To fill the silence Leo puts on Chopin’s nocturnes, which he believes Seb loved as much as he did. He thought Chopin was “their” composer when in fact the nocturnes were only special to Seb because Leo couldn’t get enough of them. Even in this, they didn’t understand each other. Or the love they shared. The Chopin is endless, playing from the laptop in Seb’s old study on a loop, our own personal dirge.
The rain outside turns to snow, and I am riveted by the sight as it hits me that this is actually happening. Snow in Vancouver and, in order to find the man who’s threatened my life, we are going to look for a snitch.
6
“You’ve never really told me about your daughter,” Leo says to me, from the foot of the stairs.
I pause midway up. “We’re not close.”
“But she’s the reason you won’t get out of town for a while. You’re worried about her.”
This is what happens when you let people in. They think they know you well enough to question your motives. The trouble with Leo, though, is that he actually does. “Dao knows who she is. He can use her as leverage. The fact that we’re not close is a good thing. For her.” I try to sound upbeat but fail miserably. There’s nothing cheerful about this situation.
“Do you need help packing your things?”
“No. There’s not much.” Then I ask him something that’s been on my mind since he reluctantly opened the door to me. “Why are you living here? Why is it you’re the one getting rid of Seb’s stuff?”
He looks so miserable, I almost wish I hadn’t asked. “Seb left all his assets to his son, who’s just a kid. He had no other family. His ex was going to hire a company to pack up the house before she put it on the market. I offered to do it instead.” The last part he says while looking down at his bare feet.
I get it. This is closure for him. He’s not ready to let go.
It takes me no time at all to gather my meager possessions from the room upstairs where I lived for about a year. There’s an envelope waiting for me on the bed with my name scrawled across it. In Seb’s handwriting. Tucking the envelope in a duffel, I pile all my belongings and Whisper into my old Corolla, which still starts, and drive over to Leo’s Chinatown apartment.
We’re quiet as we take the back stairs up to Leo’s second-floor unit. Whisper and I, we’re used to being stealthy. It comes from the years we spent living in the basement of Leo’s small PI company on Hastings Street, back when both Seb and Leo worked there.
Leo’s apartment is noisy, a far cry from the sleepy Kits town house. There’s a covered balcony from which Whisper and I watch the goings-on beneath us. She’s still startled at my sudden reappearance in her life, so we go for a long midnight walk. It’s still snowing, lightly now.
I listen as the sounds of the city find me in the darkness. Feel its beating heart.
I let Whisper off-leash because I sense she’ll stay by my side tonight, and we walk until my mind clears.
It’s not that I don’t want help. It’s that I don’t want the baggage that comes along with it. The responsibility of putting other people in danger.
Brazuca had been nudging me earlier, testing me. He wanted to know my intentions with Dao. I’ve been thinking about that, too. Protecting Bonnie is number one. Making sure that it doesn’t spread any further than it already has is another.
But his safety was on my mind also. His and Leo’s.
When I was in Detroit, I was being followed by a gang member or two who’d been hired to kill me. I’d suspected Dao had been behind it, far too late. Brazuca confirmed it tonight. Dao, through his connections, had been having me watched. Biding his time until it was somehow easy. A murder in Detroit? Nobody would blink an eye. He knew that. It’s why he set those young men after me.
They found Nate Marlowe instead.
Shot him one morning as he stepped into his kitchen, before I could warn him, or move, or speak. I watched Nate fall to the ground, and I saw the light go out of his eyes. I sat by his hospital bed and told him how sorry I was, but it wasn’t enough. He had been the first man I’d let inside me in a very, very long time. It wasn’t a decision I’d made lightly, and I made it only because it was him. A musician who saw straight through all my bullshit and wanted me to sing with him anyway. I didn’t deserve him, but I didn’t need a bullet to take him away from me. Now, according to a new radio update, Nate is recovering at home. But his voice will never be the same.
Dao has taken something beautiful from the world.
The blues song I sang with Nate Marlowe, the one I’ve been hearing on the radio, is about a woman who is nothing but trouble. As much as I try to run away from it, hide, bury my problems or drown them in a barrel of whiskey or one of its substitutes, it always finds me. I’m caught unawares, with my pants down.
I’m going to have to start paying better attention, taking stock.
By Leo’s bedside I find a selection of healing crystals hanging from leather thongs. I take one down and hide it in his bedside table by a half-empty box of condoms, making sure to keep the condoms in front for when Leo goes looking. Safety first. Then I thread the brass key from my pocket through the strip of leather and tie it around my neck.
Taking stock goes badly, worse than I could have anticipated:
Intuition, jacked.
Strength, poor.
Cardio, not impressive but better than your average citizen.
Dark circles, under eyes.
Excessive mucous, nostrils.
Old gunshot wound, shoulder.
Old sprain, ankle.
Fresh scratches, arms and legs.
Fresh purple bruises, ribs.
Fresh scarring from smoke inhalation, lungs and throat.
Spite and vengeance, heart.
Continuous battering, soul.
I heard a stoned hippie say once that a complete body transformation is possible after seven years. We shed dead cells, can repair or erode tissues along with general health and well-being. After seven years it is possible to be a whole new person. Imagine that. But seven years seems like a long time. I might not be alive to experience this new me.
Sleep eludes me after coming up with this impressive list. I flip through one of Leo’s old magazines and read about cosmetic solutions for the dark circles. In the bathroom mirror I see a stranger in need of some eye cream staring back at me. This face could scare away any teenager, the hollows beneath my eyes more like shadowy pits, but I don’t linger on that thought. I’d caught a glimpse of the price of the cream in the magazine, and there’s no way I can afford to do anything about the circles just yet, maybe ever.
Most of the things on the list are unimportant in the grander scheme of things, and I can always start doing something about my strength. My soul is what it is, and there’s nothing to help it. As to my heart and the trouble I’m in, that’s another story. But not one for tonight.
I’ve been avoiding the envelope Seb has left for me, but now there’s nothing else to do but open it. He has left me a copy of the manuscript for his memoirs and nine thousand, four hundred, and eighty-seven dollars in cash. The manuscript I put aside because I can’t bring myself to read it. The money I keep handy.
I think Seb must have known me better than anybody on the planet. The year I spent looking after him coated our bond in steel. I watched him deteriorate, took him to his appointments, picked up his meds, helped him with his syndicated news blog and the freelance assignments that came his way—along with the research and organization of the memoirs. He gave me the money from the blog and assignments. And I guess he stashed some extra as well.