Closer Than Blood

“I went back for the yellow and the lilac.”

“I didn’t realize you had so much money,” Lainie said.

“I could barely afford one.” Her sister smoothed the fabric on the lilac dress.

“Who says I paid for them?”

“Seriously, Tori. You’re bad, but not that bad.” Tori sat down on the bed and faced Lainie.

“I guess you don’t really know me.” She grinned as though she’d revealed some big secret. Lainie refused the obvious bait. She’d been there before a thousand times. Tori liked to challenge her, provoke her. Push her. That afternoon she was having none of that. She was in too good of a mood. She was excited about the dance, her date, the evening out of the house. Lainie pointed to the blue dress. It was the shortest of the three with a sweetheart neckline that she knew Tori would like. She always liked to shove what little cleavage she had into the faces of her admirers.

“I like that one,” Lainie finally said. Tori made a face.

“I hate that one,” she said.

“Boring. I like the yellow.” Lainie let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Then why did you ask me?”

“Because I know you’ll pick the worst one. You always do.” Lainie resisted the urge to offer up an insult of her own. She could do it, of course. But not right then.

“Guess you know what not to wear, then.” Tori thrust the yellow dress at Lainie.

“I want you to put this one on,” she said. Lainie shook her head.

“I have a dress.”

“I know, stupid. I want you to put it on so I can see how I’ll look in it. You know, to decide.” Lainie knew there was no arguing with her sister. The only thing that made her truly happy about the approaching South Kitsap dance was that it was the beginning of the end, the constant sharing. The car. Classes. Their father’s house. Soon, they’d go off their separate ways to different colleges and different lives. Their twinship would bind them forever, of course, but the pressure to be close would abate. At least that’s what she told herself. She stripped down to her underwear and stepped into the dress. She didn’t ask Tori to zip it; instead, she struggled on her own, reaching awkwardly around her back and pulling up the zipper. Dress on, she faced her sister.

“I don’t expect you to stomp it out on the catwalk, but can you at least stand up straight? I would never stand like that. Maybe hold your pooch in a little.”

“I don’t have a pooch, Tori.” She was getting angry then, but anger never seemed to get anywhere with Tori. In fact, it made matters worse. It was almost always better to just give in.

“Whatever,” Tori said.

“Turn around.” Slowly, and without any joy, Lainie spun in a single rotation. No trace of a smile on her face. Just the look of a teenager who wished she’d never said yes to the request.

“I’ll stick with the blue,” Tori said.

“You can have that one. Cute on the hanger, but ugly on us. Or maybe it’s just ugly on you.”

The Tacoma News Tribune missed the news cycle of the arrest in the Tacoma murder case, leaving KING-TV the scoop on its broadcast and updated website:

Fulton Arrested for Connelly Murder and Assault

Darius Fulton was arrested by Tacoma Police in his home across the street from the shooting that took the life of Alex Connelly and left his wife hospitalized on May 5. Police say that Fulton, 55, had been stalking Tori Connelly for several months.

“His advances were unwanted and relentless,” lead investigator Edmund Kaminski said, though he refused to elaborate.

“Although we’re devastated by the news of the arrest,” said Charla Maxwell of the North End Neighbors’ group, “we’re glad to know that our quiet street is safe once more.” Police had originally suggested that the killing was a home invasion gone wrong.

If Darius Fulton had thought even for a nanosecond that his life couldn’t get any worse up until that moment—arrested, handcuffed, and dispatched to the Pierce County Jail like a common criminal—he was sadly mistaken. He was herded into a holding pen with three dozen other men, drug dealers, violent felons, guys who knew their way around the system. Or at least knew there was no way around it whatsoever.

“Dude, you like this?” a shirtless man called over from the other line. Darius looked away.

“Like cattle in here. You’ll get used to it.” He shrugged, thinking that some reaction might be more prudent than completely ignoring the guy. An officer took an orange marking pen and drew an ID number on Darius’s upper arm.

“Branded, dude! You’ve been branded!” As he sat there wondering how an afternoon with a beautiful woman could have gone so wrong, Darius Fulton said a silent prayer. He prayed he’d live long enough to get out of there in one piece. His frame of reference for prison life was an old HBO television series, and he was sure that even though it was on cable, it was sugarcoated. He wasn’t with a gang and there was no one to protect him. He’d called his lawyer and she was on her way. Carrying his meal—a cellophane bag containing a slice of bologna, two pieces of bread, and a yellow mustard pack—Darius was led with a half dozen other men to another holding cell. Whether it was shame or self-preservation, he couldn’t be sure. He kept his head down low. As the linked-up badasses passed the metal detector, he looked up. He heard a familiar voice. It was Eddie Kaminski talking with a corrections officer. There to see him suffer, maybe? “Kaminski!” The detective turned toward the sound of his name. Fulton jerked on the chain to slow down the stream of men.

“I didn’t do this! I would never hurt anyone. I liked Tori Connelly. I know she didn’t like me.”

“Shouldn’t talk to anyone but your lawyer, Fulton.” The prisoner next to Darius looked back at the disheveled businessman.

“He’s right. Shut the fuck up.” After he passed by, the detective walked in the direction of a couple of prisoners yakking it up on payphones. Kaminski picked up the phone, dropped in some coins, and dialed.

“These phones are for inmates only,” said a young man with a spiderweb tattoo over his neck.

“Use your own phone.”

“Screw you,” Kaminski said, flashing his badge.

“I’ll use whatever goddamn phone I want.”

Maddie Crane could not have been angrier at her client. They sat in a private cell set aside for lawyers and clients. If its walls could talk, they’d likely scream. Wife murderers. Child killers. Boys and men who’d killed for the fun of it. All types of evil had been housed in that jail, and they had crawled around the slab floors like the vermin they were. Maddie, relieved of her purse and luxurious coat, sat like a chorus girl in search of a date as she nervously waited for Darius to come down the corridor. She stiffened a little when she heard the rattle of chains and the sound of voices. A beat later, Darius appeared in the doorway to the holding cell. He wore a county-issue jumpsuit and flip-flops. The marking on his forearm was still visible. He’d come a long way from his cozy life in North Tacoma. A very long way, indeed.

“Do you realize that you’ve got to get it together?” she asked as he sat across from her.

“I’m doing the best I can, Maddie. This is more concentration camp than boutique hotel.”

“Yes, I know, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What are you talking about?” Nervously, Maddie looked up at the guard who was pretending to ignore them.

“The last thing we need to do is get the likes of someone like him to testify against you.”

“Why would he?”

“Look,” she said.

“No more phone calls, okay? You have no idea what these places are like.” Darius was unsure of what she meant.

“I didn’t call anyone,” he said.