25. Zoe
25
ZOE
Beads of sweat slip down the back of my neck as I smash my finger on the button and crank up the speed on the treadmill. The belt beneath my sneakers hums louder, rotating faster, forcing me to keep up with its increased pace. I push myself past my usual limit.
Nine. Then nine-point-five. Ten.
I’m sprinting now, gritting my teeth. My legs ache, muscles tight and trembling, but I won’t give in. Not yet.
The TV mounted on the wall blares at me, filling the room with bright, insipid voices.
“Today, FBI Director Stephen Duchovny is being honored at the White House by President Gordon for meritorious service?—”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper. On the screen, Duchovny stands tall and polished in a suit, shaking the President’s hand with that smug smile plastered across his face. As if he built his career on hard work alone; as if he didn’t squash the rest of us down under his heel to get there.
My breath tears through my throat as I punch the speed up to eleven and pump my legs so fast it almost feels like I’m barely touching the ground.
More tiny droplets of sweat trickle down the sides of my face, a few rivulets stinging my eyes and blurring the TV screen.
The news anchor drones on. “Director Duchovny, who has served at the bureau for over twenty-five years, told reporters he's proud to have dedicated his career to enforcing federal law and bringing criminals to justice.”
“Proud, huh?” I gasp between the next breath I inhale. My calves scream, but I keep pushing, legs pumping like pistons, as if I can outrun the anger clawing its way up my ribs.
“Director Duchovny, would you like to acknowledge any of your agents today?”
I know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth.
“Detective Eduardo Rodriguez has been an invaluable asset. He’s the best agent who has ever been under my purview. His commitment to the bureau’s mission and his exemplary performance have set the standard for the rest of the team.”
My vision narrows to pinpricks. My hand flies out, fumbling for the remote, but my fingers slip against the slick plastic. I release a raw, guttural scream as the belt jerks beneath me and my knee buckles. I grab the side rail just in time to keep from being flung backward and slam my palm on the console to slow down the speed.
Eleven dwindles down to one, a casual walking pace.
It takes another few seconds for my balance to sort itself out.
For a moment, my heart hammers so hard I think it might rip through my ribcage.
I snatch the towel I slung over the side rail earlier and dab my face, my breath hitching in uneven gasps. My legs tremble beneath me as I stagger off the treadmill, shoulders tight with rage.
Three months of this.
I've spent three fucking months like this. Running until my muscles seize and the ache numbs the rest of me, inside and out. Either on this machine or through the cracked, sunburnt streets of Pomona, I’ve tried my hardest to outrun the emptiness that gnaws away at me.
For years, I assumed that bringing Boone down would bring me closure. It would finally give me the peace I was always searching for.
I could move on from what’s become a years-long crusade to get justice for Zani.
None of those things have happened.
If anything, in the aftermath of what happened in Vegas, I’ve found myself more directionless than ever. More numbed and hollow as I go through the motions everyday, running miles, sweating bullets, disappearing into myself.
I have nothing else. No one else.
…except Mom and Dad.
When Duchovny and the rest of the supervisory board put me on an indefinite LOA, I bought a plane ticket to California and rented out a studio apartment a few miles away from my parents’ house.
If only because it would give me something to do.
Cleaning up Mom and Dad’s mess has been a lifelong staple.
The towel hits the hamper with a heavy thud as I head into the bathroom and avoid my reflection in the mirror. Instead, I wrench open the medicine cabinet and seize the see-through orange pill bottle.
I toss the chalky, oval-shaped pill back and wash it down with water from the faucet. My meds keep me going, even if I’ve been left feeling more muted and lifeless than ever. Before it was okay because I had my FBI career to drive me.
But without it, I’m just a shell.
By the time I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and slide into the back seat of my rideshare, the sun dips low over the city. It’s completely set as the rideshare pulls into the front drive of my parent’s house. I’ve stopped by the grocery store on the way and picked up some groceries for them. If I didn’t bother, they wouldn’t either. They’d starve.
It’s a wonder how they’ve survived this long with only periodic checks from me.
Coming up on the walkway, I slow down as I notice the front door cracked open. My stomach knots and my pulse shoots into overdrive. I rush forward, dropping the bags on the porch, withdrawing my pistol from inside my shoulder purse.
“Mom?!” I call out, easing the door open, my pistol aimed safely at the floor. “Dad? Anyone home?”
The stench of cigarettes and rotting garbage smacks into me, revealing they haven’t bothered to take out the trash or even open a window since my last visit… which was only a few days ago.
