Page 20 of Demo
Ken’s eyes move from me to Cherice, and back again. “We couldn’t find a Celia Stewart in that neighborhood. We canvased it twice.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “You just missed her apartment, I’m sure.”
“Where, and when, exactly, did you look?” Cherice asks Ken, and the Kings, as she leans onto the table, glancing at the article.
“For God’s sake, Cherice, a little help, here!” Carl is practically foaming at the mouth.
She looks up at him with a glance that saystalk to me like that again and I’ll eat you for dinner,and then focuses her stare on Ken. “Well?”
“We hit the streets the day the article was published.”
Cherice looks at me. “I spoke to this woman. We were face-to-face. I’m sure I quoted her correctly,” I stammer out.
“Would you be able to tell us where you found her?” Ken asks.
“I could, but I won’t,” I say, apologetically. I glance at Cherice for help.
“We would never divulge the information of a source,” she says to Ken and the Kings.
Carl sighs and sinks back into his seat, defeated.
“I understand,” Ken says, as he anxiously shifts in his chair, glancing nervously over at the Kings and carefully choosing his next words. “Do you think you could reach back out to Ms. Stewart again?”
I already plan to. I made the decision the moment her name came up. But I hold my cards close.
As if able to read my mind, Cherice speaks up. “Ken, Mrs. King, we absolutely empathize with your situation, but our responsibility in this case ended last year. Now, unless you can prove intentional defamation of character by my reporter, I believe we’re done here. Come on, Lyzbeth.”
As I rise, Mrs. King speaks up. “As his mother, when does my responsibility end?”
Cherice squeezes my elbow, and I take my cue to follow Carl out the door.
I am struggling to get my arm back into the sleeve of my jacket as we head down the hall back toward the elevator. “Cherice, I—”
“Don’t talk now. Not here.” She stabs the “down” arrow on the wall repeatedly. Carl isn’t saying anything. It’s probably best he doesn’t.
I am suddenly feeling claustrophobic, confused and overwhelmed, and I know what’s coming. Looking around, I spot the restrooms. “I’m gonna use the ladies’ room, I’ll catch up with you outside,” I say, and make a B-line before either Cherice or Carl have a chance to respond. I don’t need them witnessing my impending panic attack.
I check under all the stalls and don’t see any feet, so I drop my purse on the floor, run the faucet and use my hand to spoon cool water onto my forehead and cheeks, careful to spare my eye makeup.
What the hell is going on? I know I was in a fog while this case was going on but is it possible I misquoted my sources? Misidentified them?
Gripping the sink, I dip my head down and take a deep breath, then blow it out as I count to five. I do this a few times, until my hands stop shaking and my lungs are able to inflate without feeling like they are being crushed.
I remember Celia Stewart.I remember her walking right up to me when I was canvasing the block looking for neighbors to talk to. She was eager to talk.
And what the hell is up with the police chief? If I had printed incorrect information, he surely would have let me know. Maybe the Kings are wrong. Maybe they are still reeling from their loss and searching for answers. For someone to blame.
I hear the door swing open and another woman enters a stall. I dry my face and hands on some brown paper towel, grab my purse and head back out toward the elevators. I step inside and hit the button for the ground floor when I hear a woman’s voice call, “Hold the elevator, please!”
Without thinking, I fling my hand between the doors to halt it.
“Oh, thank you so—”
As I look up at the person entering the elevator my heart skips a beat. And, it seems, so does Mrs. King’s as she looks back at me.
I step to the side and hit the button for the ground floor again as she steps in beside me. I pray for someone else to join us, but the doors slide shut, and it’s only the two of us.
Among the hum of the elevator, I can hear her slow, steady breathing, as I’m sure she can hear mine. We both stare straight ahead. The air between us is weighted.Am I really not going to say anything to this woman?
