INK: Vanishing Point (Book 2) (28 page)

Cell phone battery’s dead. Screw
it. I’ll just run by Trish’s after the bank. I pull into
the Credit Union parking lot. It’s time to check just how
abysmal my finances are. Surely I’ll have to get to a computer
and see what I’ve got on my credit cards. Cause today this
girl’s getting some clothes. I look down at Aiden’s
slip-on sandals that I’m wearing. “And some new boots,
methinks.”

The teller calls out. “Can I help
you?”

I approach the window. “Yes. I’d
like to check my balance, please, and maybe make a withdrawal.”

She slides a slip of paper and a pen
across the counter. “Please write your account number here, and
I’ll need your I.D.”

“Here you go.” I slide it
back with my I.D. I’m full of energy and I’m having
trouble standing still, but I don’t want it to be misconstrued
for nervousness, even though it probably is. There’s going to
be like five dollars in there, I just know it. Hey, it’s better
than negative.

The teller writes something on the slip
of paper and hands it to me along with a counter check. “If
you’d like to make a withdrawal, please fill this out.”

When I see the number on the slip of
paper, my eyes nearly fall out. “Holy shit.” I can’t
contain my surprise. “Um, I think there’s a mistake
here.” This can’t possibly be right.

“I don’t believe so. Would
you like a printout of your recent activity?” she asks, using a
little bit of a sweeter tone. Apparently the level of customer
service increases with the number of digits you have to the left of
the decimal point.

“Yes please,” I answer,
nearly out of breath.

She brings it back from the printer, and
I walk away from her window, absently staring at my account activity.
“Holy Mary Mother of God, I love you Raphael!”

With a bounce in my step, I get back in
the line after filling out my withdrawal thingy, and go to the window
when called. “Do you need my I.D. again?”

“No, Miss Baynes, that won’t
be necessary.”

‘
Miss Baynes,’ fancy now
.
“Okay.”

With my envelope of cash tucked neatly
in my backpack, I get back in the car and head to Trish’s, but
not before stopping at the 7-Eleven for a cell phone charger that
will work in the car.

I dial up Trish so she can be ready to
go. She doesn’t answer right away, and I have to try to think
what day it is. She could be at work, but then she answers. “Shay?
Is this Shay?”

“That’s right, I’m
back and I’m going shopping. I’ll be there in ten
minutes. Be ready.” I hang up because I’m not going to
get into all the ‘where I’ve been' bullshit with her
right now.

She’s standing outside her
apartment when I pull up. She doesn’t realize it’s me,
but why should she? New car. But damn it, it has crank windows and
they are tinted as black as the legal limit so she can’t see
me. I give the horn a quick burst, and she jumps and looks in the
car. She sees me through the windshield and opens the passenger door.
“Shay? Oh my God” She throws her arms around me and there
are genuine tears in her eyes. “Where the hell have you been
and what the fuck is with this car?”

“Don’t go soft on me, Trish.
I’m fine,” I say, pulling away from her.

“Holy shit you look awful. Who did
this to you?” She’s bewildered.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m
on the mend. I’m back and I’m going shopping. Close your
door; we’re going to Orlando.” I rev the engine.

“Jesus Christ, Shay.” She
closes the door and I take off. “Okay, seriously I need some
answers. I went to Eli’s and there were these guys, and there
was this stuff and these drawings…” She’s trying
to organize her thoughts, but she can’t manage it. Trish braces
herself on the dashboard when I slam on the brakes. “Put your
seatbelt on and shut the fuck up, or get out.”

She looks at me like I slapped her, and
I guess, in Trish’s view, I just did. “Shay?” She
slowly slides her seatbelt across her chest.

With my hands holding the steering wheel
so tight it might break, I grit my teeth. “Trish, I don’t
want to talk about it. If you are okay with just hanging out with me
for a while so I can blow off some steam, then cool. If not you,
should get out now.”

“Okay.” She puts her hands
up in surrender. “When you’re ready. It’s just
we’ve all been so worried about you.”

“I’m fine, let’s leave
it at that.” I start rolling forward again and get on the road.

Trish is silent for a solid five minutes
before she speaks. I must have scared the shit out of her. “So,
um, does Eli know you’re back?”