I step through the short entrance hall and come up on the kitchen. A pot is boiling on the stove; what looks like tomato sauce splattering everywhere. I hurry over to twist off the burner and dump the pot in the sink.
This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come by and found something forgotten cooking on the stove or burning in the oven. It’s a familiar throwback all the way from the time I was a kid coming home from school.
“Mom!?” I call again. “Hello?”
A low groan travels down the hall, pained and faint, but enough to reach my ears. I pivot, following the sound until I’m coming up on the bathroom door. It’s cracked open like the front door. I push it open and then gasp.
“Mom!”
She’s on the floor, slumped against the bathtub, her head lolling to the side. Blood drips from her left nostril, staining her upper lip. Her eyes flutter open and closed, unfocused.
“Oh my god.” My gun is slipped back into my purse, my hands on her shoulders as I kneel down. “Mom? Mom! Look at me, what happened? Are you hurt anywhere else?”
She blinks hazily up at me, lids heavy, her mouth slack. The sharp tang of alcohol hits me as soon as she exhales a breath. Her words slur together when she tries to speak.
“Missed… missed my program,” she mumbles, head bobbing forward.
“What?” I give her a gentle shake, panic pressing against my ribs. “Who did this to you? Was it one of them again? One of the loan sharks?”
She flinches at the questions, her weak hands pawing vaguely at the air. “No… no… Zozo baby. Just Chris—he didn’t mean it. He didn’t?—”
I go still. “Dad did this?”
She waves a shaky hand, as if she can brush it all away. “He just… you know… your father was in a… a mood. But he went to the store,” she slurs, the words slow and mushed together. “Needed beer… and lotto tickets too. Don’t be mad, Zozo.”
Her eyes droop and her head tilts to the side again, her knuckles brushing her cheek in a childlike motion.
I bite down on the curse word rising up my throat and slide an arm under her shoulders, guiding her upright. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She sags against me, fragile and limp, as I ease her onto the closed lid of the toilet. She barely makes a sound when I press a tissue to her nostrils, blotting the blood. The brown skin beneath her eyes is bruised, a bloom of purple and red. Hot, acidic fury lances through me, but I push it down.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.
Growing up, I used to hide Zani in the closet and then insert myself between Mom and Dad in hopes it would make them come to their senses and stop fighting. Almost always over money. Almost always signaling another visit from the loan sharks demanding said money.
“You both need help.” I dab at her nostrils some more with the bloodied tissue. “I can’t keep babysitting you.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m serious, Mom. I’m done doing it. You need to get help. How much have you had to drink?”
My question is answered by the crunch of gravel coming from outside. A car door slams shut and the front porch creaks.
He’s home.
I rise to my feet in a single motion, blood pounding in my ears as I move to the hallway and meet him.
The door swings open with a groan. My father lumbers inside, plastic bags dangling from his wrists, his faded Lakers ball cap tilted low over his face. Mom isn’t the only one who reeks of beer.
“Zozo?” His voice carries an edge of annoyance. “Since when were you coming by?”
“You don’t have a problem with it when I’m dropping off some money.”
His gaze flicks toward the hallway bathroom, and for a split second, guilt flashes across his face before it hardens into something else. Something colder. “Your mother in there?”
I spot a scratch mark along his neck, telling me it was one of their usual rough, back-and-forth scraps.
“I was just telling her you both need help.”
“We could use more for the mortgage… we’ll be short again this month.”
“That’s not the kind of help I meant.”
He snorts, dropping the plastic bags on the floor next to his La-Z-Boy. “Zozo, check your tone. Know your place. Remember who’s the parent.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s hard to do when you’ve never acted like one.”
“What was that?”
“I’m not going to continue doing this. So either you both get help, or I’m done!”
“Then get the fuck out!” he roars. “If you’re not gonna help with the mortgage, then mind your business and get the fuck out!”
“I’m gone!”’
“Good, take your ass on! You think we need this? We need you coming around? Where’ve you been? Where were you when Zani was taken?”
It’s the one button he has to push.
The soul-destroying, depleting, crushing reality that I hadn’t been around.
I wasn’t there when she needed me most.
I whip around, fury coiling deep in my gut. “Don’t you fucking use that against me! Don’t you dare blame what happened to her on me!”
“You left us! You went on your own. You didn’t care about your family. You were too busy… a big college girl that thought she was too good!”
