Chapter Twenty-One
Ezra
Iwake up the next morning to a text from Micah.
Brandon will help. Tonight 6 pm. Bring a relic.
“A relic?” I ask the empty apartment. “What the hell is a relic?”
I reply with,I’ve got nail and hair clippings from the murderer. Don’t ask why. Relic enough?
Sure.
Okay if Damon comes?
Sure.
He texts me an address, and I say I’ll see him later. After working the weekend, I’ve got the day off, which gives me hours to sit around fretting. Because if there’s something I’m good at, it’s fretting.
I swear I’m still whiskey-sick from the other night, so I stay clear of the bottle. I do manage to go through about a dozen lollipops, which is kind of disgusting. I rearrange the paintings on one wall, unable to decide where to hang my newest purchase.
It’s a small piece, an icon of some saint or other. I bought it on eBay because the figure’s expression reminded me of that damned Hanged Man card Jett keeps throwing at me. They sayI’m stuck. Correction, they say the cards say I’m stuck, and I need to move past something, which is ironic. I mean, the two years I’ve lived in Seattle is the longest I’ve been anywhere since I left home at seventeen.
I’ve got moving on dialed in.
Another card says I should listen to my heart, or whatever. Can’t do that, full stop. My heart wants to crawl in bed with Damon and let him do whatever he wants, penance or not.
Last night at dinner, we talked about nothing important. It was great. I want to keep talking to him, to hear his theories about politics and art, to feel the warmth of his big body next to mine.
But. But. What kind of relationship would we have if I periodically ditch him for three days at a time? That’s not cool, especially since I can never tell him why.
I’ll never be honest with him, so it’s probably not fair for us to get involved at any level.
Regardless of what my heart wants.
I do shoot him a text, though, asking if he’ll go with me to meet Micah’s friend. He agrees, so I send him the address. It’s not far from the light rail station, a block or so to the west of Broadway. Maybe we’ll grab dinner later, assuming things don’t get too weird.
And I’m for sure expecting weird.
One of the other things I do to fill up the time is google SPAM, the organization Micah thought I might belong to. As soon as I get to the website’s About Us page, a pop-up interrupts me. Fuck that noise. I’m not in the mood for their stupid questionnaire.
I close the browser page and instead do a search on “James Smith.” I did one right after The Incident and at the time I didn’t find much. Today, though, there’s a new hit. An obituary.
JAMES LOVELESS SMITH (1960 – 2024)
James Smith, age 62, of Seattle, WA, passed away following an unfortunate accident. James was born in Seattle on June 4th, 1960, to a Mr. and Mrs. Smith in the Ravenna neighborhood. He graduated with his GED and worked for Boeing until they got tired of his shenanigans and let him go. His work history was something of a patchwork quilt, but he could tell a joke and drink any man under the table, and he’ll be missed by the denizens of MacCready’s Pub on Capitol Hill. If he has other survivors, their names remain hidden by the mists of time and distance.
He always hated Seattle, yet he never left. That says something about a man. Donations in his name can be made to the Seattle Humane Society, earmarked for cats.
“What kind of batshittery is this?” I reread the obituary twice, double-checking the link address. Yes, The Seattle Times had published it in its November 5thedition. “Seems like something this borderline disrespectful should have been declined or something.”
I find it on my phone so I can copy the link and text it to Damon. He responds almost immediately.WTF?!
Wasn’t the note you found signed by someone named Cat?
There’s a pause before he replies.Yup. We can discuss later.
Figuring he’s busy at work, I go back to searching for Smith’s online footprints. Other than the obituary, I can’t find shit. Six p.m. begins to take on unnatural proportions in my mind, as if on a subterranean level, I know something bad will happen.