“Yeah, he knows.”

“Okay. Good. He really was
worried.”

“I know he was,” I answer,
focusing on the road.

After another five or ten minutes of
silence, she asks, “So, what’s with the car?”

A smile rises to my lips like the cat
that ate the canary. “My graduation present from Oliver.”

“No shit, you finally took it?”
She huffs out a laugh. “I thought you would never take it. I’m
glad you finally did. It’s nice, and it suits you.”

“It even came with these cool-ass
sunglasses.” I pull them down my nose and strike a pose to show
them off.

She laughs again. “So you’re
going to keep it?”

Trish knows me all too well. “Maybe,
I haven’t decided yet, but I will say that we’ve bonded
with each mile I’ve driven and we’ve become pretty
close.” I lick my lips.

Trish is loosening up, the tension
seeping away from her shoulders, and she sits back into the leather
seat.

“So, what are we shopping for?”
she asks with a sparkle in her eye.

“I need some clothes; I’m
thinking this raiding-the-locker-room look is getting old.” I
roll my eyes as I pluck at Aiden’s t-shirt.

“Yeah, that shit’s only cute
after a good night of whoring. When you fuck up your clothes enough
that you can’t wear them.” She laughs.

“Or they are too slutty for a
Sunday morning,” I add.

“Oh, girl, you know it.” She
pauses for a minute. “Well, that’s when you just head
straight home.”

“So, I’m assuming Sanguine
Specter has been doing well while I was gone?” Trish will know
most of the ins and outs of what’s going on at Blood-borne.

“Um, yeah, we’ve all gotten
bonuses, and Raphael doesn’t even give a shit that you’ve
been a no show for a month.” Her eyes widen.

“Really? He didn’t miss me?”
I put on a mock pout.

“Well, he’s waiting for
issue six, and there’s talk of a merger with Monster comics
picking us up as an imprint.” She nods.

“Huh, I always dreamed of being
published through Monster. I think we should definitely look at the
payout structure,” I counter.

“Wow, when the fuck did you become
fiscally conscious?” She asks amazed, knowing that all I ever
wanted was to be published and make enough to get by.

“When I saw the direct deposit
from Blood-borne in my bank account,” I answer emphatically.

“Oh, yeah. That would do it.”
She picks at her nails a second. “Have you decided what you are
going to do?”

“Yup, I’m going to buy some
clothes.” My answer should be enough to let her know that I’m
not talking about anything serious right now. “And some badass
boots, maybe even two pairs.”

We pull into my favorite thrift store on
highway five twenty, and Trish lets out a groan. “Bitch, please
tell me we are not going to the fucking thrift shop.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“Seriously, I know how much you
got off of issue one. You cannot be serious. Buy yourself something
new for fuck sake,” she pleads.

“Not used, vintage,” I
argue, and I bring the car to a stop in the parking spot.

“At least you’ll fit in with
your current outfit.” She folds her arms across her chest in
protest. “Listen, just think about it. You’ve always
wanted to go to Menagerie. Not my taste, but it’s on the darker
side of things. Like you like.” She’s negotiating.

“Isn’t that just another
prepackaged emo store for prepubescent boys infatuated with My
Chemical Romance?” I answer.

“No, it isn’t. Just try it.”

“Fine,” I relent, after
pondering a good solid minute. “Where is it?”

***

Shay

“Hey, thanks for coming with me,
and thanks for not pressuring me to talk,” I say in an
apologetic tone.

Trish leans down through the open window
of the car. “No problem, babe. But don’t get used to it.
You’re going to have to spill eventually, and I’m not
going to go so easy on your bitch ass next time.”

“Okay,” I concede. “Hey,
let Raphael know I’ll be in the office on Monday, K?”

“You got it.” She closes the
door.

Awesome day of shopping with Trish. I
think it’s weird that she’s not ready for me to meet her
new boyfriend. He sounds a little sketchy to me, but hey, if he makes
her happy.

After dropping Trish off at her place, I
head over to Dad’s. This is the last place I thought I would
end up, but here I am. I can do this. I tell myself over and over
that it won’t be so bad. I’ll get things worked out with
the insurance company, and once I find out how long it’s going
to be before I can move back into my house, maybe I’ll look for
a short-term rental. It’s funny how having a little cash in the
bank can change your outlook on life.

