I LEANED ON Chris’s apartment buzzer, imagining the sound dragging him away from whatever it was he was doing. Honestly, I didn’t care if he was watching TV or asleep or on the freaking toilet. I needed his help, and I wasn’t going to wait around in the parking lot this time.
A breeze kicked up behind me. The sun had gotten too harsh for Dad’s photographing pleasure, causing shadows under Marisol’s eyes, and he’d called it quits for the day, but only after making me take about a zillion shots of her. As if I could concentrate on lighting and composition after the bomb he’d dropped on me.
I let my thumb off the buzzer, but only for a second. I peered through the double doors at the stark, industrial-carpeted stairs. Nothing. I jammed my thumb into the buzzer again.
Soon there was a thumping noise, and I saw Chris coming down. He was in a pair of baggy sweats and a ratty, stained T-shirt. His hair looked funky, like maybe he’d been lying down on it. His expression looked like he wanted to slap whoever was ringing his buzzer.
I let off the button and waited for him to open the door.
“What are you—”
I pushed past him and started up the stairs. “We need to talk.” I didn’t wait to see if he was following me. I knew without even looking that he would. Why was he the first one I always went to when shit got real?
Because maybe he didn’t remember, but I knew what we could accomplish as a pair. And I was sick of getting nowhere.
“You could have called. I was sleeping.”
“I could have,” I said, rounding up another flight of stairs. “But I didn’t. No time.” I jogged up that flight and threw open the door to his floor, my breath coming heavy. “God, would it kill your landlord to install an elevator?”
Chris took considerably longer to get up that second flight of stairs, and when he finally came through the door, he was limping a little, one hand protecting his ribs. Now that he was walking without his cane, it was easy to forget that he’d been mangled just a few months ago. I waited for him by his apartment.
“It’s open,” he said.
I went in.
The place was a wreck. Or at least for Chris it was. There were dirty dishes in the sink, a collection of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, lined up like soldiers, and several wadded, worn T-shirts taking up residence in front of the TV. And for the first time ever it didn’t smell like cologne or cleaner. In my bedroom, this mess would look normal, but he was fastidious.
“You okay?” I asked, looking around.
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason. It’s just . . . I’m used to it looking different in here.” I kicked off my shoes at the door; dropped my keys inside one.
He picked up four beer bottles and carried them, clinking against one another, to the recycling bin, and dropped them in with a crash. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I haven’t really been into housecleaning lately.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead a few times and then up through his hair. It stuck up. “Sorry. I . . . I have headaches. Bad ones. And I’m ready to get back to work.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” I climbed onto my favorite bar stool. It was here that I’d first found an application for the police force, meant for me. It was here that I’d first really known that Chris believed I could be something more than a fuckup.
He sat on the stool next to me. “I can’t wait to hear how my going back to work will benefit you.”
“Well, don’t say it like that.”
“What other way is there to say it? Isn’t that why you’re interested in me going back to work? So I can do something for you?”
I thought about it. He was right. And I hated that he was right. It made me feel like a self-centered jerk. But I didn’t have time to coddle feelings. “I need you to find a file for me,” I said.
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope? You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”
He stood, walked to the fridge, and grabbed a beer. “I don’t need to know what it is in order to know I can’t do that for you.” He twisted off the cap with the bottom of his T-shirt and tossed it into the sink. It rattled around a few times.
“Since when does ‘can’t’ keep you from helping me out?”
“Since I don’t remember pulling files for you before, and if I did, I was wrong to do it. You want to be able to pull files? Go to the academy. Get the job. Then you can pull all the files you want.”
“We’re not going through this again. I already told you I wasn’t going to do that.”
“Fine, and I never said you had to. But if you want inside access, you don’t really have a choice.”
I felt my face get hot. I imagined myself filling from bottom to top with ragey rusty starbursts. It was like he’d lost his personality when he lost his memory. I took a breath and pressed my palms onto the counter to calm myself. I did not do vulnerable well, but it was starting to look like I had no choice. “Please, Chris,” I said. “I know you don’t remember bending rules for me before. And I know you don’t want to bend them now. But I’m desperate. I need your help. I think my dad might have had something to do with killing my mom. I have to know.”
We locked eyes for a long moment, and I saw his resolve melt away, draining the rust out of the air and replacing it with the blue-gray of protection, the yellow of . . . well, of Chris Martinez. He came back and sat next to me again.
I took a chance and placed my hand over his. I instantly felt the blazing rainbow I always felt when I touched him—my body feeling light and floaty, like I was sliding down an indigo stripe.
“If you . . . if we find something, you can reopen the case. I won’t stop you, even if he is my dad. Imagine how it would feel to come back to work after all you’ve been through and bust open an eleven-year-old case. You’d be a fucking hero.”
He gave a disgusted headshake, but even I knew it was only for show. My heart thumped with happiness.
“Jesus, you pile it on when you’re desperate. What do you need?”
Relief. “Eleven years ago, my mom was murdered. My dad was a suspect. He was questioned. I need you to find his file.” Chris pulled on his beer, thinking. I leaned forward so I could look up into his face. “He was the only suspect, Chris. I need to know why.” I need to know if I can provide the missing evidence, I didn’t say, because the thought of those words leaving my mouth scared the hell out of me.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll look.”
I pumped my fist, celebratory, and he cut me off with one hand. “I’ll look,” he repeated. “I’m not promising anything.”
“I never asked for promises,” I said. When he turned to gulp his beer again, I wrapped my arms around him and gave him the quickest squeeze.
We hung out for a few more minutes, neither of us really knowing what to talk about. I didn’t know about him, but I was too busy imagining what I might find in that file. Would it change everything? He loaded his dishwasher, his back to me most of the time. It felt awkward between us, and clearly it was time for me to go.
“Did you find anything about Heriberto Abana?” Chris asked as we made our way to the door.
“Not a thing.”
“That makes two of us. I’m guessing you’re just remembering something wrong.”
“Not possible.” I grabbed my keys out of my shoe and slipped my foot inside.
“Why? Because Nikki Kill’s hunches can’t ever be wrong?” He was teasing, but the words came out feathery fern.
“Actually, no, they really aren’t.” He was mocking me. I felt stupid for sharing my synesthesia with him before, and was suddenly glad he didn’t remember. I shoved my other foot into its shoe and straightened, clasping the doorknob. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. The guy is Heriberto Abana. You were searching for him before, and one of the addresses you searched him under had a five and two threes in it.”
“If you say so,” he said.
“I do.” I opened the door. When I turned to say good-bye, I noticed he had a piece of fuzz stuck to his stubble. I plucked it off. “You should probably shave before you go to work tomorrow. You look like a hobo.” I flicked the fuzz to the floor.
He ran his hand over his jaw, smiling. “Thanks for the advice. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, you will.” I turned and bounded down the stairs, my stomach in knots over what he might find between now and then.