Crooked

The alarm buzzed at 5:30 am, as it always did, and I slipped out of bed to make my way to the shower. As the steam surrounded me, the hot water pouring over my skin, I began, as always, to whisper their names. Some might say that I remembered them – their faces, the sounds of their pleading voices – as a form of punishment. Some might say that I remembered them because I felt guilty. But it wasn’t guilt or regret that kept them in my mind, because I felt no remorse.

The water ran cold as the final name fell from my lips. I whispered, Michael Twins, and recalled that night, years ago, when I felt another’s blood on my hands for the last time. Standing in front of the mirror, I shook my head at the imposter staring back at me. A fake smile plastered on my face, I tried, as I always would, to appear normal and comfortable in my starchy, navy blue uniform. I strapped my gun into the holster around my hips and straightened the small, shiny name tag on my shirt that read WATKINS. A fake last name to match my fake first name, Lenore.

So many names lived inside my head. Names of those I’d known, of those I’d killed, of those I’d run away from. Names taken to hide my true identity, which at this particular moment in time I wasn’t entirely sure of. Who was I, really? If I tried, could I even recall my true name? If I thought about it long and hard, could I remember my true age, my birthday? My true personality, my likes and dislikes, my interests and my experiences… Could I recall my true appearance? The natural color of my hair?

I pulled the long, whiskey brown hair that currently occupied my head into a high, smooth ponytail, and slid green contact lenses over my eyes. I wondered if anyone could tell that they weren’t real.

My morning routine continued as it had for the past few years as I tried to pretend that I wasn’t a monster. A murderer. Every day, I forced myself to leave the past in the past with a strict schedule and repetitive routine in which I did the same goddamn things in the same goddamn order. For breakfast, I ate two eggs, over-easy, and two pieces of whole wheat toast, with a side of blackberries and a 10 oz. cup of black coffee. I set my security alarm, and locked each of the three locks on the outside of my front door before climbing into my car and driving to the station in complete silence. There, in the parking lot, I would take six deep breaths before getting out of the car and entering the building.

Each time I walked through the door of the police station, I wondered if I’d been found out. I wondered if someone, anyone, had found me suspicious, looked more deeply into my fake past, and figured out that I was actually a total fraud. A criminal. An evil, malevolent force who was a danger to herself and everyone around her. But, upon scanning the minds of all my co-workers and higher-ups, I found nothing but their own shameful secrets and deep rooted fears.

I nodded my hellos at anyone who happened to make direct eye contact with me, or flashed a brief smile, but I rarely spoke unless it was necessary. I sat at my desk and turned on the computer, took my jacket off, and checked the stack of messages that were left for me, sentences scribbled on scraps of paper and laid on top of my keyboard by Jane, the secretary, even though I’d asked her a thousand times to put them in my mailbox.

On this day, I had one message from the captain, asking me to review an incident report. Another message from the captain, asking me to please complete my paperwork in a timelier manner. A message from my partner, Adam Bliss, informing me that he would be late coming in today and would make it up to me with lunch if I was interested. I wasn’t. And lastly, there was a note that simply had a phone number and a name… A name I thought I would never see again; Wesley.

“Jane?” I found her in the copy room. “Can I ask you about one of these messages?”

“Sure,” she said, chomping on a piece of gum. The copy machine hummed quietly, spitting out warm pages of plain black text.

“This one,” I showed her the tiny piece of paper. “From Wesley? When did he call?”

Jane took the scrap of paper from me and eyed it curiously. “I didn’t write this,” she said, and handed it back.

“Then who did?” I replied. I compared the slip to the others that accompanied it, thinking the handwriting looked identical. Upon further inspection, there were some slight differences in the way the letter Y looped fancily on the other notes, and seemed somehow heavier on the note with Wesley’s phone number on it.

“I mean, it looks kind of like my handwriting, but it wasn’t me,” she said, shrugging. “I would definitely remember if it was.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Jane, “I’m sure.” She seemed mildly offended by my inquiry.

“I only mean… you do take quite a lot of messages every day, don’t you? Is it possible you could have written it in a moment of frenzy and misplaced the thought?”

