David Ellis - The Last Alibi

My phone rings, giving me an excuse to reach into my pocket, thereby breaking free of her and altering my body position. “Just need to make sure it isn’t Joel,” I say, by way of apology. Actually, I know it’s not Lightner calling because we programmed the Dragnet theme as a ringtone for his calls, but Alexa doesn’t know that. I look at the face of the phone and don’t recognize the number, then set it down on the couch between us.

The other ringing, the one taking place inside my head, grows shriller. My temples begin to throb. Skin on fire, bitterness on my tongue, a stomach ready to rock-and-roll at any time.

“Alexa,” I say, “our favorite serial killer called again last night. He said he’s going to kill again, and the next one is going to be his ‘favorite.’ I’m really concerned he might go after someone I care about.”

She scoffs and makes a face. “Well, that rules out me, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t. Listen, please- please get out of town. Drive somewhere. Fly somewhere. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere. What’s he going to do to me that you haven’t already?”

“Oh, c’mon, Alexa. You’ll get past this. You know you will. Sometime soon, you’re going to look back and realize that. . this is for the best.”

“How can you say that?” She leans toward me, her hand moving toward my face.

How can I say that? Because we both knew I was drugged up, and getting worse, and making more and more excuses as time wore on. The oddest part is that whenever Alexa invoked the excuse of my bad knee, whenever she had a pill at the ready for me when I awoke at night, I viewed her as an ally, the only one who understood me.

The addiction was my fault. But she feasted on my weakness. If I was the captain of my personal Titanic , she was my first mate, whispering sweet nothings, telling me what a good job I was doing steering the wheel, and don’t worry about those glaciers. I can’t forget that. If I do, I’ll lose everything.

But now is not the time to get into all of that. This moment calls for a defter touch.

“I have to focus on ‘James Drinker’ or whatever his name is,” I say. “He has to be my singular focus.”

She watches me with those wide deer eyes, wounded, fighting tears again.

“You’re doing this because of this man?” she says. “Or because of the drugs?”

She recalls, of course, that I mentioned the addiction when I broke up with her. And now I’m talking about a serial killer.

“It’s both things,” I say. “But this man-he’s dangerous. And he’s not done. I need to catch him, and I need you to be far away so you’re out of harm’s way.”

She grabs my forearm. “Just give me one more chance. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I’ll be whoever you want me to be. Please, just one. What can it hurt?”

I gently peel her fingers off my arm and pull away, get to my feet. “I’m afraid it’s over, Alexa. That’s not going to change. So please accept that.”

“I don’t. I don’t accept that.”

I start for the door.

“I gave you everything!” she cries. “I gave you every part of me. I opened myself up to you in every way because I trusted you.”

“I’m. . I’m sorry how this turned out,” I say. “You deserve better. But it’s over and it’s not going to change. You need to understand that.”

She breaks eye contact, tears flowing freely, her jaw steeled.

I reach the door and open it.

“Shauna turned you, didn’t she?” she says. “She’s been trying to break us up all along. She’s staying with you right now, isn’t she? She’s being super-helpful about your ‘recovery,’ I’ll bet. Yeah, I’ll bet she is.”

“This has nothing to do with Shauna,” I say.

“That’s bullshit.” She laughs with bitterness.

“Good-bye, Alexa. Please take care of yourself.”

Her eyes are suddenly ablaze with fury, her mouth tangled, her hands balled in fists. My stomach clenches up, stealing my breath. I turn away so she can’t see me.

“This is not over,” she says. “You think this is over?”

I catch my breath, squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s over, Alexa.”

“One phone call to the police hotline,” she says. “That’s all it would take.”

I pause, gritting my teeth, my abdominal muscles twisting into knots, my stomach in upheaval, black spots dancing before my eyes. I need to get home. I have to get home.

“Yup, that’s all it would take,” I say before I pull open the door and leave.

Jason

1:20 P.M.

I stagger through my door and collapse onto the cold tile of my town house foyer. My stomach unleashes its contents, but there aren’t any contents, only bitter, sticky liquid in my mouth. I put my face down on the tile and try to catch my breath. The floor spins and jukes beneath me.

Something they don’t tell you: The first days of withdrawal are not the hardest. It’s the time after those first few days, when your mind and body are settling in on a new reality-that the fun candy isn’t coming in like it used to-that the mind and body decide to tell you what they think of that decision.

Shauna comes rushing down the stairs. She came with me this morning to my house to help pack Alexa’s clothes and toiletries, and we decided to stay at my place for the rest of the day. A change of scenery, mix things up, keep me out of a funk-amateur psychology, but we’re doing the best we can.

“Take this,” she says, handing me a pill. I’m past seven hours now. I did a shit job of planning this thing. “Don’t chew it, Jason, no matter how much you want to.”

I do what she says. I swallow it and wash it down with water she gives me. It will work the way it’s supposed to-slowly releasing pain suppression, albeit over a short time window-instead of the way I typically took it, crushing it between my teeth to get the entire impact all at once. Every time I’ve taken one of these over the last several days with Shauna’s oversight, I’ve had to fight the instinct to bite down, to release all of the glorious love instantaneously. This process would probably be easier if I had the kind of OxyContin that is typically marketed these days, time-release pills that are crush-proof so addicts can’t do exactly what I used to do and go for the instant home run. But someone would have to prescribe that for me, and nobody will, certainly not Dr. Evans, whom I haven’t seen in a month. So I’m left with the ones I purchased from Billy Braden, the crushable boys.

Shauna helps me up the stairs, which isn’t easy given our size differential, but somehow I make it to the couch in my living room. I curl up on my side in the fetal position while she examines me. I am shivering and sweating. My head is screaming, the high-pitched whine that televisions make when they’re doing a test: This is a test, this is a test of the emergency broadcast system, this is only a test, BRRRRRRRRRRRR-

“This is too hard for us alone,” she says. “I was beginning to think we could do this. You were doing so well. But Jason, this is-”

“I’m not. . not checking into a. . not yet. . not yet. .”

She buries her face between my neck and shoulder. “Keep fighting, Jase,” she whispers. “Will you keep fighting?”

“I’ll keep. . fighting,” I say, as I lurch forward again, more dry-heaving. “Shit, Shauna,” I say between halting breaths, “how did I. . ever let this. . happen?”

“It happens to the best of people,” she says, wiping my wet hair off my face, stroking my cheek. “It’s poison. It ruins people. But it didn’t ruin you, Jason. You stopped in time. You’re going to break free of this. You have to believe that.”