Chapter 28: Genevieve
GENEVIEVE
Outside, I’m pushed up against the side of Randall’s car, my face to the window, while he runs his fat, sweaty hands down my arms, ribs, and legs.
“You’re just loving this,” I say through gritted teeth. “Pervert.”
He takes my phone, keys, and ID from my pockets and throws them on the roof of the car with Trina’s purse. “Know what your problem is, Genevieve? You don’t appreciate discretion.”
“The hell does that mean?”
“It was only a matter of time before you screwed up again.” His fingers comb through my hair as though I’ve got some needles and maybe a bowie knife stashed in there. “I told you, I’ve got eyes everywhere.”
“Then your snitches are even dumber than you are.”
He chuckles cruelly. “Yet you’re the one in cuffs.”
As he finishes patting me down, I’m trying to figure out how someone would have known about the coke. The person Trina bought it from in town? A lucky guess? Either option feels equally unlikely. But then, who knows the shady deals Randall’s cut? The man is as corrupt as they come.
It occurs to me, then, that at any point in the night when Trina and I were separated—while one of
us went to the bar for another round or to the restroom alone—she might have done a bump in front of any number of witnesses. It only takes one of them to have seen us together.
He grabs a plastic bag from the trunk of his cruiser and throws my stuff and Trina’s purse inside. Then, with a sick grin, he opens the rear door and pushes my head down to shove me into the backseat.
“Sorry about the smell,” he chirps. “Haven’t had a chance to clean it out after the last guy threw up.”
As long as I live, I’ll remember his sadistic smile as he slams the door shut. And if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get to wipe it off his smug face.
At the sheriff’s office, I sit in a plastic chair against a wall down a narrow hallway with the drunk and disorderlies, prostitutes, and other pissed off victims of tonight’s dragnet.
“Hey!” The frat boy with a bloody nose at the end of the row shouts at a passing deputy. “Hey! You get my dad on the phone. Hear me? My dad’s gonna kick your ass.”
“Man, shut up.” A few chairs down, the townie with a black eye stares up at the ceiling. “No one cares about your stupid daddy.”
“You’re so dead. Every one of you idiots are so dead.” The frat boy rattles around in his chair, and I realize they have him cuffed to it. “When my dad gets down here, you’ll all be sorry.”
“Dude,” the townie says. “I’m already sorry now. If I have to keep listening to this pussy whine, someone just hand me a gun. I’ll pistol-whip myself.”
I’m tired, hungry, and I’ve had to pee since the moment Randall tossed me in the cruiser. My foot bounces with the anxiety of waiting. My mind runs a mile a minute, picturing
Trina walking inside to find me and her purse gone, and wondering if she’s figured out what’s happened. I ponder the chances she’ll have gotten in touch with my dad or one of my brothers, considering her phone is likely sitting in an evidence locker right now. Then I realize, if she
has
figured it out, she’s not coming back for me. She’s getting the hell out of the state before the cops pull her driver’s license out of that purse and go looking for her too.
“You’re doing fine.” The woman in a sequin tank top and miniskirt has an almost Zen-like quality about her as she sits beside me, utterly relaxed. “Don’t worry. It’s not as scary as it looks on TV.”
“When do we get to call someone? We get a phone call, right?” Ironically, as many times as I’ve gotten myself in and out of trouble, I’ve never sat in this police station before. Given my previous lifestyle, I probably should have made a greater effort to understand the finer details of the criminal justice system.
In response, the woman tilts her head back and closes her eyes. “Get comfortable, sweetie. This could take a while.”
“A while” is an understatement. It takes more than an hour just to get fingerprinted. Another hour for photographs. Another hour of waiting some more. It feels like every deputy in the station comes by to leer at me, each one with a look of amusement or smug satisfaction. I recognize some of them who’d wagged their fingers and sneered at me when I was in high school. They leave me with a visceral sense of the powerlessness of incarceration, and I’m only sitting in a well-lit hallway. Within these walls, they have all the power and we have none. We’re guilty degenerates because they say so. Unworthy of respect or basic human decency. It’s enough to radicalize even the softest suburbanite.
There’s another hour of paperwork and more sitting around before we’re finally placed in holding cells.
Men and women separated. My wrists are sore and bruised when I take a seat on a bench beside a sleeping homeless woman. In the corner, a blonde tourist, probably about my age, cries silently into her hands, while her friend sits beside her looking bored. The metal toilet-sink combo on the far wall smells like every bar bathroom in the Bay flushes into it, curing me of any thoughts of having to go.