“What?” she responded, with a laugh. “No, trust me. I would remember if I’d taken a message regarding a personal call for you. In the last four years that you’ve worked here, you haven’t received a single personal call. If I’d written it, I would definitely know.”

I blinked at her while she slowly chewed her gum, a small smile on her face. “Actually,” I said, “I’ve worked here for four years, seven months, and nine days.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, and back to my desk. Ignoring the feeling of imminent doom that radiated from my gut, I began to pick away at the pile of paperwork I’d been avoiding for weeks.

Was it really so strange that I had no friends or family who called or visited me at work? I’d thought that this was one of those jobs where pop-ins from family members was rare. But apparently I was wrong. I supposed it was a little odd that I was the only one who didn’t get at least one call from a spouse or close friend every once in a while. I thought, briefly, of hiring someone to be my friend, to call and leave messages about getting lunch together without my actually having to attend such a meeting.

From there, my thought process spiraled. I wondered if Jane was the only one who knew that I had no community outside the walls of the station. I wondered if anyone else found my reclusive lifestyle to be concerning and suspicious. When I’d first started working as a Clark County law enforcement officer, it seemed normal to be shy and introverted. But now, after years of working with these people, I supposed I could see why my lack of human interaction was cause for concern. I started to sweat, thinking that this odd exchange between Jane and I was the beginning of my undoing.

“Afternoon, Watkins,” Adam’s voice came from behind me. I turned and flashed what I hoped was a friendly smile.

“Deputy Bliss,” I nodded. “How are you?”

He smirked, surprised by my asking, considering I’m usually not the one who initiates conversations between us. When we did talk, it was usually about work, and our small-talk attempts ended up awkward and one sided, with him doing most of the talking as I nodded and shrugged.

“I’m okay,” he replied, “I signed my divorce papers this morning, and I’m not sure whether to drink away my sadness or drink in celebration.”

“Hm,” I tried to chuckle, unsure of how to react to such candid honesty. It seemed like a lot of information to give to a stranger. However, given that Adam Bliss and I had worked side by side for almost two years now, I supposed he wasn’t a stranger anymore.

“Either way,” he continued, “I’m looking forward to a stiff drink.” He grinned at me, throwing his jacket on the back of his chair, which was located directly behind mine. I had no idea what to say, rapidly trying to decide between I’m sorry to hear that and congratulations. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, now, and I thought of reminding him of the fact, letting him know that it was far too early to consume alcohol.

Too much time passed, and I had lost the opportunity to reply, leaving a tense silence between us for what felt like hours.

“So,” Adam said, finally, “did you get my note about lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you say?”

“I’m busy for lunch,” I lied, “meeting up with a friend.”

“Oh,” he nodded. “Well, rain check, then.” His expression and tone of voice told me that he didn’t believe me, that he knew I was lying to get out of a normal social interaction with someone I should be comfortable with by now.

Across the hall, Jane stood holding an armful of manila folders as she eavesdropped on my conversation. I wasn’t sure why, but I could tell by her body language that she was listening. She had her long, shiny hair tucked behind her left ear, which was pointed in my direction, and her face was positioned at an awkward angle to her body so that she could see me from the corner of her eye.

“But I’d be happy to buy you that drink later,” I said, “If you’d like.”

Adam spun around in his chair as if I’d just admitted to murdering multiple people with my bare hands. With his eyes open wide, I could see they were a gorgeous shade of amber.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Sounds great.”

At lunch, I did not, obviously, meet up with a friend. As I always did, I walked the three blocks to Between Two Slices and bought a grilled avocado and tomato panini, an antioxidant berry smoothie, a peanut butter oatmeal cookie, and a bottle of water. Then, I walked another block to the park and sat on a bench to eat my lunch and watch the people.

All the while, I was scanning my surroundings, looking for Wesley. Of course I knew that he could look completely different now than he did when I last saw him, but I also knew that I would recognize his face anywhere, at any distance.

I thought of the last time I saw him, of the day I finally left. I remembered the look on his face as he begged me not to go, as he demanded that I stay. He loved me, he said, but I knew better. And I was done being manipulated.

