Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The bar was filled to the brim with regulars and tourists alike. Saturdays were the best for tips because they were the busiest, and the weeks leading up to the Fourth of July were only more so.
Weaving between the tables with a tray of mojitos, I dropped them off at the booth-full of college students. On Saturdays, Trick and I had a system to handle the crowds. I did the waitressing, and he did the mixing. Then we split the tips.
Trick could make three drinks in the time it took me to look up the recipe for one and get it made.
It was better this way, more efficient, but I knew I was going to have to get the hang of the bar-tending side of my job soon enough because half the time when I made a drink the customer sent it back to be re-made.
Trick was easygoing about it, but I was pretty sure I ought to be paying him at this rate.
Picking up a tip and an empty glass, I headed back towards the bar.
The bell on the door jingled and I twisted towards it to see who had entered, only to hit my hip on the edge of the bar.
The empty drink slipped from my fingers, the shatter of glass and ice cutting through the background music and the din of conversation.
“I’m good!” I said, hands raised in surrender and heart racing as every head in the bar turned to stare at me.
The shards of glass at my feet glimmered with accusations and the remnants of a long island iced tea.
I could see my own expression in the mirror that lined the back wall between shelves of various alcohol bottles that refracted the dim lighting overhead.
Guilt was written all over my face.
“Damn it, Hastings,” Trick said, coming from the other side of the bar carrying a small trash can and a deep frown as he addressed me by my new last name.
I watched him in the reflection of the mirror, scratching at the scruff that had formed on his chin as he took in the damage.
The angle of the light was just right to reveal the faint undertones of red in his hair.
Behind me, every eye in the bar was turned my way.
I shouldn’t have come here tonight, should have let Trick make excuses for me and stayed home to catch up on sleep and work on my case.
Instead, I’d spent the entire night jumping out of my skin at the sound of the bell above the door.
Looking over my shoulder instead of watching where I was going. Drawing more attention to myself.
“Party foul,” I called out, loud enough for most of the customers to hear me and forcing a joking tone into my voice. Those sitting at the bar all cracked smiles and turned back to their own drinks and conversations. Trick only sighed in response.
“I know I told Noah I would look out for you,” he said, “but you’re starting to scare away the customers.”
“It was an accident,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. I felt my cheeks heat at the childishness of them as I knelt to clean up the glass as quickly as I could.
“You have many talents, Hale,” Trick told me, shaking his head and kneeling beside me to help clean up the mess. He lowered his voice, speaking gently, like he was trying to soften the blow of his words, “But those talents are wasted here.”
I felt a twist of pain at his words like a knife straight through my rib cage.
He was right, of course, but saying so wasn’t helping anything.
I’d resolved myself to assuming this new life for now and, while I wasn’t very good as a bartender, I was watching drink mixing videos in my downtime and practicing whenever I could. I was determined to get better at this.
“I know that, but I—aah!” I cut myself off with a cry of pain as I yanked my hand away from the pile of glass. There was a line of crimson along the sharp edge of the shard I had just dropped.
I turned my hand to see how deep the wound was and my stomach turned with it. I closed my eyes against the sight of blood coating my skin, but the image didn’t go away. It only shifted, becoming more blood soaking the sleeves of my shirt as I tried to put pressure on the wound.
“Hastings? Hey, Hastings! Hale!” Trick’s voice broke through the reverie and I opened my eyes, looking up at him through the blur of tears.
Everything I’d been pushing down came to the forefront all at once.
I fought it, knowing this wasn’t the time or the place. I wasn’t supposed to be falling apart right now. I wasn’t supposed to be Avery McHale standing in a bar pretending to be someone else and failing.
But just because I’d agreed to hide out under this new name until we could find Monica’s killer and prove my innocence, didn’t mean I could simply forget everything that had come before.
Those last few moments when my hands had been on her throat, trying to put pressure on the wound even as she rasped out that damning accusation.
It was…you…
“I didn’t do it,” I whispered, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
“I know,” Trick sounded so sure despite barely knowing anything about me. “I know you didn’t. It’s okay. Take a deep breath for me. Can I see your hand?”
I looked down and realized that my blood had dripped all over the floor. My mind should be filled with calculations that would tell me the amount of blood lost and the type of wound the pattern on the floor indicated, but all I could think was that I didn’t do it.
I didn’t do it.
I didn’t?—
I—
Everyone was still looking at me, at the blood all over my hands.
I had to wash it off, to get rid of the evidence.
I stepped backwards several paces until I bumped into the back wall, the liquor bottles rattling dangerously above me as they threatened to fall.
It already felt like my world was crashing down around me all over again.
I had to go, to get somewhere safe. Somewhere none of these people could look at me for too long and realize I wasn’t who I said I was.
I turned to Trick, opening my mouth to say something. Anything. He reached out a hand towards me, expression full of concern. The bell above the door rang again, and despite what I’d claimed on the phone only a few hours before, I ran.
I stared down at the water-darkened chunks of strawberry-blonde hair in the sink.
Outside I could hear semi-trucks pulling into the gas station and a voice calling a number over the intercom, letting another trucker know that it was their turn in the shower.
I didn’t have enough money to pay for the hair dye, the scissors, and the shower.
Thankfully, the sink in the bathroom worked just as well.
