I turn to the computer where there is an email from my sister. More blathering about her wedding and what I must and must not do. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so important, and I delete it. There’s also a nice email from Vashti just saying she’s thinking of me and to call her when I have a minute. That one I save. I frown at the next email because it has an unfamiliar address: ursine@hotmail.com. I click it open, expecting it to be spam though we have a good filter system. It’s from Ursula. She wants to know if I’ve figured anything out yet. I lift an eyebrow. It was only yesterday afternoon that I saw her, so I’m not sure what she thinks I might have accomplished since then. I don’t have the same antipathy towards her as does Lyle—I actually enjoyed her—but I’m wary of her strident interest. Granted, Paris is her biological son, and she did just discover him two days ago, but the concerned mother bit is a bit heavy-handed given that she hasn’t laid eyes on the boy for twenty-eight years.
The day has a surreal feel to it as my coworkers avoid me as much as possible. If they have work they want me to do, they either quickly drop it on my desk and scurry away, or they email me their needs. Nobody actually talks to me unless they are forced to explain what they need. Even Quinn avoids me, which is highly unusual. I don’t miss the constant interruption, but I’m still rather hurt by the snub. My colleagues are acting as if it’ll rub off on them—the murder bug. At least, Derek, a coworker tangentially involved with the last murder case is no longer working here; that would make a bad day even worse. Only the kids treat me the same because in their world, death—even murder—is no big deal. I would bet that at least ninety-percent of the kids have had someone close to them die—many of them, more than one person. So for me to be close to three murders is not unusual to them—in fact, it gives me street cred in their eyes; I have the same as experiences as they, to some extent. Too bad I’m not getting paid to be a counselor rather than an admin assistant.
People ask me how I can work in a place like A Brighter Day with juvenile delinquents. Aren’t you scared, they ask? They are the ignorant ones. The people who bother me, however, are the ones who can’t put themselves in the kids’ shoes, who consider themselves superior. The people who can’t understand how any kid can turn to crime or live ‘the way they do’. One particularly obnoxious person wanted to round up all the kids like the ones at my agency and put them on an island somewhere.. I finally let him have it after he pontificated for a good half hour. I’ve seen some of the case files—I have to organize them periodically—and I’m surprised the kids aren’t more screwed up then they already are. One has a mother who locked him in the closet every night so she could service men without him bothering her. One’s stepfather visited her bed frequently and promised to kill her younger sister if she told. One male was gang- raped with a broken bottle by a bunch of older girls who were high on crack.. The guy I told this to wasn’t quite so ebullient in his criticisms after I shared a few cases with him..
“It’s your turn to go in, Rayne,” Mrs. Jenson says softly.
I am incredulous with his reaction and demand to know why it doesn’t bother him. He thinks it’s funny, and he thinks she’s jealous of anyone I’m sleeping with. He’s still chuckling as he reveals that he thinks the good inspector has the hots for me. That causes me to sputter indignantly for a few minutes while Lyle looks on in amusement. The prim and proper inspector having a crush on me? The thought of that is so bizarre, I can’t take it seriously. I’m nothing more than an irritant to her, forced upon her because of unusual circumstances. I’m a suspect in an attempted murder case and have been in two past cases. I don’t even know she’s gay, for god’s sake. The idea is ludicrous, I inform Lyle. He brushes aside my objections, firm in his belief that Inspector Robinson wants to get into my pants.
Watching Mrs. Jenson, I feel another surge of anger. Not at the would-be murderer this time, but at her. She loves Paris, I have no doubt, but she can’t see past her narrow vision to embrace the beautiful, complicated man that he is. The whole time Paris and I’ve been friends, I’ve never heard Mrs. Jenson say anything positive about or to Paris. Instead, she stands to the side with her mouth pursed, looking at him with disapproval. Paris feels her disappointment keenly, but hasn’t gotten bitter over it as many would have. However, he does have issues with his dead father, which reminds me that I have to tell him the story his mother told me about shutting out Mr. Frantz after adopting Paris. It might help explain why Mr. Frantz was the way he was.
I bring up Paris’s birthmother, something both of us have let slide. She did call Paris the afternoon he was hit. Is it merely a coincidence that on the day she calls, Paris is hit? That’s too much to swallow, although coincidences do occur. Lyle and I look at each other, thinking the same thing. Where is Paris’s cell phone? Lyle had assumed the doctors had it, but he isn’t sure. We have to get the cell phone to find out if there is a record of Paris’s birthmother’s phone call. I curse Paris silently for his love of drama. If he had just told one of us who she was before he was hit, we wouldn’t have to waste time tracking her down. Lyle and I both start shoveling in the our food as fast as possible, gabbing the whole time.
I hurry home and take a quick nap before hopping in the shower. Nothing feels as good as the water running down my body. The steam soothes the prickliness I feel, but to my horror, I start to cry. The tears I’ve been repressing all night long storm to the surface and spill over, mingling with the shower water on the way down. I start to sob loudly, unable to control my response. I can’t control my shivering, no matter how hot I make the water. I place my hand on the wall to steady myself, but my knees are trembling and I feel as if I’m going to fall over. I close my eyes and try not to lose my balance. My legs aren’t listening to my commands, and down I go. I land on my ass with a thud—it’s cold on the ground. I wrap my arms around my knees and just let the water fall onto me.
Per agreement, they didn’t try to find the teenager or even speculate about whom she might be. Mrs. Frantz was too tense to relax, but Mr. Frantz managed to enjoy much of the local flavor, especially the spirits of the land. He was fond of rum, which was plentiful in supply. Mrs. Frantz sat in their hotel room and waited, dreaming of her baby boy. By then, she knew she was getting a son, but she was cautious about investing too much emotion in him until she actually held him in her arms. She just sat with the lights out, gazing outside her window, not really seeing anything. Her husband would try to coax her to join him in his revelry, but she rebuffed him firmly. When the first day melted into the second day, she began to get jittery. Their lawyer had said the baby was born already, so she didn’t see the problem. She was afraid to voice the fear niggling the back of her mind—the birthmother had changed her mind. The second fear—the birthmother wanted more money. There was none to be had. The Frantzes had to borrow heavily to come up with the ten thousand, not to mention the trip to Tijuana.
