CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ray winced as he crossed the living room of his compact one-bedroom apartment, cursing under his breath at the pain that shot through his back at even that simple action.
At least he had a good arbitrator. Northeast Transportation tried to screw him out of his disability because of course they did, but the young woman who represented Ray made it her life’s mission to ensure he got the benefits he needed to live.
When she threatened to take the railroad to court and said she was perfectly fine telling every newspaper in the United States that they were hiding behind their arbitration agreement to avoid admitting their culpability in Ray’s back injury, they relented.
So, he had his disability, his pension, and his workman’s compensation. Enough to support his barebones lifestyle in Southside Trenton, but hey, he didn’t have to work.
And he didn’t mind the lifestyle. He’d never married, never had kids, never had a girlfriend he didn’t send home at the end of the night. He was a lone rat, and if he never lived in anything other than a rat hole, so be it.
But goddamn, his back hurt.
He made it to the kitchen, popped his second-to-last Vicodin, a drug he’d been hoarding ever since a severe tooth infection six years ago. He was well aware of the dangers of addiction, so he forced himself to take a pill only when the pain became too unbearable for him to function.
He’d stretched twenty pills out over six years, and now he was down to his last one. Once it was gone, he’d have to see about going to his doctor for some kind of treatment to relieve the pressure on his spine. His disability should cover it, but it was still a pain in the ass.
He scraped the last of Tuesday's casserole onto a plate and stuck it into the microwave. He set the power level to low and the timer for eight minutes. That way it would be nice and hot but not scalding on the outside and chilled in the center.
As his food warmed up, he caught sight of his reflection in the glass door of the appliance.
He was old now. Not just older but old. He had turned fifty-eight last week.
Christ, where did the time go? It seemed like just yesterday he was necking with Rosalie at the Jefferson Airplane concert and trying to think how he could convince her to let him unbutton her top.
Letting Rosalie go was one of his greatest regrets. She might have been the girlfriend he didn’t send home at the end of the night. Instead, she was married fifty years to his old best friend, the man who had comforted her when Ray told her she was just a nice tight body to warm himself up with.
She was one of his greatest regrets, but not his greatest regret.
His hands gripped the counter tightly. Fuck that.
He didn’t regret shit about that man. Sure, he’d fudged some things, but it was for good reason.
That man was guilty. Even if he wasn’t guilty of that specific crime, he was guilty of something.
He was going to be guilty of something. People like him were either criminals or going to be criminals. He’d done nothing wrong.
His phone rang, causing him to jump. The landing sent fire through his back again.
He hissed and grabbed the counter once more, cursing in both English and Spanish and shaking as spasms gripped and released his hip.
It was as intense as an orgasm, only it was pain, not pleasure taking over his nerve endings.
He glanced at his phone. He didn’t recognize the number, which would usually be a reason to ignore the call, but whoever this was had called him at dinnertime and made the Vicodin he’d taken worthless, so he would at least answer to tell them to go screw themselves.
He pressed the talk button and the speaker button. “Yeah? What do you want?”
“Ray Castillo?”
The voice was female, a pleasant contralto that reminded him very pleasantly of another woman in his life, a teacher in college who wasn’t quite important enough to be a regret but was talented enough to be a hell of a memory.
He blinked. “Yeah?”
“My name is Bernadette Jones with the Trenton Times. I was wondering if I could come up and interview you for a moment? I’m doing a piece on wrongful convictions, and your name came up in relation to a case in the early nineties.”
Ray’s eyes widened. He’d been waiting for a moment like this, turning over everything in his mind, thinking how he would defend himself, how he would prove that he’d done the right thing.
This bitch was clearly trying to use him as a scapegoat to show how cold and cruel he was, but he had all the answers worked out.
She’d leave apologizing for thinking of him that way.
She’d print her story, and the world would understand that Ray was one of the good guys. ”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll buzz you in.”
“Thank you kindly!”
He hung up and walked briskly to the door, pain-free for the first time in fifteen years. He pressed the buzzer to let the reporter in, then waited, trying and failing to stifle his grin.
When she knocked on the door, and he opened it to reveal the reporter, he stopped trying.
He was under no illusion that a fifty-eight-year-old pensioner with a bad back had any chance with a woman like this, but he had an active imagination, and the low-cut, high-skirted dress the reporter wore would be light work for that imagination.
She smiled at him, and the smokiness in his eyes made him yearn. He almost didn’t feel the pain in his chest as she plunged the awl deep enough into his chest to pierce through both sides of his heart.