Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel (25 page)

“Understood,” Cherabino told the door handle, and got out of the office as quickly as her legs could carry her. Was it true? It couldn’t be true, could it? She walked like the demons of hell were on her back, away, away. When she passed another cop (who reacted too strongly to her face, she must be crying, he would hate her and think she was weak, she had to stop, she had to stop now), she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and slammed the door closed on her emotions.

Slamming me out in the process.

I “woke up” in the coffee closet, my own face wet with tears that didn’t belong to me. I could barely catch my breath. Her devastation was overwhelming, total, heartbreaking.

I staggered up and out, wiping at my eyes. She was heading for the closet—trying to get away from prying eyes, just like I had—and I didn’t have the piece of mind to fake it right now. I had to get out. Get out
now
, before she found out. Because as shitty as she felt right now, she’d feel even worse if she knew I’d been witness to her humiliation.

And I didn’t want that for her.

I made it outside, on the smoking porch, without noting the steps in between. It took three cigarettes and a hundred breaths for the hot August sun to bake me back into completely
me
again. Which was too long; there was something going on between us I didn’t have words for, and it worried me. It worried me a lot. But there wasn’t exactly anyone I could call anymore,
not without them reporting me ten ways to Tuesday, not without her knowing. And as much as I couldn’t afford another strike on my record, even more I couldn’t afford for her to know what I’d seen.

I craved my poison, and suddenly that was a good thing, something dependable, something just
mine
. Even if I did have to stand there saying no for another cigarette and a half. But this time it was easier, somehow, as if being in her head helped me in mine.

The sun beat on me all alone, while I heard a few cops above me still on the roof; the sun beat on me while my sweat poured down and I tried to think about what had happened.

Then I went back in the building. I found the showers, cleaned off, and got dressed in my spare almost-uniform white shirt and black pants. I couldn’t leave food in my broken locker, but none of the cops would stoop to stealing clothes, so I had a couple changes stored here.

Finally calm, and me again, I asked the detectives’ pool for more busywork. I wasn’t in any shape to do interviews. I wasn’t—and Paulsen shooed me away again, saying we’d talk in the morning about the Guild. She was disappointed in me, that much was clear. I wasn’t too happy with her in return.

An hour of busywork later, Bellury found me and said it was time for the drug test. I was so wrapped up in other things, I just got it done. Didn’t think about it, didn’t stress about it, caught up too much in all the other stresses, all the other thoughts. I knew I would pass, this time.

I called Swartz, to let him know for sure I wouldn’t be at the meeting. Cherabino would need me when she finally surfaced from work. She’d need me—or something—worse than I needed my poison. She was
having a hell of a day. And I wasn’t about to let her go home alone.

“How are you doing?” I asked from the cubicle entrance.

She grunted and continued keying through line after line of computer text. She didn’t turn around, but sadness and shame leaked out of her in a steady stream.

“I packed enough for a week, so I don’t need to get anything else after work,” I said, probably too casually. “Don’t leave without me, okay?”

Her fingers paused on the keys for a long moment. “Still not leaving me?” Even her voice sounded like the weight of the world was sitting on her chest.

“That’s right,” I said.

After another long moment, her fingers started up again. “I’ll be working late tonight.”

“Okay.” I took a long, deep breath of relief. “That’s fine.”

I spent the next few hours back in the interview rooms, my head finally in the game. Perp after stupid predictable perp, all convinced they were smart enough to fool the system, none of them succeeding. When the last one was done and I had a moment to look up, it was nine thirty.

I put things away, grabbed some stuff, and went to find Cherabino. She was typing away furiously, disturbing images flashing on the screen one after another. I announced myself, but she didn’t look up.

I stood behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. “Cherabino.”

She looked up. “What?”

I pretended not to see the dried tear tracks on her face. “It’s half past nine and time to go.”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve got to do this.”

I reached over her and hit the save button. Then I hit the power button, turning the whole complexity completely off.