“I was trying to make something of myself!” I cry out, my voice breaking, my pulse pounding. “ I’m your daughter, you’re my father—why couldn’t you ever protect us? Why couldn’t you protect Zani?”
“Watch your mouth, girl. I’m only telling you once.”
Before I can bite back, the bathroom door creaks open and Mom shuffles into the hallway. She’s still shaky, her hand gripping the doorframe as if the ground beneath her isn’t steady enough to hold her. Dad barely spares her a glance, though he does address her.
“Tina, where the hell’s dinner?”
She blinks sluggishly, swaying a little. “Isn’t it… on the stove?”
Dad growls under his breath and storms into the kitchen. I follow, tension winding tight in my chest. As soon as he gets to the stove, he freezes. I see the moment he realizes what’s missing.
“Where’s the sauce? Where the hell is the sauce, Tina?”
I cross my arms. “I threw it out.”
His head jerks toward me, incredulous. “You did what?”
“You left it bubbling all over the stove, splattering everywhere while Mom was passed out on the floor. You could’ve burned the house down!”
He stares at me for a moment, then his face twists, a thick vein bulging on his temple. “How many fucking times do I gotta tell you to mind your damn business!” he bellows, slamming a fist against the counter. He shoves at the dish rack and knocks that and everything resting inside it clattering to the floor. “Tina! Get in here and make something!”
Mom flinches but moves toward him like she always does, like she doesn’t know how to do anything else. Telling him no isn’t in her vocabulary.
I step between them before she’s close enough for him to wrench at her. “You keep it up, and I will call the cops. I’ll call 911 and let them take your ass to jail.”
His hand flies out faster than I expect. It connects with my face in a wallop that feels like fire erupting across my cheek. A ringing starts up in my ears as my head jerks sideways and my feet temporarily lose their balance. I’m knocked back into the counter, dizzied for seconds to come.
The shock wears off for the same fury I’d felt earlier at his mention of Zani.
I could end this right now—I could have him flipped onto his back, seeing stars.
My black belt in Krav Maga means I have a dozen different ways I could easily take him down before he even understood what was happening.
But what he does understand is that I never will.
He knows I’ll never fight back. I’ll never put my hands on him. They both know I won’t ever stand up for myself. Why would they expect any differently when I never have before?
I’m their punching bag, their dumping ground. The family mule.
…and I’ve never had enough courage to stop. Walk away for my own sanity and well-being.
“What is wrong with you?!” Mom wails.
But she’s not talking to him—she’s rounding on me, her once drowsy expression twisting into venomous contempt.
“Why do you always have to rile your father up?! Why do you have to ruin everything?!”
“ Me ?!” I choke out, my chest aching from breathlessness. “You’re blaming me? You’re crazy… you’re both fucking crazy!”
“You made him upset?—”
“You should be grateful I still come here! You should be on your fucking knees thanking me for all I do!” I scream, tears blurring my vision. I push off the counter and rush out of the kitchen, darting through the house. They scramble after me. “It was all your fault—ALL OF IT! Not mine. It was you. Both of you. You failed me and Zani. You fucking failed us at every fucking turn. You let Boone take her! You let him take my sister because you were too selfish to clean up your fucking act! And you told me… you let me think it was my fault all these years!”
Mom presses her hands to her ears like she can block out the truth. “Stop it!”
“I’ll never forgive you!” I choke out, voice raw. “Neither of you! You let her die!”
Dad lunges at me, his rage bubbling over. His hands grab for me, shoving hard enough to send me stumbling back. He swings—his fist aiming for my ribs—but this time, I block it, deflecting his arm away before he can land the hit.
Mom joins him, swiping her hand at me as I finally make it to the door, wrenching it open and stumbling down the front steps of the porch.
My legs move on their own, carrying me down the front path in a blind, breathless escape. Tears stream down my face for the first real time in years, uncontrollable sobs forcing their way out.
The world tilts, everything spinning as I step into the road to make it to the other side, far enough away from them where I can order a new rideshare.
A horn blares, joined by the screech of tires skidding against pavement. I look up only to find blinding headlights shining at me.
Oh shit ? —
Strong hands yank me back at the last possible second, jerking me onto the sidewalk before the car can slam into me. My body crashes against something solid, someone holding me upright as my knees nearly buckle.
“Holy shit, Zoe. What the fuck was that?”
The voice is familiar. Rough, low, edged with concern. I blink and tip my head back, chest heaving, staring upside down at the man who’s holding me.
Ozzie.