Weaver, page 6
“Steve Parker. I’m guessing he stepped on your toes somehow. . . and whatever is in this folder is the fallout.”
“Steve was my friend,” Eddie says softly. “My best friend.”
“Until he wasn’t anymore?”
Eddie nods.
“Until it became unpopular to know me.”
“This is a very serious case,” the officer says, flipping open the folder. “If this was your doing as well, he lost everything he had built . . . and the staff at his store probably didn’t come out of it unscathed either.”
“That’s gotta burn,” Eddie says. “Being accused of something you didn’t do.”
The officer raises an eyebrow.
“So, you’re saying Parker was innocent?”
“Not even close.”
“In the insurance case, I mean,” the officer clarifies, and Eddie answers with a shrug.
“He got what he deserved. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I see. And what exactly did Mr. Parker do to earn that?”
“He chose a side,” Eddie says.
A FUCKING CIGARETTE
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
Eddie’s shirt clings to his back, and the hand gripping the sponge is rugged and red from nearly an hour in cold water.
And still, the car isn’t clean.
The big, yellow letters are almost gone. Just faint ghosts of paint in the clear coat remain. Nevertheless, his eyes keep bringing them back.
PERVERT!
The same goes for the smell of the paint. Logic says it’s gone, rinsed away with gallons of grimy water down the garage drain. Yet somehow, it lingers. In the walls. In his nostrils. In him.
The garage has become his refuge these past few days. After Jerry extended his leave—Just until the school board has had a chance to talk—Eddie holed up out here, tidying up and clearing space. Making room so he could get the car in here.
So he could clean it.
Somewhere inside the house behind him, a machine starts up. Probably Maya running a load of laundry.
She has been giving him space. A lot of it. Which is to say, they’re barely speaking. She doesn’t ask how he spends his days. He doesn’t ask if she still believes him.
He drops the sponge and slumps onto a stool, hands dangling between his knees. Dripping. Like everything else out here.
Sitting there, his gaze drifts across the workbench.
Empty beer bottles. Cleaning sprays. A toolbox he hasn’t opened in months.
And the car keys. Lying dead center, where he left them after finally being able to park the car inside.
He stares. For a long time. Then he makes a decision. He hasn’t had a single cigarette in . . . what? Six years? Eight?
That’s about to change.
With a determined—almost angry—look, he gets to his feet and wipes his hands on his T-shirt. Next, he heads to the table, grabs the keys, and walks over to the car.
His hand closes on the door handle . . . then he hesitates while a battle plays out inside his mind. Rebellion versus reason.
Reason wins, so he goes inside to change clothes. Pulls a hoodie over his head and finds an old pair of sunglasses in the drawer by the front door. A shield—not against the sun, but against stares.
Maya isn’t home. Or she is hiding in the bedroom.
He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t say goodbye. He just drives.
Out for a fucking cigarette.
The steering wheel feels slippery, although his hands have long since dried after the wash. Must be nerves. He hasn’t driven since it happened. Hasn’t dared to. But now he is rolling down the rain-slicked suburban street like he has done every day for years.
The ride into town takes five minutes, unless the lights work against you. He drives without music; just the tires humming on wet pavement and the wipers slicing across the windshield in their steady rhythm. His eyes keep darting to the rearview mirror. Not for cars. For faces. For stares.
He considers stopping by Steve’s grocery store but talks himself out of it. Too risky. Someone he knows might be there. Besides, he’s not ready to talk to Steve yet. It’s not that he thinks his buddy will look at him with the same uneasy expression his coworkers had in the teachers’ lounge . . . but if he did, Eddie isn’t sure he could handle it.
After some thought, he decides to try the old Mobil gas station on the edge of town. It’s usually pretty quiet.
That assessment turns out to be spot-on. When he pulls in under the faded blue awning in front of the store, there is only one other car at the station—a silver Toyota with a young man leaning against the passenger side. Smartphone in hand, eyes glued to the screen.
Before turning off the engine, Eddie lets the car idle a moment, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
The sunglasses don’t do anything good for him. They make him look like someone hiding something . . . which, in a way, he is.
The bell chimes as he steps inside and scans the room.
Behind the counter, a young man in a polo shirt with the station’s logo is stacking paper cups. He freezes when he sees Eddie.
Not for long. A second, maybe two. Then he gives a polite nod.
Eddie walks straight up to the register, hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed. He nods toward the cigarette display.
“One pack of Marlboro Reds. And a lighter.”
The clerk stares at him like he somehow knows this will be Eddie’s first cigarette in a long time—and wants to make sure he really means it. Then he pulls out a pack and sets it on the counter along with a disposable lighter.
Eddie pays cash. No eye contact.
The doorbell chimes again. He stiffens. Closes his eyes for half a second, then turns his head.
A woman, maybe in her forties, steps into the store. She glances at him.
On any other day, he wouldn’t think twice about it. But today . . . it itches under his skin.
She lines up behind him. Not too close. In fact, she takes a half step back. Like he smells. Or like she . . . knows something.