Sometime in the middle of the night, my name snaps me out of my meditation on the stains on the floor.
I glance toward the iron bars and almost burst into tears. It’s Harrison. In uniform.
Because this night hasn’t been mortifying enough.
Reluctantly, I go meet him at the front of the cell. “This is fitting, huh? Like a blind date game show reveal.”
“I heard you were here and came as soon as I could.” The poor guy appears genuine in his concern. “You alright? Anyone mistreating you?”
I don’t know if he’s asking about the people inside this cell or out. “I’m fine, given the circumstances.” I smile wryly. “Don’t suppose you want to accidentally drop a key and walk away.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice lowering to a stage whisper. “But you need to make it look convincing so I can tell them you overpowered me when I tried to stop you.”
“Seriously, though. How does this work? I have money. If you can post my bail or whatever, I’ll pay you back. They haven’t even let me call someone yet.”
He looks away with a sigh of frustration. “The sheriff’s out of town at some family thing, so no one’s in a big hurry to push papers.”
Meaning any hope I had that Sheriff Nixon might realize I’m in here, and at least let my dad know, is right out the window. It wasn’t a sure thing, but Hal Nixon and Dad play
in a monthly poker game and have gotten chummy over the past couple years. I thought maybe, if I was extremely lucky, Nixon would let me plead my case that this whole thing is a misunderstanding blown sideways by a vindictive asshole.
“Can’t post bail until they file the arrest,” Harrison continues. “I don’t know what the holdup is on phone calls. I’ll see about that.”
“I didn’t do it.” I look him square in the eye. “This is Randall again. You saw him. He’s got a vendetta.”
“We’ll get this straightened out.” Conflict and indecision contort his face.
Not that I’m feeling especially magnanimous, given my current situation, but I’ve had some time for deep contemplation lately, and I can appreciate that the fragile worldview of a rookie cop is perhaps a bit shaken when confronted with such blatant shitfuckery. These are his people, after all.
My tone softens. “It was sweet of you to check on me. Even if it was just to confirm I’m stuck here.”
His tense posture relaxes. “I’m sorry. I feel like there’s more I should do, but I really don’t hold a lot of cards here.”
“Tell you what,” I say, sticking my hand through the bars to hold his. “When they give me the chair, I want you to be the one to throw the switch.”
“Jesus.” Harrison coughs out a disturbed laugh. “You’re something else.”
Which is a nice way of saying I’m better in small doses. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
“I’m going to see what I can find out. I’ll try to make it back if I can. You want me to call anyone for you?”
I shake my head. As much as I want out of here, it’ll be worse if Dad gets the call from Harrison instead of me. Besides, I’ve just gotten used
to the smell in here.
“Go on, Deputy. Get out of here.”
With a last regretful nod, he walks away.
Harrison never does find his way back. Instead, it’s a sleepless night and an impatient morning before I’m allowed to make a phone call.
“Dad …” The embarrassment I feel when he answers, knowing what I have to say to him—I’ve had all night to agonize over it, and it’s still worse than I anticipated. “Listen, I’m at the sheriff’s office.”
“Are you okay? What happened?” Dad’s concern ripples over the line.
I hate this. Standing at a phone on the wall with a line behind me, I etch nervous patterns into the chipping paint with my thumbnail. My stomach churns queasily as I force myself to say the words.
“I was arrested.”
He’s quiet while I rush to explain. That the purse wasn’t mine. That Randall’s got it out for me. And the more I talk, the angrier I get. All of this started when I wouldn’t accept the sexual advances of a married man with a badge. For so long, I felt guilty for wrecking that family with my drunken intrusion, but it hits me now that I didn’t do that to him.
He
did. He set this entire year-long chain of events in motion because he’s a sick, petty person. I should have kicked him in the scrotum when I had the chance.
“I swear, Dad. It wasn’t mine. I’ll take a drug test. Anything.” My heart clenches tight against my rib cage. “I promise you. This isn’t like before.”
There’s a long silence after I’ve stopped talking, during which I start to panic. What if he’s had it with my shit, and this is one time too many? What if he leaves me in here to learn a lesson he should have taught me a long time ago? Gives up on
his worthless, wayward daughter who was going to run out on him and the family business anyway.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks gruffly.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Alright, good. Hang tight, kiddo. I’m on my way.”