The bags make a thud when I drop them on
the bed in my old room. I admire my new outfit and freakin’
awesome new boots. I really miss the old ones, but these are pretty
damn swag.

So hungry.
I head for the kitchen and open the fridge. Nothing but condiments,
take-out containers and beer. “Seriously? It’s little
wonder I fell in love with an alcoholic.” I close the fridge
and check out the pantry, but it’s as empty as the fridge.

With eyes forward, I walk down the
hallway, careful not to set off any emotional land mines by getting
caught up by all the family photos on the walls that will instantly
kill my shopping high. Turning into my room, I see that Dad’s
office door is open.

“Go see,” the voice in my
head whispers. I’m already intrigued, so taking the three extra
steps down the hall isn’t a stretch.

Entering the office, I notice the foul
smell of old cheese, sweat and cigarettes. Dad’s been smoking
again, and in the house.
Mom’s
going to be pissed
. I
recognize my mistake and laugh out loud. “Dad can do what he
wants, I guess.”

There are papers everywhere: case files,
drawings, crime scene photos and copies of my comic panels. I take a
closer look at everything and pick up some of the Post-it notes
attached to packets of artwork.

One reads “Chicago, June 23
^rd
.
Comic Con. Shay/Murphy three found dead. Page thirteen in issue 4.”

“Holy shit. Dad’s connecting
me to these murders.” I gasp. How could my own father think I
could have something to do with this? I hear the door from the garage
open up and my dad’s voice.

“One simple thing, Eli, contain
her.” He’s good and pissed. “I didn’t see her
car out front.”

Nope, you sure won’t
.
I parked in back so no one would know I was here, especially Eli.

“She did what?” He pauses.
“Okay, I’m going to see if I can find her. You call
around. I’ll stop by in a bit to talk with you and McNab.”

Dad rounds the corner into the hallway
and stops short when he sees me. “Gotta go.” He hangs up,
slides his phone in his pocket and meets my stare. “I’d
like to know what you are doing with those, Doodlebug.”

“Can the ‘Doodlebug’
bullshit, Dad.” I squint at him, mad as hell. “‘Contain
me?’”

“Yes, contain you. And I won’t
be having you speak to me that way.” He takes the files from my
hands and pushes past me into the office.

“That’s not okay. I’m
not some animal to be contained,” I spit, working hard to
remain strong, not just angry.

“Shayleigh, I’m not going to
argue with you about this. You are in a heap of trouble, and you’re
actions aren’t doing anything to make things better. You have
to stop running off.” His tired blue eyes are wavering.

“Running off?” I inhale deep
for the diatribe I’m about to let loose on his ass. “First
of all, I’m twenty-two years old. I’m not a child. I
answer to myself and my boss.” I stop to take another breath,
and he cuts me off.

“What about your God?” he
asks quietly.

“What?”

“Your God, do you answer to your
God?” He sits in the chair behind the desk.

“What the hell is that supposed to
mean? What does God have to do with this?” I can’t tell
whether he’s serious or if this is one of his diversionary
tactics. Growing up with a cop as a dad wasn’t easy. It meant
navigating a professional interrogator.

“Shayleigh, I’m worried
about you. We all are.” He gathers up the files on the desk,
closing them to obscure my view. “When was the last time you
went to Confession?”

“No Dad, we aren’t doing
this. This has nothing to do with Church, nothing to do with God.”
I close my eyes to compose myself and rein in my anger to keep from
saying something I’ll regret.

“Doesn’t it, though? When
was your last Confession?” He insists I answer.

“No it doesn’t; this is one
of your diversion tactics that you use on your perps. I’m your
daughter, not a suspect.” I fold my arms across my chest and
try not to pout.

He’s silent. It is always so
exhausting with him trying to figure out what he’s thinking or
what his meaning is. I glare into him, unrelenting, when it dawns on
me. I open my mouth to say the words slowly. “You think I’m
a suspect.”

His continued silence speaks volumes. My
mouth hangs open in shock. “So what do you suspect me of?”

“When did you last go, Shayleigh?
Did you go before your mother’s funeral, or how about your
sister’s?”

“Are you blaming me for their
deaths?” I shoot back.