JASON STARR - Panic Attack

Then it hit Marissa, and she said, “Oh my God. You don’t think it has something to do with last night, do you?”

“It has nothing to do with last night,” her dad cut in quickly. “Okay, come on, let’s not get all hysterical before we know all the facts. I want to talk to Clements, find out exactly what’s going on here.”

He was trying so hard to sound in control. Like people were getting shot left and right, but of course he could handle it, it was no big deal.

“He said he’ll be over,” her mom said, “later.”

“Good,” her dad said. “I’m sure there’s a lot we don’t know right now.”

“Didn’t Clements say he was gonna go talk to Gabriela?” Marissa asked. “Isn’t that what he said last night?”

“He didn’t have a chance to talk to her,” her mom said. “He said he was planning to talk to her today when-”

“Then it has to have something to do with it,” Marissa said. “It’s too coincidental.”

Her father stood up and started making a call on his BlackBerry. “Let’s just see one thing, okay?” he said.

“What’re you doing?” her mom asked.

“Let’s see if she picks up her phone.”

“What’s wrong with you?” her mom said. “I’m telling you, she’s dead.”

Her dad ignored her, with the phone to his ear. Then after several seconds he clicked off and said, “Voice mail.”

“Of course her voice mail picked up,” her mom screamed. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Can you guys please just stop fighting?” Marissa asked.

“What’s Gabriela’s cell?” her dad asked, and her mom leaned over her lap, grabbed fistfuls of her hair as if she were trying to pull it all out in total frustration, then made an infuriated gravelly sound in the back of her throat.

“What were you saying before about a paper?” Marissa asked.

Still looking down, her hands still clutching her hair, her mom said, “I had the code to the alarm written on a piece of paper. I realized it was missing this morning, that’s why I called Clements.”

“Okay, think about what you’re saying,” her dad said. He was standing in front of them, looking down at them. “Just think about it for a second without getting hysterical. You know Gabriela, right? You know how wonderful she is, how loyal she is, how trustworthy she is. How many times has she been in this house alone? How many times did she babysit for us, or pick up Marissa from school? She’s worked for us for how many years? Twelve? Thirteen? And in all that time she’s never stolen anything from us. I’m talking not even a dollar bill from on top of my dresser. I mean, there’s probably been hundreds of times that she had total access to my wallet, your pocketbook, your jewelry, and she’s never stolen a cent from us. But now you’re positive, there’s no doubt in your mind, that she conspired with that criminal Sanchez to rob our house? Why? Because they’re both Spanish? I mean, just think about how absurd that is before you start screaming your head off at me, okay?”

Her father ended his speech, seeming proud of himself, as if he’d just delivered a Shakespearean soliloquy or something. But, Marissa had to admit, the idea that Gabriela was part of the robbery did sound ridiculous. She couldn’t imagine any scenario where Gabriela would do something to hurt Marissa’s family.

“He’s right, it does sound pretty crazy,” Marissa said. Then she said to her dad, “So what do you think it was, a big coincidence? She gets shot the morning after our house is robbed, right before the detective has a chance to talk to her?”

“Look, there’s a lot we don’t know right now,” her dad said. “Maybe it has something to do with her daughter, some guy she was dating.”

“Manuela’s eleven,” Marissa said.

“What I’m trying to say,” her dad said, “is let’s just confirm she’s actually dead.”

“It’s confirmed!” her mom suddenly shouted. Her face was red, and her eyes were very big. “How many times do I have to tell you before it gets through your thick skull? She’s dead! She’s fucking dead!”

Her dad shook his head in frustration and exited to the kitchen.

“You’re so goddamn impossible,” her mom said and left, going toward the front of the house.

“Ma,” Marissa called and followed her.

She watched her mother head up the main staircase, hesitate for a moment as if suddenly remembering what had happened there, and then rush upstairs.

Marissa couldn’t believe how absolutely screwed up everything suddenly was. Gabriela had always been so warm, so friendly, and had probably been one of the kindest people Marissa had ever met. Marissa remembered all the times Gabriela played with her and took her places when she was growing up. In high school when she had boyfriend problems, she never felt comfortable talking to her parents, and Gabriela was always there to give advice. Marissa had helped Gabriela learn English, and Gabriela had helped her with her Spanish. She had been a combination big sister and close friend, and Marissa just couldn’t accept the idea that she was gone, as dead as the guy on the stairs last night, that she’d never see her face or hear her voice again.

Standing in the foyer, Marissa started to cry again. Then her dad came in and put an arm around her and in that pseudo calm voice said, “It’s gonna be okay, sweetie. I promise.”

Marissa couldn’t take it anymore. If he was in denial before, now he was hopeless.

She broke away and said, “Please, Dad, just stop it already,” and went upstairs, not even realizing she’d passed the spot where the body had been until she was in her room.

She checked her phone and saw that she’d received a bunch of e-mails and texts from her friends as news of the robbery had been getting around. She felt like she really needed to vent, let out her anger, so instead of replying individually she went online and posted a long entry on her Artist Girl blog, which most of her friends- her closest friends, anyway- read every day. She described the robbery as dramatically as possible, focusing on how terrified she’d been when she woke up and heard the intruders in the house and everything that had happened with the shooting and how the police had questioned her and her family for most of the night. She left out the part about how Clements had questioned her about her drug use in the house, paranoid that this would somehow incriminate her. Although she didn’t mention anything about Gabriela specifically, she hinted at it, ending with “Now things seem to be getting even more fucked up. This is the craziest day of my life.”

After she posted the blog, she searched Google News for “Gabriela Moreno,” hoping to find nothing, but there were two news items about the shooting. Marissa read them, feeling devastated and numb. The items gave pretty much the same minimal information that Marissa’s mother had already reported: Gabriela had been shot to death in her Jackson Heights apartment this morning by an unknown assailment. The motive for the shooting was also unknown.

“Goddamn it,” Marissa said, and she picked up the keyboard and banged it against the desk. It sounded like something cracked, but she didn’t care.

She hoped that whoever killed Gabriela rotted in hell for it, but she still couldn’t believe that Gabriela had actually been involved in the robbery. Maybe her dad was right about it being a coincidence. Maybe Gabriela was shot for some crazy random reason. It seemed farfetched but not any more farfetched than her having anything to do with that dead guy, Sanchez.

“Marissa.” Her father knocked on the door. “Marissa, can you come downstairs for a sec, please? Detective Clements is here.”

Great, just what Marissa needed.