CHAPTER 31
Cory
The front door opens to a blast of late-morning sun that slashes through my headache like a branding iron pressed to my skull. Searing. Flattening. I squint through the pain to focus on the person in front of me.
“Big Jim, what are you doing here so early?” I rub my eyes and snuff out a few curse words begging to surface. “Don’t you have a family to spend time with? A break to be taking? Someone else to protect? You’re on vacation, man.”
“That’s a lot of questions for someone who thinks noon is early,” he says. “Besides, I could ask you the same thing. Word on the street is you never went on vacation.”
“I like Los Angeles better. It’s home.” It’s a laughable statement. I hate this city and we both know it.
“We need to talk.” Big Jim brushes past me, one of his gold chains slapping me on the arm as he goes. I used to think the jewelry was part of his on-stage persona; now I know each chain was a gift from a family member. A mom. An aunt. His wife. All so happy that he’d graduated from high school and made something of himself. He’s proud of the look. I kinda like it myself.
I close the door behind me. Good lord, his presence fills the room and leaves me feeling the size of a gnat. He could smack me if he wanted to. One slap of his giant hand would leave me flattened on the floor, ego deflated and only a small fraction of my former self.
Still, I do write the man’s paycheck. I doubt he’ll hit me despite my being less than thrilled to see him. “Can’t it wait until later? I was out late last night, and I’m not feeling up to—”
“Who’s Angela?” Big Jim stands in front of me, feet planted wide, hands on hips, eyes narrowed to slits, a mixture of anger and guarded optimism with anger definitely winning out. It’s the kind of look you give someone when you can’t believe they would keep a secret from you this big but you’re hoping to God it’s just a giant misunderstanding.
There’s no misunderstanding. I blink, sobered instantly by the sound of her name. Deep down, I knew this day would come. Knew it like I knew I’ve always been my own worst enemy. But I didn’t expect this. In all the scenarios that scrolled through my mind in the years since Angela’s death, this one never made the list.
“What are you talking about?” The sofa never felt so far away. I stumble toward it, reaching backward to brace my fall. I’ve aged thirty years in as many seconds, all creaks and moans and breathlessness and dread.
“I’m talking about some girl named Angela. And judging by the blood leaving your face, I’ll make a guess that you know exactly what I’m talking about. Sal called me when he couldn’t get ahold of you. He wanted to come here himself, was going on and on about how you’re going to ruin your career with this if it leaks to the press. I told him to let me come. I don’t care much about your career, but I do care about you.”
A memory assaults me then. Does anyone care about you? Sam had asked me all those weeks ago. He cares! He cares! I’m hit with the desire to shove the knowledge in her face, but then it hits me; Big Jim is the only person in this industry who’s ever said the words out loud and meant it. Sam wasn’t too far off in her assessment. The thought depresses me more.
He sits on the sofa across from me, then removes his cap to scratch his head. “Want to tell me about her? And there’s no need to lie or make it sound better than it is. It’s my job to protect you. I need to know what we’re looking at.”
What we’re looking at. There’s so much weight in those four words. I slump into the sofa, feeling everything I’ve worked for in life sinking right along with me. “She was a girl I knew back home, more years ago than I can remember.”
“Ten,” Big Jim says. “Ten years is what I’m told. What happened to her?”
I swallow. How much did Sal share with Big Jim? More confusing—how did he find out in the first place? I never told anyone but Kyle. My brother might hate me, but he wouldn’t talk. As for me, I would have been happy to keep it a secret forever. What isn’t spoken aloud can’t be used against you. Or so I’ve heard.
“What’s going on, Jim?” I force an edge into my voice—an edge I don’t feel, but I need to get on the in-charge side of this conversation somehow. “The name Angela didn’t just pop up for no reason. What’s going on?”
Within moments, I regret asking. For the next several minutes Big Jim tells me.
Late the night before, Sal received a phone call from Kyle. Frantic and just this side of coming apart, my brother rambled on about an old incident involving me and a girl who died years before, dropping the name Angela once or twice into the conversation. Sal considered hanging up on him, figured Kyle was drunk or having a mental breakdown or at the very least his jealousy of me had finally come to a peak. But that’s when Kyle dropped the real reason for the call. That’s when Sal knew the story was true. That’s also when he called Big Jim in a raging panic.
“They want you in Springfield tonight for questioning.”
My hangover wanes, and I shoot forward on the sofa. “Who does?”
“The police. Your brother gave them Sal’s number. Seems they tried to get a hold of you a few times last night. We all did. None of us could reach you.”
I shove my hands through my hair and looked at the floor, the weight of regret seeping through my conscience once again. It seems that’s all I have time for lately.
“Is my brother involved at all? Did he say if he’s in trouble?”
When Big Jim frowns at me, I feel a small measure of relief. It’s bad for me. Maybe it won’t be as awful for Kyle. Still.
“Why is this coming out now, after so much time?”
Jim doesn’t answer, just twirls a gold ring in circles on his finger and works his jaw in thought like a man trying to grind out a solution. He looks at me, eyes tired. The giant man who intimidates many on mere presence looks weakened.
“You realize this isn’t good, right?”
I sigh, deep and resigned. “I realize it. I’ve always known it.”
“Might not be the worst thing that could happen to you, though.”
I feel a sideways lecture coming on and roll my eyes. “How do you figure that?”
He stands up and looks around the room—at the marble columns flanking the front door, at a giant stone fountain bubbling inside the dining room, at my first gold record hanging above the mantle in front of us—before settling his intense gaze back on me.
“This is a nice place you have, Cory. You built a good life, and anyone who could see this place would believe it.”
“But you don’t?” I’m pretty sure where this is going.
“Sure I do. No one could argue the merits of the life you lead or the hard work it took to get you here.”
“But?”
He sniffs, narrows his focus, tilts his head in a question. “But…does this make you happy? Is all this stuff giving you any peace inside? Deep down, if you had two choices—keep all this and stay the way you are or give it up and finally have some peace—which one would you choose?”
I blink up at him, caught. He knows the answer. I haven’t had any peace of mind in ten years. Fun, yes. Adventure, yes. But peace? I stand up, the burden of my circumstances resting heavy on my shoulders, my gaze locked on the floor in front of me.
“Cory?”
I meet his stare eye for eye, blink for blink. Finally I concede and look away.
“Pack a bag and meet me in the driveway. It’s time to stop running.”
Time to stop running.
Is that even a possibility?
I doubt it is. Not for me.
Still, daring to hope but knowing better than to dwell on it, I head for the stairs.