“No way. They’ll know if I touch her. Don’t you watch those police shows?”
“They won’t know jack shit. Her skin’s sloughing off all over the place.”
Stephen grimaced, glad he was still jacked up enough to feel numb. At the helm, James started dry- heaving.
“Quit your bellyachin’, boy,” Arlen yelled over his shoulder, “or I’ll throw you in with her.”
“Maybe we should call the Coast Guard,” Stephen suggested.
Arlen squinted at him. “We’re on the preserve,” he said, as if that were reason enough to throw a dead girl back into the sea like undersized catch. It was illegal to drop a net in protected waters, and the penalty for breaking that particular environmental sanction was a $500 fine. “Besides, don’t you recognize her?”
Stephen glanced down at the body and shuddered. “No.”
Arlen eyeballed him derisively. “Drugs done fried your brain, son. It’s that little neighborhood whore. Don’t look like she’ll be putting out no more.”
Shaking his head, Stephen turned away from the gruesome sight.
In the end, Arlen did the job himself, muttering about lazy boys and loose women, shaking the body from the net instead of cutting her free, to save the time and hassle of having to mend it later.
The rest of the day passed in taut silence.
After work, Stephen took his daily wage without a complaint. When James asked if he could spend the night at Stephen’s, Arlen grunted his permission. His truck was squealing around the corner before they got to the front door.
Stephen sat on the stoop, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and a wad of cash. “Here,” he said, counting out half his pay. He knew their dad never gave James a dime. Living expenses, Arlen claimed, ate up every cent of his little brother’s paycheck. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks,” James said, pocketing the cash and taking a seat next to him.
Stephen lit up a smoke and waited for James to speak, although he dreaded the conversation. He was coming down hard, his brain like mush, his body ready to crash. Times like this he hated being an addict. The higher the high, the lower the low.
“Did Dad ever bring home whores, when you used to live with us?”
Stephen took another drag. “You know he did.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I remember.” James came around to the real question he wanted to ask. “Did he try to make you do stuff with them?”
Stephen inhaled deeply, wishing it was dope. “Yep.”
James looked away, his mouth drawn. “I can’t do it.”
“You don’t have to,” Stephen replied. “Don’t let him bully you into it.”
“He rapes them,” James said. “Whether he pays or not. Whether they tell anyone or not. That’s what it is.”
Stephen nodded, thinking that what he and Rhoda did behind closed doors wasn’t much different. Hell, he was so screwed up that he’d begun to think pain and depravity were normal. No better than he deserved. No worse.
“I never want to have a girl like that. If she’s willing, you don’t have to pay her.”
“Don’t think about it,” Stephen said, giving the only advice he could. “Don’t worry about what he does.” Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers around James’ upper arm. “You’ll be eighteen soon. You’ll get out.” His voice shook with intensity. “Promise me you’ll get out.”
James squirmed in Stephen’s grip. “What will you do?”
“Don’t think about that,” he repeated. “Don’t think about anything. Just go. Go and never look back.”
“What about Mom?”
Stephen released him with a sigh, returning the cigarette to his mouth. His stomach was hurting now, and he longed to go inside, to heat the glass until the smoke rose up, to inhale over and over again. He wanted to forget about the day, forget himself, assuage his ache.
That query went unanswered, so James asked another. “You think he killed that girl?”
Stephen didn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at him. The next logical question, the one about their mother, remained unspoken.
Carly didn’t have any trouble choosing Christmas presents for James.
With Ben’s help, she selected a handsome diver’s watch, the same kind he used, of such stellar quality it boasted a lifetime guarantee even under the brutal wear and tear of salt water. She also chose a midnight blue cable-knit sweater, claiming it matched James’ eyes.
Ben rolled his.
Carly would have bought out the whole store if he hadn’t stepped in. He didn’t care about the money, but he had to draw the line somewhere. “You’ll embarrass him, Carly. He doesn’t want to be thought of as a charity case.”
“I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “What should we get for Summer?”
Ben shrugged.
“Jewelry?”
He pictured the tiny silver cross she’d had around her neck last night. “No. Too personal. We don’t know each other that well.”
“What does she like?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t you ask her about herself?”
“No.”
“You are so clueless.”
Actually, he wasn’t. He knew better than to encourage a woman into thinking they were embarking upon a long-term relationship.
“Lingerie, then?” she teased.
“Even I’m not that obvious.”
“Good. Perfume?”
“She doesn’t wear it.”
“How do you know?”
He knew because he’d smelled and touched and tasted her skin at most of the places women put perfume. Although he could think of a few more spots he’d like to introduce himself to. “I just do.”
They came back to jewelry, having exhausted all other options. Carly found an unusual pale blue stone pendant, hanging from a platinum chain. It was smoky and ethereal, like Summer’s eyes.
“Why don’t you say it’s from you?” he asked when Carly insisted that he buy it. It was too expensive, too lovely, and too fitting to be an offhand gift.
“You have major issues,” she sighed, but agreed.
In the car, on the way home, she said, “She’s been dead a long time. When will you let her go?”
Never, he thought.
He couldn’t let her go any more than he could forgive himself for killing her.
As usual, Sonny had difficulty deciding on an outfit to match her assumed role and the occasion. She finally settled on a calf-length skirt and soft leather boots, both vintage, and her own. The black cashmere sweater was new, bought with federal funding, and it had a neckline low enough to show off Carly’s silver cross.
She figured she may as well wear it again, especially since it was Christmas Eve.
Sonny Vasquez wasn’t fond of religious accoutrements. Summer Moore, she decided, could wear one without overanalyzing its symbolism. Besides, the necklace drew the eye to her cleavage, and although she wasn’t planning on letting Ben round second base again, she wasn’t above making him wish he could.
When he opened the door, he didn’t say anything about her appearance. Gone was the simple charmer who’d told her she looked delicious.
“Come in,” he said, very formally.
He was wearing gray suit pants and a white dress shirt. A black-and-gray-striped silk tie hung loose at his neck, and his toes were covered by black socks. He had sexy feet, she recalled, missing the sight of them bare.
“Do you know how to do a Windsor?”
