Three
My phone wakes me up the next morning, a persistent buzzing on my nightstand that finally pulls me from my dreams. Pink rays filter through a crack in the curtains, and outside, all is quiet. Even the songbirds are still asleep.
From her cozy nook at my side, my cat, Zin—short for Zinfandel—looks at the offending smartphone with a huffiness usually reserved for an empty food dish. With gray silky hair, green orblike eyes, and the tip of one ear missing, she’s as temperamental as the varietal she’s named after, especially when it comes to sleep.
At this particular moment, can’t say I blame her. It’s too early for someone to be calling. Unless, an alarming thought snakes through my mind, it’s an emergency.
I lunge for my phone, startling Zin, and answer without even checking the caller ID.
“Hello,” I say through a yawn, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
There’s no greeting, no polite salutation, just four words that send a jolt of electricity coursing through my body: “I need your help.”
It’s Reid.
I sit up ramrod straight, suddenly wide awake. “What is it? What happened?”
We parted ways only a few hours ago, him back to his place and me to mine, after our impromptu grape-stomping date. He’d told me his day would start early with a trip to the farmers market before heading to Spoons. Which begs the question: What sort of trouble could he have gotten into already?
Then I wince, remembering his family is in town for four more agonizingly long days. He probably wants help facilitating, or keeping them entertained. Which I doubt Gary and Camilla would feel very happy about.
I open my mouth to say as much, but Reid speaks first.
“It’s Oscar—” Reid hesitates.
There’s a loud clanging in the background on his end of the line and gruff voices. I turn up the volume on my phone.
“Where are you?”
“Jail,” he says.
I must have misheard, the background noise muffling his words. “Wait, for a second there I thought you said jail.” I chuckle nervously.
“Oscar’s gone.” Reid sounds bewildered, his voice raspy with sadness and shock. “He was killed last night.”
“Wait, our Oscar? As in Oscar Flores?”
“Yes.”
All the air seems to whoosh out of my lungs. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
I hold a hand over my mouth, willing my sluggish brain to catch up with reality. Because Oscar was alive and healthy less than twelve hours ago. He’d stood with me outside the kitchen at Spoons, called me Uvas, kept me from having a full-on meltdown, and offered me relationship advice.
Oscar can’t be gone. It makes no sense.
“Sorry, I’m still not following.”
“Parker, you’re understanding just fine.” The steadiness of his tone tethers me to reality.
All at once, I can’t be having this conversation in the comfort of my bed. Kicking the covers off, I go into the living room, pacing back and forth. Zin is hot on my heels, thinking it’s time for breakfast.
I focus on the details of my surroundings: the geometric print of my area rug, the russet of my velvet couch, the faded hues of the vintage prints adorning the walls.
My apartment is more of a hallway than a residence, my bedroom opening to a narrow living room with a kitchen at the far end. French doors connect the kitchen to a modest balcony with an unobstructed view of the Flatirons.
The view more than makes up for the cramped quarters. In the mornings, I can watch as the giant slabs of rock are bathed in pink and orange from the sunrise, and in the evenings, observe the angelic rays that are cast when the sun dips below the majestic peaks.
But the view holds no interest for me now.
Instead I take advantage of the runway that is basically my apartment, as I pace from my bedroom to the kitchen, tugging at my raven hair, which is wavy and wild. “Killed as in murdered?”
“Yes.”
My knees feel weak and my fingertips tingle with tiny pinpricks. I sink into the couch and focus on my breathing to keep from hyperventilating. Despite my efforts, stars dance in my vision.
Unfortunately, I have some experience with homicide after a renowned critic was murdered in my winery earlier this year. While I may have helped crack the case, it’s not something I want to revisit. I still regularly wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares where I discover his lifeless body all over again.
“How?” I croak, my mouth dry. Zin hops into my lap, somehow sensing I need comfort.
“I don’t know. Officers keep asking me about some fight they think I had with him, and my chef’s knife.” Panic enters his voice and I can practically picture him raking a hand through his hair.
Reid rarely goes anywhere without his knives. He carefully straps them in their sleek black case and keeps them in his car or at one of our apartments, like some culinary superhero who’s always at the ready to save the day should he encounter any kitchen disasters. This fact, along with the cut on his hand—the so-called minor flesh wound—lodges itself in my brain. I search for reason, like fumbling for a particularly tricky grip at the end of a long climbing session. “But you always take your chef’s knife home with you.”
“I left it at the restaurant last night.”
For him to have left without it means he was far more distraught than I realized. Or there’s something he isn’t telling me. An abyss opens in my stomach, and I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat.
“Did you mean to?”
“Of course not,” he says, his voice pained. “I just—I just had to get out of there. I wanted to see you.”
And the abyss fills with goo.
I sink back into the couch, scratching behind Zin’s ears. She kneads my leg, her tiny kitty paws almost acting like a masseuse. A masseuse with very sharp claws. I wince and reposition her on the cushion. A low rumbling purr radiates from her as she watches me steadily, her furry head tilted to the side. It’s almost as if she comprehends what’s happened.
“I still can’t believe Oscar . . .” I trail off, sighing into our connection.
Reid doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
It’s weird how a silence can communicate more than words.
There’s the anticipatory silence before a kiss, which talking would only delay. There’s the judgy silence, perfected by Camilla and the rest of the Wallace clan. And then there’s this silence, the silence of foreboding, that speaks of something worse yet to come.
Another clang in the background makes me start. That’s when I remember where Reid said he’s calling from.
My palms grow sweaty and my phone slips. I grip it tighter. “Why are you in jail?”
I brace myself for his answer, but nothing could prepare me for what he finally says.
“They think I did it.” His tone is desperate, the raw fear slicing at my heart. “They think I killed my friend.”
