronica is sure will be a warm, inviting room with comfortable seating options and the requisite box of tissues benignly placed in reach, on an end or coffee table.
But when, on the way, she passes a door marked simply "private", Veronica readies her apology and peeks her head in before fully walking inside. The degrees on the wall are from first and second tier schools, but they're also four decades old. A handbag sits just under the desk, the slick cover of Soap Opera Digest sticking out next to a battered Patricia Cromwell novel. Only two pictures are on the credenza: one of a long-haired cat, the other an older couple in 70s-style clothes and haircut. No sign of a significant other or children. A retirement clock ticks away 278 remaining days and, based on the desk calendar, a month that involves no social engagements beyond a weekly pottery class.
"Veronica?"
Behind her, in the doorway, is a plump, matronly woman with parchment skin and a warm smile. Her pants suit sports lapels and an oversize broach, both endearingly out of fashion but somehow perfect for the older woman.
"Hi. Dr. Hannity?"
"Call me Dr. Judith."
Only genuine effort keeps Veronica from rolling her eyes.
"We're down the hall. This is my private office."
"Ah, sorry."
Dr. Judith stands back while Veronica passes her to return to the hallway. "It happens."
The therapy room is exactly as Veronica expected. Everything is benign shades of blue and beige, nothing personal or identifying in the space.
Once they're settled, Veronica on the couch and Dr. Judith in the sling-back chair opposite, Dr. Judith centers her notepad, gives Veronica the same warm smile as before, and opens with the standard, "I understand you were referred to me by The Bureau. Why don't you tell me what brings you in?"
Veronica catches traces of fatigue in the question. Forty-plus years of listening to the trials and travails of others had to get old. She's sure Dr. Judith would love to place that retirement clock at eyeline level, behind the couch, to remind herself she won't have to listen to the same sad tales much longer.
It reminds Veronica of her own voice, years ago, during her last days working at Mars Investigations. When stories of cheating spouses became routine instead of titillating.
"My boss thinks I could use someone to talk to. Life's been a little... complicated lately."
"Explain 'complicated'."
"Oh," she says with a wry smile, "Short version? My son's biological father, who went into hiding thirteen years ago after misguidedly pissing off a mobster on my behalf, just dropped back into our lives less than a year after my someone murdered my husband."
Looking to round out her credits with an easy A, Veronica took a creative writing course her junior year at Hearst. While the A was far from easy, and she rarely used what she'd learned, one concept stuck. In media res, or "in the midst of things". Veronica noticed it in countless tales thereafter—starting a story with a heightened scene, then backing up to telling the tale from the beginning, explaining how the thread unspooled to get you there. It's a narrative tool, a hook, and a damned effective one, if used right.
The hook, here, is Logan's return. The story leading up to that point is a long and lively one, with potential to stretch the years between middle school and college over weeks, maybe even months.
An hour later, Veronica collects her next appointment card and validated parking stamp from the receptionist and walks back to the car, relieved. Once Dr. Judith finished fish-mouthing, she asked few questions and took fewer notes, enthralled in the tale. Veronica paced the hour well, starting with her alcoholic mother, incredible father, and ending at the point where she first met Logan twenty years ago.
Veronica automatically drives toward the motel, her hands on autopilot as her mind wanders. It's surprisingly painless, rehashing her and Logan's past now that it has a better ending. They'd gone through a lot together, had some good times. Considering that, she's been a lousy friend to him.
She's thought a lot in the week since their disastrous night out. Veronica knows she fucked up—that she is fucked up right now. Logan's doing his best by her and Gai, given the circumstances, and she spent the evening, and evening that was supposed to be about celebrating her friends, swinging from grieving widow to incorrigible flirt.
Sounds like you could use therapy, Veronica.
The irony makes her roll her eyes. There's time, later, after she solves Sam's case, for her to sort herself out. In the meantime, she can behave herself, can't she? At least long enough to call Logan and apologize.
As Veronica mindlessly puts her car in park, she looks up and realizes she's driven herself to Logan's, not the nearby motel. Welp, she thinks wryly, penance is better paid in person.