I stared at the note with his phone number on it, again, before crumpling it up and tossing it into a nearby trash can.

After lunch, I returned to the station and spent the rest of the day finishing my paperwork. Another less than exciting day in the world of law enforcement. As I headed out the front door of the building, I saw Adam smoking a cigarette on the steps and wrinkled my nose at the smell of it.

“Still slowly killing yourself, I see,” I said to him. He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Yep.” He took one last drag and threw the rest of it into the parking lot, where it rolled a few inches and sat smoldering on the pavement.

“And littering,” I said. “Outstanding, Deputy.” I began to walk toward my car.

“I won’t be surprised if you bail on that drink,” Adam said.

I stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Watkins,” he sighed. “It’s not a secret that you don’t like me.”

I blanched. “Why would you say that?” I returned to stand in front of him, genuinely displeased to think he believed that I disliked him. I did like him. I thought he was a good man, and a good cop. I’d seen briefly into his mind on a handful of occasions, and never saw anything incriminating. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, he had flaws, but he was an honest person.

“Why would I think otherwise?” he replied. “You won’t even ride in the car with me. It’s been two years since we started working together–”

“I don’t share a car with you because you smoke,” I said, pointing at the cigarette butt on the ground. “Also, it’s been one year and ten months.”

“Right. And in that time, we’ve had, maybe… six conversations that weren’t about work. Including this one.”

“This is hardly a conversation,” I said.

“Exactly.” He half-grinned, a vague dimple appearing in his cheek beneath a shadow of stubble.

I looked at my feet. He was right, and it made me feel awful. He’d been expecting me not to follow through on my earlier offer of buying him a drink, and he’d have been right to assume that I would back out. This was not how normal people behaved, I realized.

“Alright,” I said. “We should have plenty of time to converse over dinner, then.”

“Dinner?” He seemed amused.

“Yes. I’m on my way to get something to eat. To guarantee that I do, in fact, follow through with our prior arrangement, you may be so wise as to come along.”

“People don’t talk like that,” he grinned, following me to my car.

“Sure they do,” I replied. “Just not the people you spend your time with.”

I drove us to my favorite restaurant, Mel’s West Coast, known for its surf and turf options. I ordered the prime rib and crab cakes, with roasted rosemary potatoes and charred broccolini. For dessert, I had a warm citrus salad and drank an entire pitcher of ice water in under ten minutes.

“You drink a lot of water,” Adam said.

“Yes.”

He frowned at me.

“I mean,” I went on, “It’s… good for you. Helps you digest food, among many other benefits. It’s the elixir of life.”

“Alright,” he nodded, chuckling.

After dinner, we walked around the corner to The Can, a small dive bar that I’d never been to. I didn’t go into many bars or restaurants, or grocery stores, unless it was necessary. In my reclusiveness, I’d discovered ordering groceries online to be delivered to my door, which was very convenient. The internet had become my closest friend.

Adam drank beer from brown glass bottles, which I found disconcerting, but I kept my mouth shut. I ordered a martini for two reasons; I’d heard of the drink before, and I knew that it was a clear liquid. When the bartender asked if I wanted it dirty, I replied with, “heaven’s, no,” and Adam cackled with laughter.

I was never a drinker, but I did used to enjoy a glass of red wine now and then. These days, however, any time I looked into a glass of red wine, it appeared to me as a shallow pool of blood. I had to switch to white wine, which gave me heartburn and made my tongue feel like a cat’s.

So I drank one martini, and began to feel much more comfortable. Adam and I discussed his divorce, and he told me that his wife had been cheating on him for the last two years of their two-and-a-half-year marriage. I felt sad for him, but he said his wife, Melody, was a heinous bitch. I laughed. A real laugh, for the first time in a very long time. When he asked me if I’d ever been married, I laughed again.

“I’m only twenty-seven,” I said.

“So,” he replied, “I’m only twenty-eight.”

“I didn’t know you were older than me.”

“You thought I was younger?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged.

“You probably thought I was young because you think I’m kind of a fuck up, right?”

