THIS IS HOW IT STARTS

A month later

Everyone’s waiting for something to happen. It’s the way of life. What happens next?

You’re cruising along in your car one second. The next, the world drops out from under you, wheels spinning, no traction, and your life changes.

***

CHAPTER 1

You know the type. Always with the catchphrase.

Hundred percent.

Right?

2020’s equivalent catchphrases like boss or groovy from the sixties.

Radical. That one’s from the nineties.

It feels like right? will never leave.

But that was Winsey. Always with the catchphrase. Always another conspiracy theory. Always saying someone was out to kill her for her money. Thing is, she didn’t have any money. Sure, she had a county job and a growing vestment in a pension plan, but gobs of disposable income or cash available? Uh-uh.

The catchphrases, her theories were enough to make you want to stuff one of your pink kitty socks into her mouth and secure it with duct tape. Not to the point of suffocation. To the point of shutting her up. And it’s no secret. You’ve told her. She laughed. You laughed. That’s what friends do, right? They laugh at the other person’s foibles. Hundred percent they do. Plus, with the Asperger’s and all. You hate the term. Hate the therapist for diagnosing you with it. Sounds like Ass Burger, like something you could walk in and order off the menu at Nick’s. “I’d like one of the flaming Ass Burgers and some fries.” You hate they told you that you have this stupid syndrome. You made Winsey swear never to bring it up in your presence.

Some bogus song from the eighties, Don’t Worry, Be Happy is playing on the bar’s satellite inside Lubos, a locals’ favorite hangout. Like, seriously? It’s not the Hawaiian Islands here, Paul. It’s freaking sixty degrees tonight. It’s summertime.

You lift your mask above your mouth, lick a spot on the back of your hand near your thumb, sprinkle on salt, lick off the salt, down a shot of tequila like a guy might, and bite a lime wedge.

Paul—he’s the bartender—doesn’t like you much. He once told you that you should keep some things to yourself. Like, what’s the fun in that? You told him to shut his face. That you can and will say whatever the eff pops into your head.

The bar is dim. You see Paul give you the stink eye in the reflection of the long mirror cluttered by liquor bottles and glasses. You blink and land on the image of some oversized white dude leering into the mirror at the same moment you do. You drag your eyes out of the mirror and suddenly feel anorexic. The dude can’t see the color of your eyes and suddenly you just want to get home.

Lubos smells like someone snuffed out a cigarette into their cheeseburger.

Again, you tell Winsey, “Please stop talking.” But this time you use air quotes mimicking her when you say, “Because you had a tough day.” All you can think about is crawling into bed and playing one thousand one games of Aces Up until you feel your eyes begin to bleed. Then, nighty night.

You’re bored with her banter. The shot of tequila went down way too easy. Got you itching for something stronger. Something they don’t sell from behind the bar. Plus, the gargoyle at the end of the bar is looking at you like he wants to snack on your pinky toes while watching The Thing on some classic movie channel.

Most everyone is wearing a mask. Even the gargoyle, which makes him look even more sinister.

So, you say, “Winsey, I’d love to hear you repeat for the umpteenth time”—a phrase you got from mom—"how much you like this bar, its ambience, right? But hundred percent, I gotta go. I’m bored and figure a five hundredth rerun of Law & Order will be more entertaining than being here with you. Plus, it stinks like crap in here tonight.” Crap is one of your favorite words.

Winsey—she laughs. She scratches at the corner of her eye. Takes a sip of beer. It’s nothing you haven’t said before like that to her. You don’t think she’s crying again. So, you leave, get home to the cat, go to bed, and, next thing, the cell is going off. Your eyes blur at the readout but you can see the timestamp is way too early o’clock in the morning, just past midnight, when you get a call from Sheriff Diggins telling you that you were the last one to see her alive.

WTF?

Diggins sounds chipper, like he’s going to be happy when he pins her death on you. You’re not sure how to respond. Defend yourself? Cry? But you don’t cry in front of people. Certainly not into the phone. You hate crying.

“What about the rest of the people at Lubos?” you ask. You struggle to sit upright. You had two beers when you got home. You need to pee. Plus, Lester is lying on your stomach. He’s an oversized version of Garfield, weighing in around eighteen pounds. Suddenly, Lester jumps off, leaving your bladder roiling. The vet calls him a “big boy.”

“She followed you out,” Diggins says.

“But I left,” you say. “I mean I waved bye to her. Got into my car and drove off.”

And there’s the problem. He tells you they interviewed not one solitary person who saw you two leave alone. “And you need to come down to the station at nine,” he says.

And you say, “In the morning?” Then, “Right.” But this time the word isn’t a question.

“Oh darn,” you say. An element of fake sincerity glimmers in your voice. “I can’t at nine. Vet appointment.”

Diggins breathes heavily into his phone. “Right after, then.”

“I have to take my cat home right after.” You know you can drop him off.

“Can’t you drop him off?”

“I don’t think so. That’s how they end up with so many abandoned cats, you know.”

“As soon as you’re done, then. But tomorrow. We don’t want to have to come out to your house to take you in, now do we?”

“Fine.”

After the call, you yell for Lester.