Metal scrapes against concrete behind me. I turn to see Lobster Grill employees setting up for the day, arranging whiteiron chairs across the patio. A woman with hair in a long braid puts out a chalkboard sign with a large drawing of a lobster.
Judy and I ate there before, and the food was delicious, an assortment of shellfish, crab legs, and warm bread with salty butter. Judy had taken a photo of her food before eating as she always does when we go out to eat, capturing memories. Memories I have tainted.
I blink, forcing myself to focus, and stand up to stare at the screen again.
Trash can.
It doesn’t make sense at all. I scan the space around me for trash cans. Two metal ones at the restaurant entrance, and one bright orange plastic one a few steps to the right of the bench.
My cheeks burn as I approach it, already feeling the stares of passersby watching me dig through garbage. What will I even be searching for?
When I reach it, I immediately notice the top flap of a manila envelope identical to the ones Lawrence uses for his reports sticking out.
Perplexed, I glance over my shoulder to see if someone is watching me. No one is. The Lobster Grill employees are now busy wiping down the outside tables.
The envelope tucked under my arm and my pulse hammering in my ears, I hurry back to the parking lot with questions floating around in my mind.
What exactly is happening here? Why didn’t Lawrence want to give me the envelope in person? What’s so sensitive he couldn’t tell it to me on the phone?
I’m almost at my car when I spot a white sedan in the far corner of the lot, half-hidden behind some dumpsters. The small dent in the rear bumper tells me it’s Lawrence’s car.
As I get closer to the vehicle, I spot his silhouette behind the wheel, chin resting on his chest as if he’s taking a nap. Hedoes not wake up, not even when I’m standing right beside his window.
I knock on the glass twice, loud enough to get his attention. No movement.
Crouching down, I peer through the window to get a better look and immediately stumble back, my hands around my constricting throat, my gaze still on what looks like a bullet wound on Lawrence’s temple.
His wide open eyes are staring into space.
THIRTY-FOUR
Frozen, I stare at Lawrence’s temple, watching the crimson rivulet of blood trickling from the bullet hole that’s no bigger than a dime.
I can’t look away, can’t get myself to move.
After standing there for God knows how long, I come to, returning to my senses, forcing myself to move, to act, to do something. Anything.
I stumble backward, my fingers still clutching the envelope he’d left for me in the trash can. Then I’m running until I’m inside my car, slamming the door shut, my eyes fixed in the rearview mirror where I can still see Lawrence’s car, a car he will never drive again.
On autopilot, I manage to pull out of the lot and don’t stop driving until I halt in front of the post office, where I remember seeing a public phone box.
My legs barely carry me from the car to the rectangular box that smells faintly of beer.
Gripping the phone with both fingers, I call the police as an anonymous caller.
“Someone was shot.” My words tumble over each other as they pass through my trembling lips. “In the parking lot of the Lobster Grill.”
When they ask, I give them the description of the car.
They want to know more. They want my name. But I hang up before I’m pressured into sharing that information.
Back in my car, I just sit there, the envelope on the passenger seat, my hands clutching my legs to stop them from shaking.
I don’t even think as I get out of the car again and walk into a liquor store. I know Judy thinks I’ve started drinking again, but the truth is, I stopped three months ago. But I need something to stop me from spiraling.
Walking back to the car with a bottle of whiskey, I imagine Lawrence arriving in the parking lot long before I did, exiting his car, walking with the envelope to the bench, sitting down to wait for me.
Or maybe he didn’t get a chance to sit down at all.