Now my hair was darker, shorter, hanging just above my shoulders. I looked up at my reflection in the mirror and felt the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes.
I didn’t even look like myself anymore.
“That’s the point,” I told myself with a fierceness I wished I could feel, expression going hard.
Once I had my emotions back under control I scooped the loose hair out of the sink with shaking hands.
Stuffing it all down deep in the trash, I rinsed my hair one last time, the rusty brown water finally coming clear as the last of the excess dye drained away.
Then I wiped the sink out and put a huge stack of used paper towels on top to hide the evidence of what I’d done.
Pulling my hood back up to hide my face and tucking the scissors into my hoodie pocket as a last line of defense—against what, I wasn’t sure—I headed back out a new woman.
My makeover didn’t do much to put me at ease.
The fluorescent lights of the gas station felt like spotlights, guiding the attention of the cashier and every customer my direction.
There was a TV displaying a news channel behind the register and I didn’t have to look to know that the left half of the screen displayed my face and the right half was re-playing an interview between a news reporter and my father.
“…armed and dangerous. As we understand it, this isn’t the first time your daughter was found at a crime scene covered in blood,” the reporter was saying. “Mr. McHale, does Monica Park’s murder shed any light on your wife’s death?”
“You listen here,” my dad’s voice rang out through the speakers, and my heart clenched at the fury in it and the defensiveness of his words.
“My daughter and I have suffered enough from so-called professionals. These FBI agents are no better than the police were, going after innocent people while the actual killers go free.”
“Are you saying you don’t believe your daughter is the killer?” the reporter asked. The first time I’d seen this interview, three hours before, I had held my breath as I waited to hear his condemnation. Now, I listened again, clinging to the words.
“Avery, sweetheart,” he said as he looked straight into the camera. Straight at me. “You and I both know you’re innocent, no matter what those agents claim. As much as I want you home, they’re watching the house so don’t come back. I love you, baby girl. Stay safe, no matter what.”
The interview cut off, just like it had last time and the reporters back in the station went on to speculate about my “innocence”. I didn’t stick around to hear anything else or to give anyone a chance to recognize me.
Hearing my father’s words had been enough to keep me going.
The automatic doors of the gas station opened as I approached and I walked as calmly as I could, fighting the urge to run.
None of the people in line at the register were paying attention to their surroundings and none of them even noticed that the FBI’s most wanted was walking by right under their nose.
Getting in the car, I took off, doubling back the way I’d come.
Trying to be as unpredictable as possible.
After three weeks of living on the lam I’d gotten good at it, but my patience was wearing thin.
The strain of sleeping in my car, hiding out while I waited for Noah to get back to me with news about what he’d found.
And my father’s words, his condemnation of the FBI and his faith in my innocence, had been the last straw.
Pulling into the next gas station I saw, I scanned the area for a pay phone.
They were fewer and farther between, but not as rare as I’d first assumed.
After a brief but harrowing stop at a library in Culpeper I had a printout of all the payphones available in Virginia.
Spotting the one I was looking for near the right corner of the building behind a bright blue, comically large Adirondack chair, I parked my car and scraped together the last of my quarters before dialing the number I had memorized at this point.
“Hello?” Noah answered, and I could hear the sleep in his voice. I looked at my wrist for a moment before remembering my smart watch had been confiscated with the rest of my things, back when I still thought the FBI would be on my side.
“It’s me,” I told him.
“Avery?” he asked, groggy and confused, but with a rise of panic in his voice. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes, unable to hold it back any longer. “Please, tell me you’re close to figuring this out. Please tell me you have something.”
“I’m sorry, all I have are theories,” he said. “And none of them are strong enough to clear your name yet. I just need a little more time, and I’ll have something solid.”
“I can’t keep doing this, Noah. I just can’t.” I sniffed, wiping at the tears on my cheeks and trying to get my breathing under control.
“Doing what?” he asked, like it was completely normal to get a call from an ex-FBI agent in the middle of the night, crying, desperate for news about when her name would be cleared.
Like it was normal to sheer off your hair and cut out everyone in your life who had cared about you because the FBI were using them to track you down.
“This,” I said, waving my hand at the world at large like he could see me. “Sitting on my hands while someone out there gets away with this. Living like a vagrant. Worrying that every person I see is out to get me. All of it. I know you stuck your neck out for me, but I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Then where are you supposed to be?” he asked, voice rising in irritation. “Rotting away in a cell in Hopewell?”
“Of course not,” I snapped back. I hadn’t simply cut and dyed my hair to evade arrest. I’d done it to give myself a blank slate, a way to start over.
Because my father was right, the FBI were treating me the same way the police had treated us when my mom was killed even though we had both had alibis at the time.
But this was worse, because the FBI weren’t looking for the truth.
They were convinced they already had all the answers and weren’t going to look anywhere else until I could prove my innocence.
Except, this time I didn’t have an alibi.
The only way I would be free was if I could figure out who did this and prove it.
“I’m wasting time running away when I should be chasing down the truth. ”
“And what happens when you cross paths with someone else investigating Monica’s death, hm?
” Noah said. “Because you will. If you go looking for trouble you’re going to find it, and then not only will they lock you up, but I’ll be on the run for aiding and abetting.
Please, Avery, just a little while longer. ”
“No,” I told him, determination filling me. “I want the number for your forger friend. I’m done running.”