Burn by CD Reiss

thought of. I was just going to mention it to you later. After we talked. But the crazy took over.
    We did good work together, but you wouldn’t talk about what happened with us, even though it was all over the piece. I heard about your new boyfriend and the kind of shit you were into. I thought maybe that was what you needed from me and you couldn’t say.
    Wasn’t that easy, was it?
    Last night, after you left, I was pissed. And hurt. And I said a lot of shit to that dickhead about you I shouldn’t have. I’m sure he repeated it to you. In the moment I meant it because my face was busted. But now I’m too embarrassed to wait on your porch. Once we get back from Vancouver, I will.
     
    —Kev.
     
    I sat on the bowl and read it again. Then the Blake poem. Then the letter in full.
    I was a heartless bitch, hiding behind silence and self-righteous indignation that stayed unchallenged. I thought I was taking control of my life, but I’d left a mess behind me. How many people had I done that to? My mother? She never failed to hurl some innocent-sounding cruelty at me, but I’d cut her off and call it independence.
    Everything hurt. I’d woken up with no more than a dark spot under my eye, but it weighed down half my face. My back felt twisted and weak, aching as if I’d lifted a piano up the stairs. I didn’t know what to do about my pain, or even if anything needed doing.
    My phone blooped at nine a.m. exactly.
     
    —How’s the eye?—
    I’d never answered a nine a.m. text, but after the night before, and Kevin’s email, I thought I ought to.
     
    —You should see the other guy—
     
    There was a longer pause than usual. I imagined him reading my text, so surprised I answered he had to take a second to organize himself.
     
    —I feel your hands on the phone—
    I caressed the little plastic and metal box like a lover, feeling a warmth and tingle between my legs that had been missing the night before.
     
    — I have to go to work. Lunch shift —
     
    —I know—
    Asshole. Gorgeous asshole.

                                                  
CHAPTER 11.
 
    JONATHAN
    “I really could have used you guys last night,” I said, blaming Will for something that wasn’t his fault. Margie, the money source, had moved his whole team onto a divorce case with triangulations from Flintridge, to Santa Monica, to Monterey Park, and back. I could have deduced who was splitting up if I cared.
    Santon seemed unperturbed by what had happened to Monica. We sat at a table at the Loft Club. Santon didn’t seem impressed by the club at all. A mark in his favor.
    He slid his hand over his glass in a way that looked like a threat. “I can’t get into the house, so even if one of my guys was there, I make no guarantee it wouldn’t have gone down that way.”
    “Do you have anything on this guy? Or are my hands tied?”
    “We found some warrants in Idaho. He led an anti-war protest outside Boise city hall and got picked up for inciting a riot. He dropped out of sight a month after he did his thirty days and no one up there actually gave a shit when he showed up down here. Parole officer my guy talked to never thought of him as a criminal. Then we found two open. One battery charge. A DUI. Different parole officers.”
    I scanned the club. Larry poured drinks. Guys in suits laughed at the bar. I expected Eddie soon, and I wanted to be done with Santon before he arrived.
    “The cameras?” I asked. “Anything?”
    “We got taken off before we found out how it was done and who ordered the job. We did track the serial numbers though. Followed the money.”
    He paused, and I rotated my hand at the wrist for him to continue. He didn’t. The guy was unflappable.
    “Well? Where did it come from?”
    “You.”
    I snorted a laugh and drank the last mouthful of whiskey. “Fucking fantastic. Was it out of Ibiza?”
    “Canary Islands. Someone’s got their fingers in your