Eddie takes his change and gives a short nod. The young man behind the counter nods back, still not really smiling. The whole thing feels weirdly choreographed—like both the clerk and the woman are part of a play, cast in roles they didn’t choose themselves.
As Eddie turns, he meets the woman’s gaze, briefly. It’s neutral. Almost.
He drops his eyes and walks out without a word.
Outside, the young man is still leaning against the car, phone in hand. But . . . isn’t it held a little higher now? The camera isn’t aimed directly at Eddie, but it’s not pointed away either. There is no way to tell for sure if he is actually recording.
But Eddie knows. He knows.
When Eddie leaves the gas station, he doesn’t turn right, which was the direction he came from. Instead, he turns left. The direction that leads out of town.
It’s not a conscious decision. It just happens. Perhaps his body deciding on its own what’s best for him.
Fifteen minutes later, his hands on the wheel and feet on the pedals have taken him to the top of a hill that doesn’t have an official name—though the locals call it Heineken Hill, back from when it was a teenage drinking spot.
There used to be a view of all of Gleamsdale from up here. Now most of it is blocked by a tangle of overgrowth that has been left unchecked for years. Truth be told, the place looks awful. Weeds break through the cracks in the pavement, and graffiti scars the low walls that once served as railings. A rusted shopping cart lies tipped over on one side, half-covered in leaves and plastic waste.
Eddie used to come up here with Steve Parker—back when this place was cool. They would often sit on the hood and drink beers while swapping dumb stories and talking about the future.
It never looked anything like this.
Eddie parks near the edge and just sits there for a while, hands resting on the wheel.
The pack of cigarettes is on the passenger seat. He stares at it, then lets out a frustrated sigh and reaches for it.
With unsteady hands, he lights one up and takes a drag. It doesn’t taste like he remembers. It burns his throat, and nausea simmers just beneath the surface. Honestly, it feels like he just slipped a noose around his neck and pulled tight.
He coughs and presses the button to roll the window down. Cold air seeps in, mixing with the smoke. A reunion between two old friends.
The fresh air only helps a bit, though. It still stings like hell—and it’s only the knowledge of the coming reward that gets him to wrap his lips around the cigarette again and take another pull.
Three painful drags later, it happens. The nicotine starts doing its job. A faint warmth in his chest. An illusion of peace.
He closes his eyes and leans back. In the distance, he hears a siren and a dog barking. The muted sounds of a town’s life. The one he is no longer part of.
Not even a week has passed since the video hit the internet. And already, he has been put on leave, shunned, shamed. And he didn’t do anything. Nothing!
His gaze drifts out across the town once more, and something in him shifts. It’s as though the smoke and the setting, the memories, awaken something. The confidence and stubbornness of his youth, maybe.
They’re not gonna break him. Not without a fight.
He takes another drag, his eyes landing on the spot where he used to sit with Steve—and for a second, he can almost taste the lukewarm canned beer and hear the laughter.
Maybe he ought to swing by the store on the way back after all. Talk to someone who has known him his whole life. Someone who knows who he is—and more importantly, who he definitely isn’t.
He opens the car door, lets the cigarette drop onto the cracked asphalt, and grinds it out with his heel.
Then he shuts the door and starts the engine.
IF IT WERE UP TO ME
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
Eddie yanks the parking brake and cuts the engine. One nervous finger taps against the steering wheel.
The corner store that Steve took over from his dad isn’t exactly big, and it hasn’t changed much since Eddie used to spend his allowance on baseball cards there as a kid. The same faded Coca-Cola signs hang in the windows, the same brass bell dangles above the door, and the benches out front—the ones the neighborhood retirees and stay-at-home moms sit on, trading the latest gossip—are also still the same.
Today, no doubt, he is the one they’ll be talking about.
Just in and out, he tells himself, opening the door and setting one foot on the asphalt. Nothing fancy. A gallon of milk. Something normal.
Before he can get the other foot out, he hears it.
Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. And then the voice.
“You sick fuck!”
Pain explodes in Eddie’s shin as the car door slams inward. A second later, a fist rockets through the open door, crashing into his jaw like a heat-seeking missile.
Eddie falls backward, slamming against the gearshift and seatbelt buckle while shiny red sparks flicker across his vision like fireworks.
Through them, he catches the first glimpse of the attacker.
Burt Connors. Kelly’s father.
“I’m gonna kill you!”
The words come with a cold spray of spit, and the mouth uttering them looks like an animal’s maw.
Teeth bared. Lips curled back.
Terrified, Eddie tries to scramble away, but Burt’s big hands close around his legs and drag him out of the car.
“My girl!” Burt snarls, words that simultaneously carry no sense and all the sense in the world.
“I didn’t touch her,” Eddie protests, but the words have the opposite effect. They become gasoline on Burt’s fire.
“SHUT UP!” he roars, grabbing Eddie’s jacket, then yanking him forward and letting go.
Fresh waves of pain ripple through Eddie’s spine as he crashes into a dumpster, the metal ringing out like a gong.
