“Can we sit somewhere?” she requests.
I lick my lips. It’s early December and it’s cold, but now I have my coat so I’m doing better when outside, but I don’t have it on now.
I don’t want to take her into Nectar.
First, it’s a strip club, and Ricky might get pissed off that I’m bringing in law enforcement. Second, it’s my place of work.
I lead her to the motel instead, thinking we can talk in my room.
It’s a simple space.
One full-size bed, one plastic chair, one trash can, one closet, one bathroom.
She sits on the chair and I on the bed. I leave the door slightly ajar. I have no idea why I do that.
Am I attempting to protect myself from a cop in the shadiest part of Silverton by leaving the freaking door open?
“You wanted to talk?” I prompt.
She smiles. I feel that this woman doesn’t do that often because she’s not comfortable with it.
“I wanted to tell you in person. You’re cleared. There’s no evidence against you.”
That’s good news, right? Then why do I feel nothing?
“Okay.”
She regards me thoughtfully. “I’m sorry that you were inconvenienced. It sucks…but, these things happen.”
“Okay,” I repeat. Since this was my first arrest, I’m not sure how these things happen. “Ah…so, I don’t have to stay in Silverton any longer?”
Her eyes glimmer with anger. “Who said that you had to stay here?”
I shrug. “Some deputy sheriff when I was being released from jail.”
“Do you remember his name?”
I shake my head. It’s the truth, I can’t remember much of those days, hell I can’t remember much of yesterday.
I work long hours and I’m mostly tired. I’m still not completely well since I didn’t rest when I was sick, so even now I have bouts of coughing and a headache. But now I can afford over the counter painkillers, so I’m able to work.
“How are you doin’, Faith?” she asks conversationally, like we know one another. We don’t.
“Okay?”
She huffs out a laugh. “You don’t know?”
I gave a slow, careless shrug. “I can’t feel much of anything these days.”
Her expression turns sympathetic. “I can only imagine. I…checked in on what happened to you in Seattle.”
This penetrates the solid fog I’m always in. One I joke to myself is made of Lysol and Pine-Sol, a delectable combination.
“I know what Jamie Da Silva did to you,” she continues. “I spoke to some cops thereandtalked to the EMTs who brought you inthatnight.”
The night I almost died.
The irony of it is that Cain not believing in me hurt more. I knew Jamie was a piece of shit. But Cain made me feel likeIwas the piece of shit.
