Chapter 10 #2
“Everything. Nothing. No. I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him finally.
I’m dreading talking to Mark after the game, or tomorrow, or whenever.
Do I pretend like I know what happened or do I act surprised?
Do I pretend like I have no idea who Joey Carmichael was or do I say, ‘Oh, that rapist?’ I shouldn’t care about lying to Mark, but I think maybe I do, and I’m a bit disappointed in myself.
It’d be best to steer clear of the topic entirely, but I can’t do that without looking like I live under a rock, and I’m certain Mark isn’t a fan of dumb women.
It’s not like I haven’t considered this before, but as with those other times, there’s no good solution, and this is the first time it’s actually felt real.
I could ask Vaughn. He might have some suggestions.
I don’t though. I change the subject, saying, “My dad says ‘hi,’ by the way.”
“You told him what you’re doing?” Vaughn asks, sounding surprised.
“No. Just that you said hello,” I answer distractedly. Joey Carmichael is back on the ice. Or maybe he’s been there all along. I seriously have no idea what’s happening on this TV. I’ve seen stampedes that make more sense.
If I did my calculations right, he should be beginning to feel the effects of the cyanide right about now.
He’s probably starting to get a bit dizzy.
Maybe he’s feeling like he can’t quite catch his breath.
Cyanide is a COX inhibitor—meaning that in large enough doses, it interferes with the body’s ability to utilize oxygen.
On top of that, it interferes with ATP production via a related mechanism.
In short, it causes chemical asphyxiation.
And contrary to popular belief, diagnosing cyanide poisoning isn’t obvious because cyanide is a tightly regulated substance, and it can look like so many other things.
Things that are much more common. Things like a heart attack.
Only no amount of CPR or defibrillation will save someone from cyanide poisoning.
People believe the smell of almonds is a dead giveaway, but it’s not—especially not in this instance—and the reason is twofold.
First, when I was poking through Joey Carmichael’s gear prior to slipping cyanide into it, it reeked.
I don’t think you could smell anything over that.
Second—and again, contrary to popular belief—not everyone can smell cyanide.
I swirl my straw in my glass. The camera is focused on two guys battling over a puck when it suddenly cuts to a figure lying face down on the ice, unmoving.
The number thirty-four is written large across his back.
There’s a handful of seconds where everyone is frozen and no one is sure what’s going on.
Then the players on the ice rush toward him.
Next, the players from the bench are spilling over onto the ice.
And finally—finally—the camera is holding still.
Another moment goes by, and then there are medics rushing onto the ice, carrying med kits.
It’s probably hard to get electrodes on a hockey player, I realize as I watch them moving toward his motionless body. Even if you cut off their jersey, there are going to be pads to contend with underneath that.
One of the medics drops to his knees beside Joey Carmichael—who’s been rolled over and is now on his back—and pulls a pair of trauma shears from his kit.
About ten seconds pass before someone with some common sense cuts to a different camera, and Mark dominates the screen, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed.
I lean forward without meaning to, studying his face.
It’s not like I’ve known him all that long, but still.
I feel like I know him well enough to read the expression on his face, and right now he appears to be a combination of irritated and disinterested.
It’s not what I was expecting, and Mark suddenly got a whole lot more interesting.
Not that he wasn’t interesting before… but now?
Now I’m interested in more than just his body and the access he provides me to Katie’s rapists.
I turn to Vaughn, intending to ask him what else there is to know about Mark, but I close my mouth, leaving the words unsaid.
Mark likes the fact that I haven’t obsessively Googled him, so I might be better off letting him tell me the things he wants me to know.
I decide to trust my instincts and grab my phone instead.
You look pissed, I text.
A few seconds later, he’s on the TV, pulling his phone from his pocket. He glances at it, his brow furrowing before his eyes dart up, looking for the camera. He grimaces when he finds it, then turns away.
Vaughn is staring at me when I set my phone down, but he merely says, “What now?”
“I haven’t decided. I’ll let you know when I do.
Thanks for keeping me company tonight, Vaughn.
And for everything else,” I state as I stand.
The TV has cut to sports broadcasters. I have no idea if the game will resume or not, and I don’t really care.
I toss thirty dollars on the bar to cover my soda and Vaughn’s Old Fashioned before walking out. It’s not even eight.
It’s eight-fifteen when I walk into the condo. Katie is sitting in front of the TV, with her eyes glued to it. She barely even looks in my direction. She just says, “He’s dead.” Her tone sounds almost awestruck.
“Who’s dead?” I ask. I haven’t told Katie what I’m doing, because I’d rather she think the universe has her back than me.
There’s something about believing karma is real and bad people will get what’s coming to them that’s healing in a way that having your older cousin even the score isn’t.
I have enough relevant experience to say this isn’t conjecture so much as fact.
“Joey Carmichael!”
“How? When?”
“Just now. I got a Google Alert about ten minutes ago saying he was pronounced dead after collapsing on the ice at the team’s opening game!” she tells me, grinning. “That motherfucker died with the entire world watching.”
“Good,” I say, coming to sit next to her on the couch. “You set up a Google Alert for him?”
Katie nods, pushing her blond hair back from her face. “For all of them.”
“Why?”
“I just… I don’t know. After he waved at me at the pharmacy last week, I got kind of paranoid, and… There wasn’t anything else I could do, Alyssa.”
“Okay. That makes sense. You haven’t seen any of the others, have you?”
“No. But I still can’t leave the condo without feeling like they might jump out of every doorway I walk past.”
I wrap my hand around hers. “You know that’s normal, right?”
“I know. But it doesn’t help.”
I sigh. “Yeah. I know. It usually doesn’t. Well. How do you feel now?”
Katie hesitates before saying, “I don’t know. Better? Does that make me a terrible person?”
“Absolutely not. The world is a better place without someone like Joey Carmichael in it, and you’re allowed to feel better—safer—because he’s dead. That’s also a completely normal reaction.”