Chapter Six

Sydney

I scurry from the vestibule, tears blinding me as I smooth them from my cheeks, and run into someone on my way out. The body is definitely male, hard, and the only thing holding me up and together. Flushing with embarrassment, “I’m so sorry.”

I wonder if they know. Can they tell? I wonder if the blush of my cheeks shows my guilt and shame. I doubt anyone ever died from giving a blow job in church. I can’t believe I had my mouth on Declan’s—well, never mind that. That is never happening again. The muscles in my face ache and my lips feel…used. I feel used. Luckily I don’t know anyone here—thank goodness—considering this isn’t my regular church.

The male voice brings me back to reality, shocking me.

“Easy, Sydney. You running or sinning?” Declan’s brother clamps his hands on my shoulders, steadying me as I find my footing.

Great. Now I owe Neil for saving me from face-planting on the marble tiles while I’ve got salty dick breath from his brother. His hands squeeze my shoulders gently as if to reassure me. The only thing I feel is a cramping in my stomach, with the contents of Declan’s passion curdling in my belly. One hand clutches my abdomen while the other covers my mouth. I need to find my father before a scarlet letter starts showing up on my clothing.

We’re supposed to meet with a man who can get us a meeting with LeHavre. That’s the whole reason for coming to this church. I don’t see the man anywhere. He was supposed to meet me back near the confessional and tell us where to meet LeHavre. Dad is waiting for me. I didn’t approach LeHavre at first because of what I knew about him—heavy in the mob and barely respected. The money has to be paid back. He scared me more than Declan, but now I have no choices left to me; Declan just made that crystal clear.

“I have to go.” I shake and push him away, seeing my dad already moving outside, clasping hands with two other cops he knows from a neighboring precinct, deep in conversation. I look back and see Neil with Declan, but they don’t look my way.

“Dad! Dad!” I’m shouting and chasing after him, trying to catch up.

He nods at me, waving me off. I toss my hands up in the air. I will not go to the meeting alone. I watch him walk off toward what I assume is another sports bar. His friends wave back, assuring me they’ll see him home. Liars are what they all are.

I’m running down the remaining steps of the church and practically the next block down the street. It’s Sunday mid-morning and foot traffic is light, but it doesn’t matter. I’m humiliated.

I contemplate going back to my apartment or back to my father’s house, where I promised to cook Sunday dinner the way Mom used to do it. I’m so caught up in the painful memories, I don’t realize I’ve taken a bus back and I’m already down the first aisle of the grocery store, filling my basket with what I need.

I’m futzing with a casserole pan when a knock on the door distracts me from what I’m doing. I set the timer and peek out the peephole. Dad is back, and with him three of his drunken buddies. They prop each other up and I wave them inside the house.

“Syd, my baby girl.” He reeks of alcohol and failure.

I push him off from hugging me. It’s hard enough trying to shower the stench off.

“Can you bring him into the living room to sleep it off?”

They help him inside and dump him on the faded couch cushions. My mother is rolling in her grave at the sight of her once-handsome husband wearing a cheap suit, stained tie, and rolled onto her floral couch with a sad lethargy. There’s nothing left between the two of us without her vibrant energy keeping us together.

“Wish we could stay, Sydney, but the Mrs. has dinner waiting.”

I nod to his sergeant. It’s the same old story: Dad is fun to hang around and even better when he’s buying drinks, but when the fun’s over I’m the lucky one they bring him back to. Otherwise he’d probably close the place down drinking and playing cards all night long.

I stay long enough for Dad to sober up, eat some casserole, and roll himself into his chair in front of the television. We don’t speak about what happened and I don’t bring it up. Another day down, another hopeless situation where I’m nothing but a bystander to his destruction. He’ll be too hungover to cook for himself and he won’t have the cash for takeout. I doubt the stove is used unless I’m here, and I don’t dare leave Dad money because he will use it for the next card game.

I clean up the kitchen and make him containers to take to work for the next few days. They match the untouched ones still in the fridge from the Sunday before and the Sunday before that one. In my pain and rage I pull them all out and toss them with a vengeance into the garbage can. He mumbles from the living room for me to keep it down in the kitchen. I bang things louder and throw the containers harder into the trash bin. By the time I’m done the fridge is as empty as my heart. My feelings remain as bruised as the overripe bananas on the counter. I throw those out too.

“Dad, I’m leaving.” I peek into the living room and see him sound asleep. I cover him with the throw blanket knitted by Aunt Shirley in a chevron pattern to match the team colors of the Red Sox. My borrowed navy heels go into my purse and I slip on flats for the walk home. I guess going home to an empty apartment to cry is like making a sound in the forest. If only the trees are there, will anyone hear me? I lock up the house and say a little prayer that his bookie is as drunk as he is and doesn’t come knocking on the door.

“Syd?”

I slam the door back and brace my hand against my pounding heart.