I gasped. “I most certainly do not think you are a fuck up. It’s just that you’re so… vibrant, and full of life. Your spirit is young. While, I feel, the older we get, the closer we come to feeling constantly bitter and deeply miserable.”

“Are you bitter and miserable?” He asked.

I didn’t know what might happen if I told the truth, so I lied, again. “No.”

He didn’t believe me. Adam could see the loneliness written all over my face, I was sure of it. But he didn’t try to argue, which I appreciated. We clinked our glasses together and I had a sudden flashback to the memory of Michael Twins. He and I had shared our thoughts, made a toast, connected. And then I’d killed him.

I ordered another martini.

It was 11:26 pm when I walked into my apartment, my vision slightly blurred and my limbs like overcooked spaghetti. My body crumbled onto the couch as I tried to stop the world from spinning. I clung to the cushions as though I would fly off into oblivion at any moment. And then, I felt the vomit coming. Fortunately, I made it to the toilet in time. I felt mildly better after throwing up, and sat on the counter in the kitchen to sip on a glass of water. I heard footsteps in the hallway, stopping near my door, and then a quick, short knock. My heart stopped. I slid down from the counter, retrieved the gun from under the sink, and tiptoed toward the door. It’s Wesley, I thought, he found me, and he’s going to kill me.

“Who is it?” I called through the door.

“It’s Randy, from next door,” the voice came back. “I need your help.”

Every inch of my skin tingled as my muscles relaxed and I let out a sigh. I opened the door to reveal the scrawny teen, his red hair shoved into a beanie and a heavy black backpack hanging from one shoulder.

“Randy,” I greeted him.

“Sorry,” he blushed, “I know it’s late, but… my mom locked the door when she left for work, and I don’t have a key.”

“Oh, um,” I mumbled, “what time will she get home?”

“Not until after four in the morning,” he said. “She’s a, you know, entertainer.”

I stared at him blankly, partly because I was still drunk and partly because I didn’t know what he was talking about at all.

“She’s a dancer,” he added. “She works nights.”

“Alright,” I nodded. “I can call the super for you. Come inside, you can wait here. Are you hungry?”

“Actually, yeah,” said Randy. He threw his bag onto the armchair, knocking one of the throw pillows askew. I stared at it as he closed the door and kicked his shoes into the corner.

“Don’t put your bag there,” I said, hopefully kindly.

“Why?” he asked. When I didn’t reply, he added, “it’s not hurting anything.” A small spark flickered in my belly as I looked at him. Part of me felt like yelling at him, demanding that he do what I say and not ask questions. But another part of me spoke up and said, he’s right. It’s not hurting anything.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “It’s fine. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Randy sat on the couch, threw his feet onto the coffee table, and turned on the television. He began flipping through channels while I called our super and constructed a near-perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Hey, why do you only have like four channels?” he called to me.

“I only watch it for the news,” I replied.

“Really?” He laughed. “That is so boring. You’re a cop, right?”

“Yes.”

“I know you’re not supposed to ask this, but have you ever, you know, shot anyone?”

I looked over the countertop at him. He wasn’t looking at me, but at the television, which was playing an old episode of Dawson’s Creek.

“Yes.”

“Woah.” He turned his body to face me. “Was it scary?”

“Not really,” I said. I finished making the sandwich and handed it to him before throwing a couple Advil in my mouth and chugging a glass of water.

“Did you kill him?” Randy asked, his mouth full of bread. “The guy you shot?”

“Why do you assume it was a man?” Again, I remembered Michael Twins, and felt my stomach twist into a knot.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Ladies usually don’t do bad stuff. At least, not bad enough to get shot by a cop.”

Randy left forty-eight minutes later, after asking me too many questions and eating everything in my apartment. I cleaned vigorously until four o’clock in the morning, and finally went to bed. As I tossed and turned, I tucked my arm beneath my pillow and felt something. A crumpled piece of paper. My heart pounded as I carefully unfolded it, my fingers trembling, knowing without a doubt that it was exactly what I thought it was. I read it over and over; the number, the name. It was the same note that I’d thrown away in the park. He’d been there, in my home. Wesley was following me.