“Burt, stop it!” yells a woman’s voice that Eddie doesn’t recognize at first. “Or you’ll be the one getting arrested.”
From his spot on the ground, curled up on all fours like a scolded dog, Eddie looks up.
The bright voice could belong to any number of women. Because there are spectators now—a whole crowd of them. They’re lined up in a half-circle behind Burt’s back, like the audience in an amphitheater.
Whoever the woman is, she must have some sway over Burt. He stays where he is. His hands are still clenched and trembling, but he holds his ground, towering over Eddie.
No, he crouches down after all. Is he going to hit him again?
The answer comes when Burt leans farther in. Right up in Eddie’s face.
“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t just be sent home,” he hisses. “You’d be put in the ground.”
Eddie forces himself to meet his gaze. To look him dead in the eye so everyone will know he has nothing to hide.
They lock eyes for a long, cold second, while the metallic taste of blood spreads in Eddie’s mouth until he can’t stand it anymore and spits it out onto the asphalt.
“That’s enough, Burt,” someone shouts from the crowd. “You’ve said your piece. Now go home to your family.”
It’s Steve. The noise must have drawn him out of the store.
“My family,” Burt repeats, nodding as if Steve had just fed him his next line in a play. “You stay the hell away from them. You hear me, Weaver? If I catch you near Kelly again . . . God help you.”
He says nothing more. Just turns and walks off. Not hurried. Not ashamed. Marching proud. A man convinced he just served justice.
Eddie’s chest is still trembling beneath his jacket. Hell, his whole body is trembling. But it doesn’t matter. He can’t keep lying here like the stray dog they see him as. He has to get up.
Up, so he can buy a fucking gallon of milk.
It hurts, but he rises. First to his knees, then to his feet. Once up, he straightens his back, turning to face the store entrance—though it’s blocked by the crowd.
He doesn’t clench his fists as he starts walking. That would be too much. Too hostile. But he doesn’t drop his gaze either.
They step aside. Silently, but clearly. A wall of faces parting to form a narrow, living corridor.
Their eyes burn into him. Not one single smile. Not a nod.
The store door is still open. The little bell above it sways in the breeze but makes no sound. Neither does the crowd.
Not until Eddie is but one step from the threshold. Then a raspy voice slices through the silence.
“If you let that pervert shop here, Parker, you can kiss my business goodbye.”
“Mine too.”
“And mine.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
Eddie hesitates—mostly from shock—then glances backward. At his friend.
“I . . . just need some milk. We’re out of milk.”
Steve opens his mouth . . . then closes it. He looks insecure. Pained. His eyes dart back and forth between Eddie, the store, and the crowd.
Then he starts walking toward Eddie—and for a moment, there is hope. For a moment, it feels like Eddie finally has someone in his corner. That maybe not the entire world is against him.
But.
As his buddy stops, just as close to him as when they sat on the hood of the old Chevy, drinking beer, Eddie sees it. The surrender in his eyes. The betrayal.
“Maybe it’s better if you just head home, Eddie,” Steve says softly. “I’ll call you later. To talk, you know.”
“I need milk,” Eddie says again, his voice cracking. “Jesus, you know me.”
Steve swallows hard and slowly shakes his head.
“I . . . I’m sorry, man,” he mutters.
Behind him, the others nod in approval. They don’t need to go home and get the pitchforks and torches after all. This works too. A quiet lynching.
“I’ll call you later,” Steve repeats, after which he reaches out to touch Eddie’s arm.
Eddie jerks away like he has been burned—which, in a way, he has.
“You . . . you were the last one,” he chokes out. “Everyone else already turned on me, but for you to do it too, Steve . . .”
The words land. Right where they’re meant to. They hurt Steve—and Eddie is fine with that. Fucking fine.
He turns his back on him and walks—with slow, dragging steps—back through the narrow corridor of people.
They don’t say a word. Don’t have to. Eddie can hear their thoughts. Feel their judgment.
And they can all go to hell.
Along with Steve.
THE INTERROGATION, PART 6
GLEAMSDALE POLICE DEPARTMENT, 2018
“So, Parker caved to peer pressure and wouldn’t let you shop in his store,” the officer says. “That was his big crime.”
“You make it sound so trivial.”
“It isn’t?”
For a split second, the bait almost works. Then Eddie reminds himself where he is. And that the man across the table is a professional. Setting verbal traps is part of his job.
“Not to me,” Eddie says calmly. “To me, Steve forsaking me was one of the worst things that happened back then.”
“Because he was your best friend?”
“Because he knew I was innocent. I saw it in his eyes that day. He didn’t believe the accusations. And still, he turned me away. All to keep his bottom line in the black.”
“If that’s true, it’s pretty cold,” the officer remarks. “Then again, so was your revenge.”
“I haven’t told you about that yet.”
The officer offers a faint smile and glances down at the folder between them on the table.
“I read that one. And I’ve learned a lot about your methods in the past hour.”
He props both elbows on the table, folds his hands, and rests his chin on top of them. Then he adds:
