self-loathing in my headspace without asking for extra helpings.
I did manage to confront Larry, but I didn’t even get a satisfactory fight out of it. He was accompanied by an extremely drunk college undergrad, which gave Larry the frustrating high ground of accusing me of being a poor host to our visitor. I didn’t get a dime out of him, and even his empty promises were beginning to sound halfhearted. All I did get was the opportunity to prove my exemplary hosting abilities by cleaning his date’s vomit off the sofa before I went to bed. By that time it was clear that she was feeling well enough to engage in amorous activities with Larry, and I took the precaution of hiding my toothbrush and locking the door to my bedroom. The last time Larry had romanced a drunken eighteen-year-old, she had gone to the bathroom, gotten confused, and tucked herself into my bed. Having just pulled a double shift, I was dead to the world and didn’t wake up, leading the extremely awkward morning-after discussion where I explained to the confused maiden that while she and I
had
technically just slept together, I wasn’t the person she had had sex with. I did my best to turn it into a teachable moment.
At work the next day, I wasn’t even able to muster the illusion of being a productive employee, much to Jeanine’s frustration. But even when she was yelling directly in my ear, all I could think about was that tonight I was going to meet a new vampire, and maybe even get the opportunity to get real answers to my most pressing questions. I went onto autopilot, pouring coffee and taking money while my brain was miles away.
It wasn’t until I heard a familiar voice that had been sanded down by cheap booze and two decades of unfiltered cigarettes that I blinked and came out of my fog. The grinning man in his midforties with salt-and-pepper hair who I’d just made change for was Matt McMahon. I apologized, and he laughed, but I felt like absolute shit. Not that that is an unusual state of existence for me.
Matt was my foster father’s old partner. When Brian and Jill were murdered, Matt devoted himself to finding the killer. Given Madeline’s influence in Providence politics, Matt almost immediately found himself stonewalled in the investigation. The police did eventually pin the crime on a homeless man, but Matt never believed it. He was a good enough cop to see all the holes in the story, and be suspicious when the homeless man died of a massive heart attack the same night he delivered his confession. For everyone else the case was closed, but Matt refused to let it rest. He was finally told that he had to either abandon the case or find a new line of work. He turned in his badge and became a private detective.
The one thing Matt had never questioned was my story. Under strict orders from Madeline, I told everyone that I’d been in my room when Jill was attacked, and had hidden under my bed while everything happened. I had only come out when all the noises stopped, and that’s when I found them. I hated lying to Matt, but I did it because now I knew the consequences for telling the truth. Seeing him run down every false lead that he rustled up was better than going to his funeral.
“Late night, buddy?” Matt asked. “You’re working a thousand-yard stare.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’m just zoning out here. What’s up?”
“I’ve been staking out a real estate developer, ended up in the neighborhood, wondered if you were free for lunch.”
“Sure, that’s great.” My stomach gave me a fast reminder that I was overdue for a break. “Just give me a second.”
One of Jeanine’s less delightful managerial quirks was her apparent feeling that the federal regulation that employees on an eight-hour shift are required to be given a food break is designed solely to ruin her business. She had an annoying habit of never reminding us to take our breaks, hoping that we’d get so busy that we’d forget
I did manage to confront Larry, but I didn’t even get a satisfactory fight out of it. He was accompanied by an extremely drunk college undergrad, which gave Larry the frustrating high ground of accusing me of being a poor host to our visitor. I didn’t get a dime out of him, and even his empty promises were beginning to sound halfhearted. All I did get was the opportunity to prove my exemplary hosting abilities by cleaning his date’s vomit off the sofa before I went to bed. By that time it was clear that she was feeling well enough to engage in amorous activities with Larry, and I took the precaution of hiding my toothbrush and locking the door to my bedroom. The last time Larry had romanced a drunken eighteen-year-old, she had gone to the bathroom, gotten confused, and tucked herself into my bed. Having just pulled a double shift, I was dead to the world and didn’t wake up, leading the extremely awkward morning-after discussion where I explained to the confused maiden that while she and I
had
technically just slept together, I wasn’t the person she had had sex with. I did my best to turn it into a teachable moment.
At work the next day, I wasn’t even able to muster the illusion of being a productive employee, much to Jeanine’s frustration. But even when she was yelling directly in my ear, all I could think about was that tonight I was going to meet a new vampire, and maybe even get the opportunity to get real answers to my most pressing questions. I went onto autopilot, pouring coffee and taking money while my brain was miles away.
It wasn’t until I heard a familiar voice that had been sanded down by cheap booze and two decades of unfiltered cigarettes that I blinked and came out of my fog. The grinning man in his midforties with salt-and-pepper hair who I’d just made change for was Matt McMahon. I apologized, and he laughed, but I felt like absolute shit. Not that that is an unusual state of existence for me.
Matt was my foster father’s old partner. When Brian and Jill were murdered, Matt devoted himself to finding the killer. Given Madeline’s influence in Providence politics, Matt almost immediately found himself stonewalled in the investigation. The police did eventually pin the crime on a homeless man, but Matt never believed it. He was a good enough cop to see all the holes in the story, and be suspicious when the homeless man died of a massive heart attack the same night he delivered his confession. For everyone else the case was closed, but Matt refused to let it rest. He was finally told that he had to either abandon the case or find a new line of work. He turned in his badge and became a private detective.
The one thing Matt had never questioned was my story. Under strict orders from Madeline, I told everyone that I’d been in my room when Jill was attacked, and had hidden under my bed while everything happened. I had only come out when all the noises stopped, and that’s when I found them. I hated lying to Matt, but I did it because now I knew the consequences for telling the truth. Seeing him run down every false lead that he rustled up was better than going to his funeral.
“Late night, buddy?” Matt asked. “You’re working a thousand-yard stare.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’m just zoning out here. What’s up?”
“I’ve been staking out a real estate developer, ended up in the neighborhood, wondered if you were free for lunch.”
“Sure, that’s great.” My stomach gave me a fast reminder that I was overdue for a break. “Just give me a second.”
One of Jeanine’s less delightful managerial quirks was her apparent feeling that the federal regulation that employees on an eight-hour shift are required to be given a food break is designed solely to ruin her business. She had an annoying habit of never reminding us to take our breaks, hoping that we’d get so busy that we’d forget
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