Bunny massaged her temples and inadvertently smeared her glitter eyeshadow. “Elle, I’m sorry, boo. I told you. I haven’t been able to dig up anything on him. I’m truly sorry.”
“Bullshit!” I’d screamed.
I clenched my empty glass so tightly it shattered in the palm of my hands. Glass fell to the floor intertwined with a stream of my blood. A few patrons gasped, but I just squeezed the glass into my bleeding hand even deeper. I needed to feel the physical pain to try to mask the emotional turmoil inside my heart. It didn’t work.
Bunny apologized and scurried out of the bar. I hadn’t heard from her again despite my copious apologies in the form of notes I left for her at our spot. Maybe she was just another bridge I’d burned on my path to self-destruction.
I nudged my laptop to the side of my bed while I planted my feet firmly on the new hardwood floors of my bedroom. My body cracked and creaked while I stretched. While I sat up, disorientation took hold, and I swayed side to side. I gripped my comforter to steady myself as I eyed the wine.
People said time healed all wounds, but I disagreed. When your wounds were too deep, too thick, there was absolutely nothing you could do. It was like putting a bandaid on a bullet hole—it didn’t do shit.
I’d never forget the wretched pain slicing into my bones on the day of Zac’s memorial. My entire body felt numb, yet wracked with earth-shattering agony. It was as though a piece of me, or rather, half of my soul was ripped away. As I looked at my brothers and sisters in blue, I couldn’t imagine losing anyone else to the violence of the streets. We laid our lives on the line day in and day out. And for what? Zac lay in a casket, never to hold me in his arms again.
I knew the day he told me he was going undercover with the Jagged Edges that it wasn’t a good idea. I wanted him to serve and protect the community, but I didn’t want him to get killed either.
The Jagged Edges were a well-known gang in the city. The Ashford PD had investigated them for years, trying to find any evidence to pin them down for the opioid epidemic in the area. Everyone knew they contributed to the problem, but no one could prove it.
Zac’s assignment was to infiltrate the gang and try to find that proof. He was undercover for six months before he was murdered. I thought it had to be someone from the gang, but I couldn’t prove it. No one else could find evidence to support that either.
Luckily, no one from the gang appeared to know Zac’s true identity, because there was no backlash, and his death was kept out of the media, for the most part. The department feared if he was found out, they’d come after me next. But no one ever did. I would have welcomed it, though. I would have given anything to be reunited with Zac in this life or the next.
The day he was shot happened to be while I was on duty. I was looking into a triple homicide a few blocks away when shots rang out. I knew my crime scene paralleled the Jagged Edges’ territory in town. As soon as I heard the gunfire, I knew in my heart something happened to Zac. Some called it intuition; some called me crazy, but I just knew.
I left my scene and sped off in the direction of the shooting. My radio buzzed with electricity of other officers reporting to the scene. One of our good friends from the department, Dave, was already there. He saw me coming and told me not to come any closer. I pushed past him and approached my worst nightmare.
Zac lay on the ground, his civilian clothes soaked in his own blood. Air caught in my lungs as I froze in place. It wasn’t until Zac turned his head to look at me that I fell to my knees. Sirens surrounded us as dozens of officers cleared the area, called for backup and tried to peel me away. I crawled toward Zac as my body shook with wretched sobs.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “I love—”
He never finished his sentence.
Outside, the breeze ruffled the branches and pushed them against my window. Growing up, I spent many nights with the sheets up to my nose, terrified of the eerie shadows crawling upon my bedroom wall. As an adult, I knew that monsters weren't real, not exactly. But mankind could give the boogeyman a run for his money.
Crossing my legs, I heaved my laptop back onto my knees. Electricity swirled in my veins as I pulled up Google and swiftly typed "CallieBBY14" into the search space using quotation marks before and after the name.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath before I pressed “Enter,” unsure what results would appear, if any. When I opened my eyes, several search results stared back at me from the smudged computer screen. I gulped and scanned the top few results. The first one pulled from a site called 2Hawt4U. The preview text under the site's URL read, "Chat with me and make all your dreams cum true, xoxo!”
So, Callie worked as an online sex worker. Dozens of questions clouded my thoughts while I clicked the link to the website. Instantly, raunchy music accompanied by sounds that should only be heard in the privacy of one's bedroom blared through my speakers. Heat flooded my cheeks. I muted the volume and hoped my mom and stepdad didn't hear.
I navigated to Callie's profile on the site and couldn't help but cringe. I still couldn't believe this was the girl I spent hours with, braiding her hair and sharing bowls of popcorn while we binge-watched Disney movies.
I scrolled further down the page to find several videos with half-naked thumbnail photos of Callie. Bile rose in my throat, and I couldn't bring myself to watch one.
I glanced at the clock. The hour hand crept past the number ten, halfway to eleven. Instinctively, I brought my thumb to my lips and nibbled on the quicks of my nails, or what was left of them, anyway.
It didn't take long for the distinct taste of metal to reach my tongue. Blood trickled out from under my nail bed; I'd gone too far. I reached for a tissue on my nightstand. My hand brushed past an ivory lamp emitting a soft buttery glow, my cell phone charger, Burt's Bees chapstick, and a few dollar bills.
Upon seeing the money, an idea sprouted inside my mind. Why couldn't I go to the Hens' Den and ask if anyone knew anything about Callie's whereabouts? I was sure they'd be much more apt to talk to another female and one without a badge than the cops.
I heaved myself out of bed with a rejuvenated sense of purpose. Glancing in the mirror attached to my cherry wood vanity set, I wiped under my eyes to remove the smudged eyeliner. Then, I reached for the lipstick in my purse, dug around for it until I felt the slick plastic against my skin. I parted my lips and slowly dragged the stick across them, creating an illusion of a woman with confidence.
My breathing quickened as I grabbed my car keys. After one more look in the mirror, I turned to face the door to my bedroom. My next step brought me crashing to my knees as I tripped over the edge of the stool in front of my mirror. Searing pain roared throughout my right kneecap as I rubbed it eagerly.
"You okay?" Jack called from their bedroom.
"Fine! I'm fine!”
I shook my head and tossed my car keys aside, knowing full well that I shouldn't be driving. At least this time, I had enough sense not to get behind the wheel.
I clicked my ridesharing app. With the touch of a button, Sandy A. was on her way to pick me up. After I snatched one last look in the mirror, I tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen and opened my parents' liquor cabinet.
There were a few bottles of top-shelf vodka—my favorite. I turned my head to listen for any sounds from upstairs. How would it look if my mom or stepdad came downstairs to find me rummaging through their alcohol at eleven at night?