I say goodbye to Wes and stare out the window, drumming my fingers while I ponder the facts.
Is Ray planning a hold up? Is he planning to shoot me, try to take Violet back? Where’d the engagement ring come from? She was adamant she hadn’t had one.
Pawn shop. I told Violet I’d get her jewelry out for her. It’s not in at Sully’s but the shop logo on the ticket has an address that isn’t that far from Violet’s apartment.
I decide to go down there. But, before I go, I check in with Alana and Craig. Alana manages Genesis for me and oversees the managers for my other locations. Craig will be my manager at Numbers. They’re both there, with the party planner and the rest of my staff setting up for tonight.
I grab the package, my gun, make sure I’ve got the pawn ticket, then I leave.
21
Violet
I hear a door slam, so I poke my head out. Killian must be gone out somewhere.
I wander out to the kitchen and pour some orange juice, side-eyeing the leftovers from last night. I’m not sure I can handle any food right now, nor the memories of last night’s conversation.
The fridge is stocked with healthy and not-so-healthy ingredients. Killian is fit, clearly takes care of his body, but the fridge looks like it’s stocked for both a health nut as well as a junk food junkie. I see refrigerated cookie and biscuit dough, a jar of queso, guac and three kinds of ice cream in the freezer, and of course there are two quarts of flavored creamer. And again, that creamer makes me wonder if he knew I was coming here with him that night – if he bought those in preparation for that. He seems like a strategic guy and that makes me believe that my hunch is correct. That was no knee-jerk reaction at my apartment that night to bring me here as a marker.
Killian has been angry all day so far. Waking up in bed with me this morning and whatever dream he had last night put him in a foul mood.
Though, as grouchy as he was both before we left as well as while we were out, it didn’t feel the same as the way Ray used to get. I didn’t feel like I was tiptoeing on broken glass, trying not to draw blood.
After putting my coat on, juice in hand, I head out to the balcony and curl up on a lounge chair whose cushions are cool and damp and should probably be stored now that the weather has turned. Despite the chill, I feel a strange sense of self-awareness I haven’t had in some time as I admire the view, as I ponder things, including how strangely comforting it was to wake up next to him – having that feeling of safety.
My judgement feels so clouded though.
Tomorrow will be good, getting to hang with my best friend for the day. I should go see my parents soon, too. I’m thinking I’ll wait until this is over with, this two week … thing. As tempted as I am to put Mom’s mind at ease by telling her I’m on my way toward being Ray-free permanently (I hope), it’s premature. I should wait until that page has fully turned. When I get to go home, when I know Ray is out of my life, I’ll tell them then.
I surf social media on my phone and see a funny joke, so I forward it to my mother and tell her I’m thinking of her and hope to visit soon. She replies that she and Dad are leaving tonight, heading to their time share for two weeks. She says Cody is staying with my grandfather and has her car. She’ll make plans when she gets back for us to get together.
I smile and hope that by then, I can tell them Ray is out of my life.
Feeling the cold, I decide to go in, but before I do, I spot a deck box and finding it empty, I take the cushions from the two lounge chairs as well as the accessories from the patio table and put them all away before going back inside and grabbing a broom and dustpan to sweep up all the stray leaves.
22
Killian
“When did he leave?” I ask Wes.
I’m parked in a visitor’s spot a couple cars away from Violet’s empty spot at her building. I’m driving my Macan today; Ray doesn’t know this vehicle – or he shouldn’t.
I get out and lean against the driver’s door, phone to my ear.
“Thirty-six minutes ago,” Wes informs.
“Where is he now?”
“Library, four blocks away. He’s checking his email and there’s nothing interesting in there, but not five minutes ago he was on your website, reading a press release with details of tonight’s party and jotting them down on a scrap of paper.”
I suck my teeth as I process this. What is that fucker planning?
“I’m goin’ in.” I push off the car and head for the entrance to the building. “Text me when he’s on the way back. I’m planting bugs in the apartment.”
“Coulda got me to do that for you.”
“Some things I need to see to myself. I’ll get you the details so you can link in.”
“Got it. Cool, man.”
I hang up and slip into the building using Violet’s key.
I enter her apartment. The door is unlocked, which pisses me off. Fucker doesn’t give a shit about her belongings? When I get the door open, a stench hits me. The stench of a fucking loser.
It’s a combination of stale beer and desperation. The place is a mess.
The closet door inside the entrance is open and trash bags filled with clothing have been torn into. Clean-looking clothes spill out, folded - unwashed rumpled clothes litter the area around it.
I shake my head. Violet carefully packed for him to go. The fucker got packed folded clothes, not his shit thrown out the window like he deserved.
This place was clean when I visited. It’s trashed after just a couple days of her not here.
Dishes. Beer cans. Mess. Things have been rifled through. Violet’s things.
I quickly plant my tiny cameras in the return air vent on the ceiling over the kitchen cupboard pointing at Violet’s red couch.
I do my own snooping.
Kitchen drawers. I grab the light-up chopsticks and tuck them into my coat’s inside pocket.
There are some photos in a junk drawer of her and Raymond looking happy, him with his arms around her. There are magnets on the backs of them. These used to be on the fridge, I’m guessing. If the fucker didn’t notice she stuffed them in a drawer at some stage, his bad – because that’s a sign he shouldn’t have ignored.
In the first picture, she’s looking at him and he’s looking at the camera. And the way she looks at him? Fuck. I wanna find him and gut him for having that. I fling the pictures back into the drawer and head to the living area where I find a photo album on the coffee table opened up to the middle. There’s also a basket under the coffee table with all sorts of shit spilling out, obviously having been rifled through. Pictures, ticket stubs for an amusement park, a loose stack of pictures of them together with snapshots from road trips, a ski trip. One of her in ski gear on a bunny hill with a goofy look on her face. I lean back on the couch as I eyeball another snapshot, this one of her in a bikini with her eyes crossed, being goofy again. I catch myself smiling. It’s appealing that she doesn’t take herself so seriously. I shift and hear a crinkle. I find I’m sitting on an envelope. I lift it and look inside. A set of boudoir photos. These though, not goofy. Serious as a heart attack. Serious as a crime scene, which I wanna create because of what I see.