Damage by Mark Feggeler

in the chest and jumped to her death, had been mingling with friends at a party and joking lovingly with her husband less than twenty-four hours earlier. He had never personally known anyone that had been a player in such a tragedy, and it would be difficult for him to argue he knew her well, if at all. Still, Ray could not accept the sheriff's hastily drawn conclusion. It seemed convenient, with the purpose of drawing the case to a close.
    His stomach empty, the blood stains on his jacket wet and smearing once more due to the weather, Ray arrived at his apartment to find the front door closed and locked. Off to his right, someone raised a window in the neighboring apartment.
    "The big dummy busted through your back window again," Mr. Moore called out to him. The old man's wispy gray hair flew in all directions around the top of his small head. His voice was heavy with disappointment.
    "I'm sorry for the noise, Mr. Moore," Ray called back.
    The fairly predictable scene before him wasn't quite so bad as he had expected. The television flickered in the dimly lit living room, but at least Jake hadn't cranked the volume. Ray assumed he must have passed out before finding anything interesting to watch. Lying face down on the sofa across from the television, his coat wrapped tightly around him like a blanket, Jake snored loudly. A sharp, vinegary odor emanated from the sleeping man as alcohol escaped through every pore of his body, mixed with traces of whatever other substance he had abused the night before. Ray left the front door open to help air out the apartment.
    The kitchen looked like the scene of a rave party gone wrong. The contents of the cabinet in which he kept his plates, bowls and glasses littered the floor. To his amazement, only one of the smaller glasses had shattered. He gathered up the broken glass, careful not to cut himself again, and dumped the pieces in the trash. Everything else went in the sink to be dealt with later. Jake didn't stir through the clean up.
    Ray grabbed a granola bar from another cabinet and a diet soda from the refrigerator and dropped himself into the tattered recliner next to his passed out friend. The remote balanced precariously in Jake's open hand. As he lifted it, Ray noticed a two-inch cut running along the inside of Jake's thumb that had dark, dried blood caked around it. Blood covered several of the remote buttons, as well.
    "Dumbass," Ray muttered. "That's what you get for wrecking my kitchen."
    Ray scanned the channels for the one that seemed the most obnoxious. He turned up the volume as loud as he thought Mr. Moore could bear and waited for a reaction from Jake. It took a minute or two, but Jake eventually lifted his head and scanned the room for the source of the noise. When he couldn't find the remote, he buried his face in the sofa cushions and pulled his arms over his head. Ray could barely make out his muffled pleas to lower the volume.
    "What'd you say?" Ray asked after he brought the noise to a low enough level to make conversation.
    "Turn it off!"
    "No, I like this show," Ray responded, and turned up the volume yet again.
    Jake rolled over slowly and tried to sit up, coming to rest at a steep angle. His eyes stayed mostly shut as he rubbed his face and exhaled a great yawn of foul breath into the room. He winced, finally noticing the fresh wound on his thumb. It woke him up enough to cause him to take a good look around and survey his surroundings. The two men stared silently at each other for a moment, then Jake's attention returned to the television.
    "Turn it off," he groaned.
    Ray obliged. Any sympathy he might have had for his hard luck friend had already been tempered by the broken glass in the kitchen. It evaporated entirely when he saw the mud stains smeared on the sofa from Jake's dirty pants and shoes. Ray shook his head.
    "I've been trying to get a hold of you for almost a week," he started. "Where's your phone?"
    Jake made like he was searching his coat