Jeanie
Gavino parks his truck outside of a quiet rancher a half-hour before dawn. A silver Camry is still in the driveway, which I hope means Mark hasn’t left for work yet. I sip the coffee Gavino brewed and look at the mug in my hands—the same mug I took with me on the hike up into the mountains.
I close my eyes and can feel his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, his breath on my flesh. That morning is a strange, hyper-intense memory, like every motion, every sensation’s been burned so sharply into my mind it’s like all the details are still real.
His taste, his growls of pleasure. The orgasm that nearly blew my mind to pieces.
And the story about Sonia.
That horrible story and the pain etched in his expression.
I was terrified as he spoke. My thoughts were all over the place, half of me mourning for Gavino, and half of me terrified for myself. Now there’s no way I can ever tell him who I really am, because I can’t risk him thinking I’m just another Sonia.
For a little while, I let myself forget that Gavino’s a killer. I let myself get seduced by him, by his hands and lips and charm, by his handsome smile and his money and all the comforts that come along with his lifestyle, all the things I never had and never imagined I’d ever touch. I let myself tumble into him, but now it’s like I’m wide awake. I still feel that inexorable draw toward that monster—I still want his mouth on mine and his palms against my naked ass—but I’m terrified of him all over again.
“Heads up.” Gavino’s voice is thick and heavy with sleep. “Check it out.”
I follow his gaze to the front door where a man’s coming outside. He’s wearing a postal uniform and hurrying to the car. His hair’s gray and short, and he’s around my height but twice my width, heavyset, borderline rotund, lots of wrinkles. His cheeks are pink, and his skin’s pale. I find it hard to believe this is the man that started everything, that took a bribe and ruined my mother’s career and shoved us onto the path that led into so much darkness. This man, this soft man, ruined everything.
“Come on,” Gavino says and gets out of the car. I hurry after him, and we approach Mark as he’s heading to his driveway. He looks up, frowning, clearly surprised to see two people coming toward him at this hour. “Good morning,” Gavino calls out.
“Uh, good morning,” Mark says, looking between us. “Can I help you folks?” Spoken like a man that has customer service experience.
“You’re Mark Kalinsky,” Gavino says, still moving toward him.
Mark nods, blinking in uncertainty. “That’s right, I’m Mark. And who are you?”
“My name is Gavino and we need to have a talk.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gavino, but I need to head into work. If you want to speak about postal business—”
Gavino shakes his head and grabs Mark’s arm. To his credit, Mark tries to wrench it away, but Gavino twists and slams the man against the side of the car roughly. Not hard enough to break anything but enough to rattle the bastard.
“This isn’t about the post office,” Gavino says in his ear. “This is about Malcolm Strafford.”
Mark’s mouth drops open and moves like a fish. He’s ghost-white, wide-eyed, sweating. It happens in an instant. All his outrage evaporates, and suddenly he’s simpering, stuttering. “I didn’t— I didn’t know— He’s that, uh, property— You can’t just, uh—”
“Inside,” Gavino barks and jerks him from the car. Together, we head up the front walkway and back into Mark’s home.
It smells like cats. It hits me right in the face. Gavino smells it too, and suddenly a massive tabby appears, purring. “It’s okay, Jessalene,” Mark says to the animal. “We’re okay, sweetie girl.”
More cats linger at the margins, hiding behind ancient, long out of style lamps, beneath a coffee table buckling under the weight of magazines and empty Pepsi bottles, and on the kitchen counters, winding between appliances.
Gavino shoves Mark into a chair and sits across from him. I remain standing, frowning at the mess around me. Mark clearly lives alone and doesn’t take care of his place that well. The cats seem to have the run of everything, and my throat’s already getting itchy. I’m allergic to the damn things and I hate being around them. This place is particularly bad.
“Let’s have a conversation,” Gavino says, leaning forward to get in Mark’s face. “You know who Malcolm Strafford is.”
“He’s, ah, that famous real estate investor, right?” He doesn’t seem certain.
“I wouldn’t call him famous, no.” Gavino tilts his head. “How do you know him?”
“I must’ve read about him in the, uh, the papers.” He nods eagerly. “Probably there was a profile. That’s, uh, how I know his name.”
Gavino nods and grunts. I try not to break in and throttle the old man. He’s a pathetic creature and I’m torn between hating him and feeling sorry for him. Really, this isn’t about him in particular—anyone else could’ve taken that bribe—this is about Malcolm. I don’t know Mark, and I don’t know his reasons for accepting the cash. For all I know, they were good reasons.
I hate him anyway. This is the man that helped cause all my pain and suffering. This man, this pathetic man living in his little house with his cats. It’s a mess, almost a dump, but it’s comfortable at least and better than anything we lived in after Mom lost the condo.
Gavino clicks his tongue and leans forward. “You say you don’t really know him, and yet you looked terrified when I mentioned his name. No more bullshit, please. How do you really know Malcolm Strafford, Mark?”