I realize my teeth are chattering and clamp my mouth shut. I’m being ridiculous. Tolyan couldn’t have killed the man. I might even be wrong about the house. It isn’t like there’s only one house in this entire huge city with a mailbox knocked on the ground and a messy yard.
Because it’s one thing to give off a danger vibe, quite another to actually kill a human being, especially so up close and personal. The article makes it clear that if this was a murder, the killer had been close to the victim.
I Google for more articles. But it’s like they were all written by the same reporter, because they repeat the same facts.
“Argh!” Frustrated, I drop the phone next to the sandwich.
What I wanted to know was how that man supposedly killed himself. I want proof that Tolyan wasn’t involved in his death. The man was found in his bathtub. Tolyan’s clothes were dry last night…I think. But it was dark and I couldn’t see that well.
And if there was blood…
Tolyan’s outfit was all black, which means it wouldn’t have shown, not in the dark. It’s like he knew he’d need the camouflage.
Stop it! You’re being paranoid.
But I can’t stop. Paranoid has been my middle name since my parents died. And paranoia is what’s kept me alive for eight years.
I go back through the articles, looking for the dead man’s address. One has it. I look it up…and realize it’s the place I followed Tolyan to. There’s no question about it.
I suck in air. This is the kind of stuff I’m supposed to call the cops about. That’s what society says is the right thing to do.
But if I do the right thing, are they going to keep me safe from Roy?
The fact that I’m even asking that question—like doing the right thing is a matter of tit for tat—makes me want to smack myself. It’s selfish and terrible and a whole bunch of other very bad adjectives. But for God’s sake, whose fault is it that I’ve become this awful? Why should I do the right thing when the world doesn’t want to do the right thing back in return? All I want is to feel safe.
Contradictory and shameful thoughts swirl in my head. My temples throb, and my skull hurts, like someone’s got it in a vise.
After swallowing four ibuprofen, I go to Coffee Heaven for my shift. Eric and Sean are already there. Sean waves, but Eric barely glances my way as he tilts his chin in an arrogant, half-assed greeting. I smile like nothing’s wrong, but know I failed when Sean gives me a weird “what’s up with you?” look.
Nothing. Everything. I don’t even know anymore.
My insides are wound so tight I feel like I’m about to snap. The universe is no longer satisfied with throwing rotten lemons at me. Now it wants to play mind games. How long will it take before Angelika goes insane?
Never, bitch. Never. Never giving you the satisfaction.
When I put on my apron and come out of the locker room, the door chimes, signaling a new customer. I lift my head as I walk toward the register and every cell in my body freezes.
Tolyan.
Today he’s in a navy suit with a white shirt and no tie. Everything about him is pristine and crisp, like he has a business meeting to attend. I realize he wasn’t on the jogging trail just because he didn’t feel like coming by, not because he slept in or whatever. I glance at his hands. He must’ve used them to kill the man last night. I stare at them more closely. I have no idea what I’m looking for. Bloodstains under his fingernails? Scratch marks from the man’s struggle?
But Tolyan’s hands are scratch-free and clean enough to perform surgery. Then I remember the gloves he was wearing when he went to the house, plunging me deep into a massive wave of doubt.
The article didn’t say what he did. Just that the man died. A suicide. It’s probably a suicide, I tell myself, although my silent reassurance seems hollow. The cops would’ve known if it weren’t…wouldn’t they?
But maybe cops didn’t look too hard. Or maybe it’s still too early to tell.
Tolyan doesn’t study the menu like he did yesterday. He merely comes to me. Then, before I can say the standard greeting, he says, “Drip coffee. Black. No sugar.”
I force a smile. No matter what’s churning in my head, he’s a customer. “Anything else?”
“No.” He hands me a few stiff bills folded neatly in half. “Keep the change.”
It’s only eighty-two cents, but I don’t want it. I can’t make sense of his kindness and his potential for violence.
Sure you can. Think about when he was kind and when he was brutal.
I pause for a second. I’ve known him for two days, and the only time he’s been less than kind is when the other person deserved it. The flasher. The redhead—well, he didn’t know she was obnoxious to me, but I suspect she’s like that with everyone, so he might’ve seen her behave badly. And that drunk guy at the party.
Could it be that the bathtub guy did something? But what could be so bad it deserved—
“Here you go.” Sean’s placid voice interrupts my train of thought. He gives Tolyan his coffee. Tolyan levels a cool look at him, a look reserved for a toddler who’s done something irritating. Sean smiles uncertainly in return.
I lick my lips, feeling like I should say something, but I have no clue what. Sean was just doing his job.
Tolyan stalks out of the café, starts to take a sip, then frowns and throws the rest of the coffee into the trash can outside. He doesn’t seem to care that we can see him do it through the window.
“Did you put something in the coffee?” I ask, in case Sean dumped in some flavored syrup by accident. Some of them have a strong scent, and you can smell it if you bring the coffee close to your face.
“No. Just black, right?”
“The pot still fresh?” Eric asks.
Sean glares at Eric. “Yeah. Super. I checked.” Unlike you is left unspoken.
Eric shrugs. “Okay, then it isn’t anything we did.”
“Probably not,” I say, although I’m a little bit skeptical about Sean’s claims. There’s no reason for Tolyan to toss perfectly fine coffee. Is there? Regardless, I say, “Otherwise, he would’ve just asked for a new cup.” I don’t want them arguing. My aching head can’t handle it.
“Maybe he’s just on the rag,” Eric says.
I almost choke. Tolyan is anything but emo. On the other hand, Eric could very well be PMSing.
“Some men are like that,” he adds. Mr. Insightful.
The rest of the shift goes quietly. More people come in for coffee and pastries as the morning grows late and afternoon rolls around. Lots of smiles. Friendly little comments. Whoops of celebration at one table and a lot of hugs. Somebody’s getting married and inviting all her friends.
Just ordinary life. But not something I can have. Not as long as Roy is out there. He’s hurt my friends before. I can’t have that on my conscience. Courtney texting to check up on me from time to time makes me nervous enough.
The door opens. A courier walks in, his gray uniform slightly wrinkled. His eyes are murky green and wide behind a pair of thick glasses. His face is a tad too pale, like he doesn’t see a lot of sun, and his mouth is thin but soft. The short sleeves of the uniform show thin, gangly arms. The man has to be around thirty, but he appears as harmless as a child.