It’s only minutes before a deputy calls my name and opens the cell. As he escorts me from the holding area and through the bullpen of desks, I’m relieved that Randall isn’t skulking around somewhere waiting for me. After our first run-in when I returned to the Bay, I understood that he had an ax to grind. When he showed up to hassle Harrison and I after our date, I prepared myself that he would become a perpetual annoyance. But this was a drastic escalation. And who knows what else is in store for me? This time, he throws me behind bars. Next time, maybe he isn’t satisfied with conventional means of retribution. I’d hate to see what happens when he decides to be creative.
The deputy opens an office door and points me inside, where the sheriff is sitting in a polo shirt behind his desk. My father stands from his chair and gives me a tight nod.
“Good?” he says.
“Fine.” As fine as I can be, anyway. When I notice the paper bag and cup of coffee sitting on the corner of the desk, I quirk a brow. “That for me?”
“Yeah, I brought you something,” Dad says. “Figured you might be hungry.”
I tear into the bag and practically inhale the two greasy sausage-and-egg sandwiches. I don’t taste any of it when I wash it down with hot black coffee, but I feel better immediately. The exhausted haze has been chased away, my belly no longer fighting itself. Though now I really need to pee.
“Let me say,” Sheriff Nixon speaks up, “I’m sorry
about this whole mix-up.”
That’s a start.
“I had a look at the purse,” he continues. “The ID, credit cards, and other personal items clearly all belong to a young lady named Katrina Chetnik.”
I look to my father. “That’s what I tried to tell him.”
Dad nods, then narrows his eyes at the man behind the desk. “Sitting next to a purse at a crowded bar ain’t a crime. Correct?”
“No, it isn’t.” To the sheriff’s credit, he looks irritated with the whole scenario too. Annoyed to have been dragged down here on a Sunday to clear this mess up. “We’ll make an effort to locate the owner.”
Meaning Trina’s problems are just beginning. But I can’t say I care much about that. After spending a night in jail, I’m not about to run interference for her. She knew the risks. In hindsight, it was shitty of her to leave me sitting there with her coke in the first place.
There’s a sharp knock on the door. A moment later, Rusty Randall enters. Apparently called in from home, he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and I do take some small joy in the idea he was woken by an urgent call telling him the boss said
get your ass down here
.
Randall appraises me, then my father. Nothing about the scene appears to jostle him in the slightest. With his hands on his hips, he stands in the center of the room. “You needed to see me, sir?”
“Rusty, we’ll be sending Ms. West home with our sincere apologies for her trouble. You can take care of the paperwork. I’ll want to see a report on my desk by EOB.”
“Fine,” he says, voice tight.
“Anything you’d like to say?” the sheriff prompts, cocking his head.
Randall doesn’t so much as blink in my direction. “I acted on probable cause for the arrest. My actions were entirely
appropriate. Of course, I respect your decision, and will handle that paperwork at once.”
Coward.
But we both know he’d sooner wax his legs than apologize or admit he was wrong. Doesn’t make much difference to me, though, because I couldn’t care less what that man thinks.
“Ronan,” Sheriff Nixon says, “go and get her home. And Ms. West …” He regards me for a moment. “I don’t imagine I’ll see you in here again.”
I’m not sure how much I should read into his remark. Whether he means he’ll see to it there aren’t any further dirty arrests, or that he expects I’ve been scared straight. Either way, no, I don’t believe we’ll be seeing much more of each other. Not if I can help it.
“Not a chance,” I agree.
Despite having my name cleared, the ride home only exacerbates my shame. I might have been wrongfully arrested, but my dad still had to call the sheriff first thing in the morning to get his only daughter out of jail. It was humiliating for me, so I suspect it was no picnic for him, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cautiously studying his profile.
He doesn’t respond, intensifying my guilt.
“I get that what I do reflects on you and the business. And even though the drugs weren’t mine, and I wasn’t using, I still placed myself in that situation. I knew Trina had the coke and I should have walked away. ’Cause let’s be honest, a couple years ago, it wouldn’t have been unheard of that the purse would have been mine.”
“First of all,” he says. “I’m not mad.”
He watches the road as his jaw works, like he’s trying to
arrange his thoughts.
“Sure, you’ve made some mistakes. A couple years is a long time, though, and you’re not that girl anymore.” His voice softens. “I’d have gone down there no matter what you told me. You’re my daughter, Genevieve.” Dad glances at me. “But let’s be clear. I had no doubt you were telling the truth. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the changes you’ve made. They matter.”
Emotion clogs my throat. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve spent so much time trying to convince myself I was for real, I missed when other people started to believe it. My dad. My friends. Evan.