The house doesn't look much different from when she saw it last, at least from the outside. The dumpster still sits in the driveway, albeit with the end facing the house flung wide so Logan can walk anything into it rather than heaving it over the tall sides.
Veronica goes up the walk and waits for him to answer her knock. When he doesn't, she tries the knob, and, finding it unlocked, lets herself in. He doesn't answer her call, either.
The place is quiet. The front room is untouched, same as she saw it last, except for a lone, sagging lawn chair in the middle of the living room and a dented, metal TV tray next to it with a pile of plastic-wrapped cutlery.
In the study, the carpet's gone, revealing scarred hardwood planks underneath. Here, the only furniture is a high-end desk on hydraulics, ergo gaming chair, and a sophisticated computer system set up with triple monitors, webcam, and three-in-one printer.
Veronica calls for Logan again, but there's no answer. She wanders upstairs and, here, he's ripped out every carpet as well as gutting one bathroom. The only furniture is a queen-sized bed, unmade and resting on a simple metal frame. Veronica picks up a pillow that's fallen to the floor and, on impulse, sinks her face into it.
Logan. She smiles and drops it on the bed, amused at how, after all these years, she'd know that smell blindfolded, in a dark room.
Veronica wanders out to the hall and to the little balcony Logan had shown her the first time she came, the one overlooking the backyard. The view, even with the yard's overgrowth, still stuns.
She spots Logan on the small patio, walking and talking on his phone. Not wanting to yell out and interrupt his call, she winds her way through the house to the back slider. Even through the glass, Veronica can hear Logan's bitter, "Fuck," as he throws the phone into a nearby chair and runs a hand through his hair in frustration.
2:30PM
Logan
The door slides open behind him. Logan turns and spots Veronica standing in the doorway. His feelings must show on his face because her eyes widen and she asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Logan shakes his head, turning away from the concern on her face before it undoes him. "That was Eva."
A sick heat roils in his belly and his skin feels too small. Back in the dark days of adolescence, when he felt like this, he'd pick a fight, pick up a bottle, or search out an easy lay. Sometimes all three.
Veronica backs out of the door, into the house. "Come on," she hollers at him.
With nothing else to do, Logan follows her out of the house and into her car, before asking, "Where are we going?"
He doesn't really care, and cares less when she ignores him. Five minutes and two miles later they pull up to a family fun center, one of those places with miniature golf, bumper boats, and a race car track. Logan follows, hanging back while she goes up to the counter. The cacophony of kids screaming mixed with arcade games sets his teeth grinding, wondering if she's thinking air hockey will end well right now.
Veronica comes back to him with a helmet, bat, and a stack of tokens. She points him to a door that says, 'Batting Cages'.
Logan shakes his head. "I'm not in the mood."
"Too bad." She grabs his hand and drags him outside, shoves him into the nearest cage, pops the helmet on his head, and thrusts the bat into his hands. Before leaving the cage, she drops tokens in the machine and stacks the remaining ones on top, enough to keep him busy for an hour.
Logan glares at her, refusing to cooperate even when a ball whizzes by within an inch of his chest.
"C'mon, Echolls, you can do it."
Another ball clicks into place and Logan swings the bat one-handed, clipping it but not really making contact.
"My mother-in-law could do better than that."
He turns and centers himself, swinging with intention at the next one. If it'll shut her up, fine.
Crack. Reverberations from bat meeting ball fly up his arms and fuck, it feels good. By the fifth one, he's forgotten about Veronica, other than to notice she's gone when he turns to put more tokens in the machine.
A fair time later, Logan drops the bat and steps back from the balls still flying his way. He rips off the helmet and pulls up the hem of his t-shirt, to blot the sweat off his face. Outside the cage, Veronica's back and resting on the bleachers with a couple bottles of water, condensation dripping down their sides. She hands one to him when he comes out and waits while he collapses on the bleacher beside her and drains half of it.
"Better?"
Logan nods, letting out a long breath. His arms feel heavy, useless, and sweat pastes his t-shirt to his back. He uses his shoulders to catch drips running down the sides of his face. "Thanks."
"Sure."
"You do this often?"