“Jesus, Sergeant Puthe.” My hands start to feel clammy with sweat at being startled and confused.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but I don’t feel the apology behind his words.

“Can I help you?” I have enough going on in my life without having this added to it.

Sargent Puthe is someone my dad went to the academy with. His wife babysat me a few times growing up, when my mother died and Dad had to work overnight shifts. Luckily Puthe and my dad shared the same work rotation, so I was never alone with him. The way he is looking at me has me wishing I’d decided to stay inside with Dad, even though he’s blissfully passed out at the moment.

“You know we all care about your dad.” He steps closer to me, getting in my personal space. He smells like heavy cologne and ham hoagies with far too much vinegar.

My stomach continues to churn and I scan the street for any escape. Puthe’s partner Patrolman Farrow is sitting inside their squad car. He looks like he’s engrossed in the paper. I doubt he will hear me if I scream, and that worries me. Will they all turn a blind eye to what’s going on?

I smile tightly and lick my dry lips. I regret that instantly when Puthe focuses on my face, presumably my lips. His hand moves and rests by my head and left shoulder near the doorjamb, blocking my escape down the front step. I release a breath being held in my chest and look him directly in the eye as I straighten my back, attempting to stand taller.

“If you guys cared about my dad so much, you would encourage him to stop. In fact, you wouldn’t offer to bring him to the bar and you certainly wouldn’t spot him money for bets he has no right to make.”

“Aw, Syd, come on. When you see the shit we do, you need to blow off steam.”

“No. What my father needs is rehab, not a one-way ticket to an early funeral.”

“Now that’s an exaggeration, kiddo.”

My gaze follows his as he looks back at Farrow in the car. He turns back to lean in, and I scrunch myself up against the door as far as I can go, scratching my back against brick. I don’t have enough room to lift my knee and get him in the balls like I want to. My mind is telling my throat to scream, but the sound gets choked between my lips.

“Why won’t you help him instead of hurting him?” I ask, attempting to appeal to his humanity.

Puthe sneers and spittle hits my face. The urge to vomit makes me gag.

“Maybe you need to think of him as a lost cause and start thinking about how you’re going to protect yourself when this all goes down.”

“What?” I don’t know what Puthe is referring to, but it sounds like there is more than one crooked cop working this end of the city. I doubt my dad, for all his faults, would stand up for this, and maybe that’s what this is about. He’s already in over his head and a sinking ship. Keep Dad drunk enough that he can’t catch on to what’s going on right under his nose and obliterated senses.

Dirty cops, Declan’s club, and the usual underbelly of crime seem to be at war, and somehow I step into the shitstorm of it all.

“You better watch yourself, Sydney. Daddy won’t be around to protect you forever.”

The threat is clear and I push Puthe back as a screech of tires sounds down the street. I recognize the big black SUV as the one Stevens and Rhodes use.

“Go fuck yourself,” I scoff at Puthe, pushing against him with all my force and making him stumble back down a step. I hurry down past him.

“Natas won’t help you either, Sydney,” Puthe yells as Farrow finally unearths his head from the paper, looking between Puthe and me.

The SUV stops and I run past as Declan’s thugs getting out of the car—for what, I don’t know. For a change, I’m too quick for them to stop me. I’m not safe anywhere and I have no allies here. The one man who should have been protecting me is drunk and useless. I never thought of myself as an orphan, but here I am truly and completely alone. I push my pace racing down the block, dodging old neighbors and kids playing ball in the street, innocent of what is happening here. I hope they stay that way.

I don’t stop until I reach my apartment and slam the door shut. Instinctively I grab for the folding chair at my cracked Formica table for two and throw it under the knob of the door, but I know that wouldn’t hold a good kick of the doorframe. I dash to locate my phone in my purse and scan for bus and train schedules, thinking maybe if I run away and leave, I’ll be able to escape. A smart person would flee, but I know I won’t. I couldn’t leave my dad here anymore than I could try finishing a puzzle with missing pieces.

I toss my phone onto the full bed that takes up all the space in my room. I could try hiding under the covers, but I’m not that girl. I need a new plan. It’s not long before the sun sets and a solid knock on my door jars me from the daze I’ve let myself slip into.

I see him in the peephole, so I open the door. “Hi, what are you doing here? Is Selma okay?” I step back to let him inside but he stops to put his arms up as he leans on the doorjamb.

“You need to stop asking about my boss, Sydney.”

“Y-your boss?” The guy who spent his time at the coffee shop flirting with me is hard and different standing there with his body blocking out the light from the hallway. My head tries to logically process what he’s saying and connect the dots.

“Yeah, because now he’s asking about you. Says he wants to meet you, get a good look at the girl that’s got Natas acting like a fool. Let’s go.”

“I-I don’t think—”

“That’s the problem. You didn’t think.” He jerks my arm, pulling me down the hall. I don’t even get the chance to shut my apartment door, and he doesn’t care.