When in doubt, call your best friend.
This is true if you need a sympathetic ear after a hard day, you’re considering getting bangs, you want to rehash the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy, or, apparently, your boyfriend is wrongfully accused of murder.
Especially if that best friend is a law clerk for the most esteemed judge in Boulder County and also happens to be pursuing a career in criminal law.
Sage is as kind as she is brilliant, further proven by her willingness to rush to my aid early on a Thursday morning, which will inevitably make her late for work.
I’m waiting for her on the bottom step of the stairwell that leads to my apartment when she turns into the parking lot. She drives a lime-green Mini Cooper, which somehow perfectly fits her personality. It’s tiny, bright, and can handle inclement weather surprisingly well.
I leap to my feet so quickly that I lurch forward, tripping over a crack in the cement. I reach out blindly and cling to the railing, barely saving myself from what was sure to be an embarrassing tumble. I glance around nervously, my knuckles white on the banister.
“Don’t worry, no one saw that,” Sage says, hopping out of her car.
She shoves her sunglasses on top of her head, her strawberry-blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. Triforce earrings dangle from her ears, glinting in the sunlight. Her love for everything nerd-canon extends to her wardrobe, which features a mixture of power suits and cosplay. Even dressed professionally, as she is now, she coyly manages to pay homage to her favorite make-believe worlds, like with the Captain Marvel T-shirt peeking out from under her neatly buttoned cardigan.
“Except for you,” I point out, raising one eyebrow. I force myself to let go of the railing, steady for the moment.
“Yeah, but I hardly count. I’ve seen far worse from you, missy.”
This is undeniably true. Having been my roommate in college, Sage has seen me at my best (opening day of my winery), my worst (also, ironically, opening day of my winery, post–dead body), and everything in between (let’s not mention my hipster phase).
“And I from you.” I hold a hand over my heart and give her what is probably my first genuine smile of the day, although it’s not long before it transitions back into a tense frown. “My head’s in a weird place.”
Concern is etched in Sage’s face. “Here, this will help. It’s your usual.” She passes me a to-go mug sporting the logo of my favorite coffee place, the Laughing Rooster. “Skinny latte.”
Tears spring to my eyes at the gesture. I wipe the tears away, but not before one slides down my cheek and plops onto the cup’s lid.
“Oh, Parker,” Sage says, wrapping her arms around me. “Try not to panic. We’ll figure this out.”
I have my doubts about that, but allow myself to be comforted. I sniff. “It’s just such a mess. And poor Oscar.”
She gives me one last squeeze before letting go. “Take a sip.”
I’m buzzed enough without any caffeine, but I know better than to argue with Sage. The latte is hot and bitter and oddly comforting. I take another, larger gulp.
“Good.” Sage nods encouragingly, slurping from her own drink, some sort of fluorescent-blue frozen concoction. “Now, tell me everything.”
So I do.
Standing in the shade of my apartment complex, I tell her about the disastrous dinner with Reid’s family, from the disgusting food to the impermeable Boys’ Club to Camilla’s scathing words.
“Oh no, she didn’t,” Sage says with a huff, indignant on my behalf.
“She did. They all did,” I say. Sure, Tristan and Ben may not have piled on the criticism, but they also didn’t stand up for me. And sometimes, doing nothing is just as bad as actively participating.
I fiddle with the strings of my hoodie. In my haste to get ready, I grabbed the first clothes I could lay my hands on—beat-up jeans with holes in the knees and a worn CU Buffs sweatshirt.
“What did Reid say?” Sage asks.
“He came to my defense. Turned it back on them and why they were really in town.” I shrug and focus on the cup in my hand, the warmth permeating the paper sleeve. “But she’s his mother.”
“So what?”
Sage has some experience with, as she calls it, mama drama, her mom only contacting her when she needs money, legal advice, or to make someone feel smaller than her.
“So, some people aren’t as awesome as you at ignoring unwelcome motherly opinions.”
“If they’re with you, they should be.”
I decide not to pick at that thread and continue with how I escaped (nay, fled) early, and how Reid met up with me later at Vino Valentine. I finish with Reid’s phone call this morning, realizing just how little I actually know about his current predicament.
Here’s what I do know: Officers showed up at the duplex Reid rents off Pearl Street at four o’clock this morning with a search warrant. They brought him in for questioning about the suspicious death of Oscar Flores, which, before too long, turned into an arrest.
Sage listens silently, her skin growing pale beneath her freckles.
Around us, birds chirp and flit between blue spruce trees, a neighbor greets me on their way to the bus stop, and cars impatiently inch closer to one another on the busy street in front of my apartment, rush hour being in full swing. The normalcy strikes me as cruel and makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I’m tempted to march to the street corner and shout about the injustices in the world. About lives that end too soon and families left behind heartbroken. About the evil that lurks in all of us and, even more frightening, those who can’t control it.
Instead, I take another sip of my latte. Having a massive freak-out won’t help anyone.
“Is there any chance Reid could’ve . . . ?” Sage spares me the rest of the sentence.
I shake my head adamantly. “Absolutely not.” I turn to her, imploring her to believe me. “He’s a good guy, you know? He would never hurt anyone. Especially not his friend.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sage dips her chin. “But I had to check.”
“That’s fair,” I say with a sigh. “I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.” And evaporated immediately. Absently, I touch my lips.
“Okay then.” Sage gets to her feet and makes for her car, glancing over her shoulder at me. “You coming?”
I jog to catch up and scramble into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”
There’s a fervor in her eyes usually reserved for new Star Wars franchise announcements.
“To get Reid, duh.” She shifts into drive and turns onto Broadway. “Let’s go make hell.”