up on my couch with my new book, The Art of the Chessmaster.
Itâs a beautiful night, warm and sunny, so I throw open the door to my balcony. I smell cigarette smoke wafting up from a balcony below mine, and my mind flits to my dresser drawers, where Iâm pretty sure I have a hidden pack stashed. I push the thought away, stepping onto my balcony and taking in the view. In the distance, I can see a flicker of blue from the Bay. Across the park, I can see Saints Peter and Paul, my churchâÂmy touchstoneâÂmy connection to my family.
My fatherâs funeral was held at the church. I can still remember watching my big, tough uncles wipe tears away as they carried his coffin down the wide stone steps. A few days later, they also carried Caterinaâs small white coffin down the same steps.
After that, my mother still laughed with her friends at the park, but it was as if the laugh had traveled through a long, gray, cement tunnel firstâÂmuted and a shadow of its former self. I would sometimes watch her when she didnât know I was looking.
I think of my family every time I see the towering white Gothic spires of the church from my apartment.
Â
Chapter 14
T HE RED STOOL squeaks obnoxiously as I slide up onto it. An older man with a bulbous nose looks up from his drink at me. Iâm about to do something Iâve never done before an interview. I order a shot of vodka and throw it back. Then I order another. It hits me hard.
I look around guiltily. The bar is a known reporter hangout since itâs close to the courthouse and jail, but I donât see anyone I recognize. Before I began covering Jasmineâs disappearance, I had been careful about my drinking, sticking to two drinks max. Despite my mother claiming I was a child with an overactive imagination, Iâll never forget that the few times my father turned mean, there was always a drink in his hand. When we were little, my brother Dante would warn me that âDad has gone bad again,â and Iâd hide in my room. I also know that this, like Caterinaâs death, is something taboo to talk about in my family.
But tonight, thoughts of seeing Jack Dean Johnson make me abandon my caution. I slap ten bucks on the bar and down one more shot before walking the two blocks to the jail. The clouds in the sky above are streaked with red from the setting sun. A warm wind does nothing to erase the chill rippling across my scalp.
Inside, I hand my ID to the jail clerk and hope she canât smell alcohol on my breath. In the elevator on the way up to the interview room, I make the sign of the cross, button my shirt up to my neck, and pull my sweater tighter around me. I step out of the elevator and take a seat on the swivel stool to wait. It is unnerving to be in this room. The only light comes from interrogation-Âtype spotlights shining on three cubbies. Shadows intrude on me from both sides. I lean back and arch my neck to glance into the cubbies on either side of me even though I saw them clearly when I got out of the elevator. Of course, they are empty.
I dig an antibacterial wipe out of my pocket and swab the phone. On the other side of the glass, a door opens. As the deputy unlocks the cuffs, Johnson grins at me sideways. My stomach churns.
He limps his way over to the middle cubicle and pulls out his chair. He doesnât take his eyes off me as he does his own compulsive cleaning of the phone with his shirt. I pretend to fiddle with my notebook, flipping the pages so I donât have to meet his eyes. Then he taps on the glass between us to indicate I should put my phone to my ear now.
âHey.â He cocks his head, staring at me. âYou seem a little different tonightâ
How can he know what is normal for me? How can he notice any change after a thirty-Âminute interview the other day?
âIâm fine,â I say in a brisk voice. âSo, youâve been busy with
Itâs a beautiful night, warm and sunny, so I throw open the door to my balcony. I smell cigarette smoke wafting up from a balcony below mine, and my mind flits to my dresser drawers, where Iâm pretty sure I have a hidden pack stashed. I push the thought away, stepping onto my balcony and taking in the view. In the distance, I can see a flicker of blue from the Bay. Across the park, I can see Saints Peter and Paul, my churchâÂmy touchstoneâÂmy connection to my family.
My fatherâs funeral was held at the church. I can still remember watching my big, tough uncles wipe tears away as they carried his coffin down the wide stone steps. A few days later, they also carried Caterinaâs small white coffin down the same steps.
After that, my mother still laughed with her friends at the park, but it was as if the laugh had traveled through a long, gray, cement tunnel firstâÂmuted and a shadow of its former self. I would sometimes watch her when she didnât know I was looking.
I think of my family every time I see the towering white Gothic spires of the church from my apartment.
Â
Chapter 14
T HE RED STOOL squeaks obnoxiously as I slide up onto it. An older man with a bulbous nose looks up from his drink at me. Iâm about to do something Iâve never done before an interview. I order a shot of vodka and throw it back. Then I order another. It hits me hard.
I look around guiltily. The bar is a known reporter hangout since itâs close to the courthouse and jail, but I donât see anyone I recognize. Before I began covering Jasmineâs disappearance, I had been careful about my drinking, sticking to two drinks max. Despite my mother claiming I was a child with an overactive imagination, Iâll never forget that the few times my father turned mean, there was always a drink in his hand. When we were little, my brother Dante would warn me that âDad has gone bad again,â and Iâd hide in my room. I also know that this, like Caterinaâs death, is something taboo to talk about in my family.
But tonight, thoughts of seeing Jack Dean Johnson make me abandon my caution. I slap ten bucks on the bar and down one more shot before walking the two blocks to the jail. The clouds in the sky above are streaked with red from the setting sun. A warm wind does nothing to erase the chill rippling across my scalp.
Inside, I hand my ID to the jail clerk and hope she canât smell alcohol on my breath. In the elevator on the way up to the interview room, I make the sign of the cross, button my shirt up to my neck, and pull my sweater tighter around me. I step out of the elevator and take a seat on the swivel stool to wait. It is unnerving to be in this room. The only light comes from interrogation-Âtype spotlights shining on three cubbies. Shadows intrude on me from both sides. I lean back and arch my neck to glance into the cubbies on either side of me even though I saw them clearly when I got out of the elevator. Of course, they are empty.
I dig an antibacterial wipe out of my pocket and swab the phone. On the other side of the glass, a door opens. As the deputy unlocks the cuffs, Johnson grins at me sideways. My stomach churns.
He limps his way over to the middle cubicle and pulls out his chair. He doesnât take his eyes off me as he does his own compulsive cleaning of the phone with his shirt. I pretend to fiddle with my notebook, flipping the pages so I donât have to meet his eyes. Then he taps on the glass between us to indicate I should put my phone to my ear now.
âHey.â He cocks his head, staring at me. âYou seem a little different tonightâ
How can he know what is normal for me? How can he notice any change after a thirty-Âminute interview the other day?
âIâm fine,â I say in a brisk voice. âSo, youâve been busy with
Similar Books