She chuckles and shakes her head. "Sam. Some cops drink, he came here. He always said, "Better a ball than someone's face".
Logan sips his water, his body calmer but still in a foul mood. "Saint Sam had a temper, huh? Who'da thought."
Veronica turns so she's watching another batter instead of looking at him. "He was no saint, but he didn't take his bad moods out on other people."
Fuck. Logan pushes himself off the bench and moves until he's opposite her, resting his back on the batting cage. He focuses on the light post above her head. "Diego told me he ran into Eva out with some guy. It, fuck," he blows out a breath, "it hurt. So I called her and she explained it was an old friend of her husband's. He moved back and wanted to catch up, that's all. Accused me and Diego of being a couple of gossiping old women."
Veronica might be looking away, but Logan sees the smile she bites back.
"Fuck! Why did I even call her? It's none of my business."
Veronica nods. "Diego's either."
"I'm sure Eva's delivering that message right now."
This time she does smile, and Logan lets himself fall down on the bench below hers, legs splayed.
A couple of little kids run by, their twenty-something moms following. One of them looks over, resting her eyes on him a long moment before whispering something to her friend, who also looks back.
"Besides," Veronica says, her tone wry. "It's not like you don't have options, too."
"Sure, I'm a catch. An unemployed, broken-hearted, recovering alcoholic whose own kid won't even talk to him."
"Ooh, and with the wounded puppy eyes to match."
Logan laughs, leans his elbows on the bench behind him, and squints up at her. "Ouch. I guess the 'most pathetic' award goes to me."
"Nope." Veronica glances down at him and looks away, the color rising in her cheeks. "I think that's mine. Earned when I drunkenly hit on my ex boyfriend for the," she counts on her fingers, "third time in two months."
"Hey, you were only drunk for two."
"Well, I get extra points for propositioning you with not only my kid but also my dad in the next room."
Logan sits up and straddles the next bench up, facing her. "Yeah, about that."
"Hmmm?"
"I say we get it over with. Go back to my place and bang it out, 'Hotel New Hampshire' style. Don't leave that bed until we're too sore to walk and never want to look at each other naked again."
She snorts, keeping her eyes away from his. "Weren't they brother and sister?"
"I'm always up for a little role play."
"Ugh, ew." Veronica hits him on the shoulder with her water bottle. "I'm trying to apologize, asshole."
Logan gives it a moment, knowing she's waiting for him to let her off the hook. Again. Which is the worst thing he could do right now. "Do you remember what you said that night?"
"That I wanted to sleep with you? Yeah. I just don't remember if I intended it literally or figuratively."
"Both," he grins, bringing back her blush. He reaches across the bench and picks up her hand. "You also said you can't do it alone. I can deal with you hiding your heartbreak behind sex," she tries to pull her hand away and Logan tightens his grip, frustration of the last week seeping into his raised voice. "I practically invented it. But I cannot deal with you admitting you're having a hard time, then shutting us all out."
Their eyes lock and her hand balls into a tight fist. Logan can sense her deep-seated need to run, but also realizes he's not holding her there. His fingers are loose now.
Slowly, the rigidness leaves her body and Veronica pulls her hand away. Logan sits back and watches her turn away, wondering if he pushed too hard.
"Yeah," she says, so quiet he has to lean in to hear. "I can't explain it but," she turns back to him, a plea in her eyes. "I'm dealing with it the best way I can. My way. I need—," she trails off, as if unsure what to say.
"To do whatever."
Veronica smiles, sad and wistful. "I need to do whatever."
"Okay," Logan stands up, taking her hand again and pulling her down the bleachers with him. He lopes an arm around her shoulders as they walk to the parking lot. "Two conditions. One, ask for help, even if you think you don't need it."
"How—,"
"TWO," he interrupts her. "You return a phone call with a damn phone call, like you're a boomer."
Veronica snorts but says nothing. Logan takes the arm she wraps around his waist as in agreement, as they walk back to the car.
"So, Eva really laid into you, huh?"
The heat on the back of his neck has nothing to do with the sun. Veronica is still very good at deflecting. "Nothing I didn't deserve."