Лорен Кейт - The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

“How do you know I’ve moved on?” It wasn’t exactly easy to keep up with the news from the other side of town.

“Ahh.” Slutsky rubbed her hands together and smirked. “Now we’re getting to the good stuff,” she said. “Let’s just say there are certain advantages to sucking off the law. Like. . official police evidence?”

My mouth dropped open. “You watched that DVD?”

Slutsky nodded. “I have to say, Tal, I’m impressed. Usually when people cross over to nouveau riche, they get even more uptight, but this new guy — what’s his name? He’s really loosened you right up.”

“You’re lying.” My hands gripped my glass to keep still. “Why would you, why would he—”

“Mostly for research purposes,” she said. “Derek and I dabble in film a little bit ourselves. He thought we might get inspired—”

“That is so illegal and so sick.”

“Chill out,” she said. “You weren’t half bad to watch. Nothing I haven’t tried before but—”

“Slutsky,” I said slowly, “do you still have the DVD? I mean—”

“Yeah, right.” She shook her head. “That thing’s on lock-down at the station.” She blew a ring of smoke, raised her flask again, and took another long swig.

That was the thing about Sarah: She was always up for a good time, but when push came to shove, you could never really trust her to bail you out. There was no way she could understand why my reputation at Palmetto depended on that tape NOT getting out.

Maybe Tracy Lampert had been wrong, and this whole cross to Cawdor had been a waste of time. Why force me back in contact with this “old friend” if it was just going to be the same old shit? And why was Slutsky rooting through my purse? She used to do that all the time, but now, it felt really invasive.

“What are you doing?”

“Your phone’s ringing,” she said, fishing it out. “Ooooh.” She looked at the caller ID. “Who’s Mike?” she sang. “Is he the boy?”

I grabbed the phone from her and stared at Mike’s number on the screen, waiting for the call to go to voice mail. I was relieved to see him calling, but there’d be no way to explain to him what I was doing in Cawdor right now.

“What was that all about?” Slutsky asked. “Trouble in paradise?”

I squinted at her, shocked to realize that it had been so long since we’d spoken, she didn’t know anything about who I was anymore. There was no way and no reason to catch her up. The last time I’d talked to Slutsky, the biggest guy issue in my life had been my newly incarcerated father. I remembered the final fight we’d had, when Sarah had the nerve to take my father’s side, like she was his friend over mine.

Wait a minute. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Was it possible that the old friend Tracy had suggested was. . my father? On a good day, Dad had always been more of an old buddy-type than any sort of authority figure. On a bad day, well, those were the scars keeping me from getting back in touch with him. Until now.

The thing was, my father did have his connections — ethical or not. Maybe he was the only one who could help me now.

Or maybe I was crazy to believe anything Tracy Lampert said. Maybe I was really losing it.

“Hey,” I said to Slutsky, making a show of looking at my watch. “I should probably take off.”

Sarah looked around the bar. “Too many old ghosts for you here, huh?” she asked. “Okay, I’ll walk you out.”

I downed the rest of my SoCo and followed Slutsky’s lead out the creaky back door of the bar. We walked through the gravel parking lot, both taking in the difference in pitch between the bustling bar and the quiet night outside. In the darkest corner of the back lot, Slutsky pointed toward a camper van with a dim kerosene lamp hanging from it.

“I’m just going to make a quick stop by the trading post,” Slutsky said. “You want to come?”

“Trading post?” I asked, confused. It didn’t look like the kind of place where I’d want to trade anything.

“Oh, Tal,” she said, shaking her head, “you’ve been away too long. They’ve got everything, speed, Oxy — what’s your poison these days?”

One of the guys was leaning up against the camper, watching us. He had a braided beard and a spiked choker. His arms were tattooed from his shoulders to his fingers.

“I think I’m just going to go,” I said quietly. “Be careful, okay?”

Slutsky nodded, as if she’d already read a script of my lines. “Of course,” she shrugged, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I’ll call you?”

From my car, I could see her silhouette climbing into the back of the trading post camper. I was glad to be out of there, but unsettled by the fact that I knew my next stop had to be my father’s.

I decided to sleep on it before I made any impulsive moves and put the car in drive. Suddenly, I was very aware of the leather interior, surround-sound stereo system, and blinging hubcaps. Here I was, stuck in my past, sticking out because of my present.

And speaking of my present, I still hadn’t listened to Mike’s message:

“Don’t know if you were waiting in our spot today, but if you were, I’m sorry. I just needed a little bit of time to clear my head. Don’t be mad, okay? Just call me. I love you.”

I sighed and tossed the phone back in my bag — but when I did, I noticed something conspicuously missing. The rattle of the bottle of pills. I quickly sifted through my backpack. Where were they?

I knew I’d had the bottle when I walked into the bar; I’d felt for it when I paid for my drinks. I replayed the last hour in my mind and remembered Slutsky rifling through my bag. That little bitch had stolen my pills! And now she was selling them at that sleazy trading post!

I almost slammed on the brakes and turned the car around. But then, a calm settled over me. Slutsky had just unwittingly done me a favor by taking away the baggage I hadn’t known how to lose.

Let her have them. Now I could only hope that they’d disappeared for good.

W hen I woke up, everything was just as it had been before: my thin pea green comforter wrapped around me; the sun peeking through the wide east window, my father passed out on the easy chair in the living room of the trailer, where I slept on the fold-out bed. I was groggy, half asleep.

“Dad? ” I said. My voice had an underwater slowness to it. “I’ll make some coffee, okay?”

Silence from the chair. Dad’s arms were thrown up over his head in slack fists, and his cheeks were bristly and bloated. He’d kicked off one shoe by the door, but the other one still hung from his foot at an odd angle, like it had been twisted. A spider inched along the back of his headrest. He was so gruesome; I couldn’t stop staring at him. It seemed like lifetimes since I’d seen him, but then, it was just another day. Wasn’t it?

I stood over him, shaking his shoulder. “Dad,” I said more loudly. Then my heart picked up, and I turned towards the back of the trailer. “Mom!”

In the bedroom down the short hall of the trailer, I waited for my mother’s moan and rustle in the bed. We had a whole routine: I’d call again; she’d gripe her way to the door and stick her bed head out into the hallway — sometimes with a backward glance toward the bed. She could have anyone in there — anyone willing to sneak out between the time I left for school and whenever my dad came to.

“Mom,” I called again. “He’s really out this time.”

Suddenly, Dad’s fingers clamped around my wrist. I looked down, and his eyes snapped open.