She glared at me as the screen cut off. “What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s not going to get done tonight, and you’ll do better with some rest.” I tried to be firm without giving away the fact she looked like shit.

For one long moment she looked up at me, the anger turning vulnerable, and not about anger at all.

I broke the moment by handing her her favorite jacket. “It’s time to go.”

She handed me the keys
. After a moment, I took them, not saying anything, and started the drive to her house. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted me behind the wheel; I drove carefully and stuck to ground-level roads, determined not to mess this up. Next to me in the passenger seat, Cherabino was more and more quiet as her mind screamed louder and louder. I was trying hard to stay in my own head, thank you very much, so I couldn’t see any of her thoughts exactly, just the wake they made as they swam around her head.

She flashed angry and sad, angry, shameful, and sad over and over again, to the point where sitting in the same car with her—and having her mind so loud to me without any good reason—was turning torturous.

I cut the car off and got out as quickly as I could. Then, steeling myself, I turned back and opened her door for her. She got out and went into the house, putting one step in front of the other while she wrestled with something I couldn’t see.

She did stop to pick up the newspaper from her front doorstep, which I took as a good sign. Inside, she paused as I closed the door. The sadness—now pure sadness—intensified.

“Why don’t you take a shower? You might feel
better,” I suggested, as much to get her out of the immediate area as anything else. I’d talk to Paulsen in the morning, call Kara, make a fuss. Tonight I needed to calm down. Cherabino was upset enough for both of us.

“I can put a couple TV dinners in to cook,” I offered. That was about the limit of my domesticity, but I’d do it, and gladly, if she’d take the damn sadness away from me. I was starting to want to cry again, and damn it, men don’t cry. We just don’t.

She nodded, and I could
feel
the decision solidify through the pain. And she walked away, away to the back of the house, and the sadness faded until I could think again.

I heated up two dinners from the freezer—both bought at my insistence, since she apparently wasn’t raised to use the microwave at all—and brought them back into the living room. I was proud of myself; I even remembered the place mat things so her fancy coffee table wouldn’t get scratched. And forks. And water—ice water—because she said it was healthier. I figured we’d do a proper TV dinner night, veg out in front of stupid television and eat, and later maybe she would fall asleep in my arms again.

I was seated and all ready to go when she emerged from the bedroom. Wearing a thin black robe. Which didn’t hide much. I was brought back to myself only by the desperate, determined pain coming off her in waves.

I pulled my eyes back to the coffee table by force of will alone. “Um, I don’t—”

“Shut up,” she said, moving forward all at once. Somehow she ended up straddling my lap, her nose to mine. Then she kissed me. She
kissed
me, aggressively, forcefully, desperately—and suddenly I was right there with her; I wound my hands through her hair and kissed her back with years of repressed desire. With
every contact of skin to skin, my mind overlapped a little more with hers, and I could
feel
her desperation. And I was swept away with it, with how good she felt, the silky texture of the robe, the soft firmness of her skin under it.

I tumbled her back on the couch, changing positions to me on top, and her desire skyrocketed. I could
feel
it, and as I kissed a long trail down her neck…I let go of the last of my barriers, intending to make this sweeter for both of us—and stopped cold. It wasn’t my face she saw in her mind. It was some blond man’s.
Peter,
she thought.

“Hold on.” I stopped completely and forced her face to tilt up to look at me, trying to make her see
me
.

But she used some judo move to flip me over onto the floor, just missing the coffee table—it was unexpected and hurt, bad—only she ended up on top of me. In exactly the right places, groin to groin; okay, I could work with this, the back of my head said. I could
definitely
work with this, with her hips moving exactly like that….

I moved my hands up to bracket her arms, and the skin-to-skin contact put me back in her mind. I hadn’t pulled away. I hadn’t closed down.

