Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell Page A

break.”
    “I can’t, Chuck. I have to do it when—”
    “It’s fine.”
    “I’m not allowed, Chuck. I’m on door.”
    Chuck grabbed the flyers from Stan’s hand. Stan jumped back a step. “Hey!”
    “I have to talk to you now, Stan.”
    “Hello, Chuck.” It was Mr. Cambry, who had come up from the side.
    “Hi,” Chuck said. “Can Stan take his break early?”
    “I don’t want to,” Stan said. “Honest.”
    “That’s all right, Stan,” Mr. Cambry said. “Your brother is here. Maybe he needs to talk to you about the fire. How’s that going, by the way?”
    Chuck shrugged. “No word.”
    “Stan tells me the police made some trouble for you.”
    “Oh yeah?” Chuck said. “Stan sure likes to bump his gums, doesn’t he?”
    Cambry frowned. “Chuck, you don’t need—”
    “There’s no trouble. I’m free as a bird, see?” Chuck spread his arms. “Can I talk to Stan now?”
    “Sure, sure. No problem.” Cambry walked away, seeming a little miffed. So what? That was a store manager’s job, wasn’t it?
    “I’m going to get in trouble,” Stan said.
    “No you’re not. Come over here and sit.” Chuck went to one of the tables near the coffee bar and pulled out two chairs. Stan, a worried look on his face, sat and folded his hands.
    “What’s the matter, Chuck?” Stan said. “You look like you’re mad at me. Did the dirty cops work you over?”
    “Listen, Mr. Memory. I need you to start remembering some things.”
    “Okay. I can do that! Let’s do a game.”
    “Not a game this time. I want you to think about Julia.”
    “How come?”
    “Do you remember her ever talking to somebody on the phone, or going to meet somebody when I wasn’t around?”
    “I don’t think so, Chuck.”
    “Well think harder.”
    “You are mad at me. That’s not fair.”
    Chuck closed his eyes and worked his jaw a little. “Just help me out here.”
    “I’ll try, Chuck. Honest.”
    “Remember back when she left?”
    Stan wrinkled his forehead. “You had fights. But it was because of your post traumatic stress disorder, I know it. It’s an ongoing reaction to psychological trauma, first diagnosed––”
    “I know that, Stan. Think about Julia. Did you ever see her act strange when I wasn’t around?”
    “What kind of strange?”
    “Any kind.”
    “I don’t know,” Stan’s voice was thinned out, which was how his stress manifested itself.
    “Let’s keep this real simple,” Chuck said. “Did you ever see her with any man, at any time, alone?”
    “I saw her with the mailman.”
    “Anybody else?”
    “No, Chuck. I don’t think . . . I mean I don’t remember that. Chuck, why are you asking me?”
    “Did she ever tell you to keep a secret from me?” Chuck realized he was leaning forward, gripping the arms of the chair in both hands.
    “Secret?”
    “You do know what a secret is, right?”
    “Chuck, you’re making me nervous.”
    “Think!”
    A sheen of wet formed in Stan’s eyes, pooling at the bottom of his lids. Chuck closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. What a slime he was, treating his brother this way.
    “Stan, I’m sorry. Really.” Chuck let go of the chair arms and leaned back. “Listen, maybe this will help you. I just talked to Octavia Butler, do you remember who she is?”
    “Yes. She is a writer for LAEye and she was Julia’s friend.”
    “Okay. I saw her just now. She thought Julia might have been seeing someone, another man, who I didn’t know about.”
    “Oh, Chuck!”
    “I just need to find out, you understand?”
    “Yes I do, Chuck. I hate that! It isn’t fair!”
    Chuck nodded. “Let’s see what we can remember. Octavia said this guy rode a motorcycle and had a vest with a sun on the back. Did you ever see anybody like that around?”
    Stan didn’t say anything. He was looking at the ground, his brow deeply furrowed.
    “Stan?”
    Stan put up one finger. “Wait, Chuck. There’s motorcycles and a sun.”
    Chuck sat up straight. “You