I speak through the lump threatening to choke me. “I didn’t want you to think this was me acting out or backsliding. That because of Mom or whatever …” The thought dies on my tongue. He doesn’t acknowledge the mention of her, which I immediately regret. “But that’s not the case at all. I’m trying so hard to be a better person, to take myself more seriously and have others do the same. I would never jeopardize that, especially now that I’ve got a new job starting soon.”
Dad nods slowly. “Right. I don’t know if I said this when you told me about the hotel, but … I’m proud of you, kiddo. This could end up being a big career for you.”
“That’s the plan.” I give him a faint smile. “And no, you didn’t say anything about being proud. If I recall correctly, you said ‘congratulations’ and then kind of grumbled about how Shane will make a terrible office manager.”
He chuckles sheepishly. “I don’t like change.”
“Who does?” I shrug, adding, “Don’t worry, we’re not going to let Shane anywhere near that office. I already promised I’ll help you interview candidates. We’ll find an even better office manager than me.”
“Doubt it,” Dad says gruffly, and damned if that doesn’t make my heart expand with pride. My throat closes
up a little too.
“Hey, at least my replacement won’t have a rap sheet,” I say to lighten the mood.
“What’s the deal with Rusty, anyway?” my father asks, glancing over suspiciously. “He have it out for you for some reason?”
Sighing, I tell him the truth. Most of it, anyway; there are still some things I won’t repeat in front of my father. But he gets the gist. How Randall accosted me in the bar. How anger and too much to drink drove me into his living room to traumatize his family. The threats and run-ins since then.
“He blames me for destroying his family,” I admit. “To some extent, I did too.”
“That man did it to himself.” Dad’s features are cold and unforgiving. Randall’s not going to want to bump into him in a dark alley anytime soon.
We ride in silence for a while. I don’t interrupt what feels like his attempt to process all the information I just gave him. At which point I realize we’re taking the long way home. My palms go damp. I guess this is the talk we’ve been putting off since I returned home.
“You’re the most like your mother,” he says suddenly. His eyes remain squarely on the road. “I know you two didn’t get along. But I swear you’re the spitting image of her when she was younger. She was a wild thing, back then.”
I settle back in my seat, staring out the window at the little passing houses. Flickering, blurry images of my mother come to mind. They get fuzzier with every passing day, the details fading.
“Having a family changed her. I think I changed her first, if I’m honest. I’ve been wondering a lot lately, you know, if I broke her spirit—wanting to have a big family.”
My gaze flies to his. “I don’t understand.”
“She was this energetic, lively
woman when I met her. And little by little, she dimmed. I don’t even know how much she noticed until the light was all but gone.”
“I always figured it was us.” My voice cracks slightly. “I assumed she didn’t like us, that maybe we didn’t turn out the way she hoped.”
Dad takes a deep breath, which he expels in a gust. “Your mom suffered a rough bout of postpartum depression after Kellan. Then we found out she was pregnant with Shane, and that seemed to help some. For a little while. Truth is, I don’t know if she wanted so many kids because I did, or if she hoped the next one might snap her out of it. The next one would come along and fix her.” He glances at me, full of remorse and sadness. “When she had Craig, something changed. The depression didn’t come. Whatever hormones or chemicals are supposed to kick in that help women bond with the infant—well, it finally happened. And that only made her feel guiltier. She’d tried so damn hard to bond with the rest of you and was constantly fighting the depression, the dark thoughts, and then with Craig it was suddenly easy, and—”
He exhales a ragged breath, gaze still fixed on the road ahead. By the time he speaks again, I’m holding my breath. On pins and needles.
“Christ, Gen, you have no idea how much it ripped her apart, having that easy relationship with him when her relationships with the rest of you were so difficult. Her greatest fear was being a bad mom, and it crippled her. She couldn’t get past the idea she was screwing you kids up. I don’t know everything that went on in Laurie’s head, but you’ve got to understand it wasn’t her fault. Whatever it is, you know. The chemicals in her brain or whatever. She hated herself the most.”
My eyes feel hot, stinging. I never thought about it that way. It wasn’t something we talked about in our family. It
felt like she hated us, so that was the truth we believed. Or I did, at least. Not once did it occur to me it was an illness, something she was incapable of controlling and even ashamed of. It must have felt so much easier for her to stop trying, to back away from the fear of breaking her kids. But, God, how much we all suffered for it.
Nothing changes our childhood, the years lost without a mother. The pain and torment of growing up believing that the act of being born, a decision we had no part in, was the reason she hated us. But Dad’s pained confession, this new, sad piece of knowledge, changes a lot of how I feel about her now. How I look back on her.
And how I look at myself.