Her shame from the station today clawed at her, and the shame mixed with her fear, her very real fear that she would be alone
forever
, that Peter was gone and she’d never find anyone else like him, that this sex would be the only sex she’d get for years, that she
needed
(she needed Peter, but he wasn’t here; he’d never be here) and I felt so
good
, and the shame (how could he say that? how in hell could he say that? it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true!) and (didn’t Peter love her anymore? God, she missed him, she missed him!) the feel of my body under hers, and some very explicit images….

She leaned in for a very hot kiss, flavored with the images, and then her shame and the desperation rode her again, and I pulled away. I looked into her eyes, seeing the very face of my fantasy, and cursed myself for a fool. Because I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let her do this, not like this, not out of shame and guilt and desperation. Not when it wasn’t, wasn’t anything to do with me. When she’d regret it with every ounce of her later. I—I just, too much, couldn’t do that to her.
Wouldn’t
. Not to her.

And I wouldn’t do it to me, not again, not fuse myself even short term to somebody who didn’t want me, who’d cry and scream and vomit and try to get away, get me out of her head at any cost—I wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t worth it.

I pushed Cherabino off, not gentle, because I couldn’t be gentle, not then, and her elbow hit the coffee table with a
crack
. I could
feel
the pain racket up my own arm like an ice bath, and I saw myself reflected in her eyes.

“What in the hell?”

I scooted back from beneath her and set her aside. I put at least three feet between us, and tried to breathe.

She just stared at me, like she didn’t understand, as something lacy peered out over the top of the half-undone robe. I cursed myself as a fool a hundred times, but my resolve didn’t change. I shook my head, and tried to find a sitting position on the floor that approached comfort.

“No,” I said. “Not like this.”

I could feel the blow as my rejection hit her like a slap in the face. Her jaw set then, and she stood up. Her anger swelled as she walked past me into the bedroom until it was louder than the slamming door. And for the next hour, I listened to her mind as the rage cooled,
and solidified, as her tears dried and she decided she would hate me until the sun exploded.

When she made that decision, I got up from the floor, pieced together my mental walls, and made a phone call. Then I walked out the front door.

I was halfway down the road to the bus stop before Bellury caught up with me. I cursed him for showing up so quickly, I cursed myself for calling him, and then I cursed some more, for the drug I couldn’t have. But, finally, I got in the car.

“Bad night, huh?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. Finally he turned on the radio, quiet sad music filling the car.

It was a long, long ride.

Swartz was early,
with a pot of coffee already set out in front of him, two cups prepared. Mine would be two degrees shy of cold by now, which would make it taste as good as it was going to. Bellury had called him late last night, despite my protests, and somehow Swartz had talked me into coffee and the early-morning meeting at the Y. I was here.
Far
too early. And so was he. But I wasn’t happy about it.

I slid into the booth across from him and grabbed for the coffee. My shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world were crushing me down. Cherabino
hated
me. She
hated
me. I had no idea where to go from here. No idea where to start.

Swartz let me sit for about thirty seconds before grilling me. “So, what are you grateful for this week?”

“Puppies. Sunshine. Rainbows.” I gulped down the remainder of the cup of licorice coffee and set it down like a shot glass. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and settled back in the booth. “It’s not been a good week.”

Swartz looked at me with the same expression as an entomologist with a new variety of creepy-crawly—interested, fascinated, but also disgusted. Finally he said, “You’ve already used puppies. You’ll have to come up with something else.”

I put my head in my hands and thought. The kiss with Cherabino flashed into my head with the force of a freight train. It was hot. But I couldn’t…. I actually wasn’t grateful at all, because now she hated me, I couldn’t even get my drug, and my life
sucked
. “Gummi worms,” I finally spat out. I don’t think I’d used gummi worms yet.

“Gummi worms?” Swartz said, condemnation flooding his voice.

I looked up. “Yes, gummi worms. They jiggle. They’re sticky, and they’re fun to eat. I like gummi worms. I guess I’m grateful for gummi worms.” I paused. “Good enough?”