Girls Like Us(3)

“I can have them take it to the scrap yard for you if you want. Save you the time.”

“No, it’s fine. I’d like to do it myself.”

“It’s pretty badly mangled. I don’t know if you want to see something like that.”

“I’m a big girl, Glenn. I’ve seen what happens in a fatal crash.”

“I know you have. It’s just different when it’s family.” Dorsey looks away. His eyes are glassy with tears.

I nod, considering. “You’re right. I’ll call impound tomorrow. Cole Haines still running it?”

“Yep. He’ll take care of it. I’ll check in on you in the morning.” He watches me straddle the bike. “Listen, did you get in touch with Howie Kidd?”

“Dad’s lawyer? Yeah. He’s dropping by tomorrow to go through some estate stuff. Glad you reminded me. I’d forgotten about it.”

“You want me there? I can sit with you. Help you go through paperwork.”

“No, no. Thanks. I’m sure it’s all straightforward.”

“Okay. Well, you call if you need anything. That stuff can get overwhelming.”

“Thanks, Glenn. For everything.” He gives me a two-finger salute and starts to walk away. I rev the engine and he turns back, giving me one final, sad smile.

“Hey, hon?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say, my voice husky. It’s been a long time since I said those words to anyone.

I pull out of the lot before Dorsey does. It feels good to get moving after so many hours on the boat. The cold air puts life back into me. I putter down the Sunrise Highway, across the Ponquogue Bridge, to the house at the end of Dune Road.

It’s my house now, though it’s hard for me to see it that way. It won’t be for long. I need to sell it. I can’t afford to keep it. Even if I could, it doesn’t make sense for me to hold on to it. I haven’t taken a vacation in six years. I have no use for an old house on the South Fork of Long Island, in a county that holds as many bad memories as good ones.

My grandfather Darragh Flynn, who I called Pop, built this place back in the 1950s, when you could still buy a sliver of land with a bay view on a policeman’s salary. Views like this cost a half-million dollars now, maybe more. The house has about as much charm and space as an RV. I know that anyone who buys it is likely only interested in the land beneath. It is a squat, weather-beaten box with faded gray shingles and cheap sliding doors. Still, it’s not without a certain charm. It has a wraparound deck with views of Shinnecock Bay to the north and acres of rolling dune grass on either side. I hate thinking about someone bulldozing this patch of marshland just to throw up a McMansion with a pool and a tennis court. I know my father would hate that, too.

I came here a little over a week ago, after Dorsey called me with the news about Dad. I have no return date in mind. As of now, I have no job to go back to. I live in a small walk-up apartment in Georgetown that I don’t miss, with an unreliable A/C unit that leaks puddles on the kitchen floor, and the scent of curry wafting up from the Indian place on the ground level. My neighbors are graduate students, prone to smoking weed and listening to EDM after midnight. Sometimes I can hear them fighting or making love, and when they play music, my walls vibrate from the bass. I think about complaining, but I never do. It’s not like I sleep much, anyway. When we see each other in the hall, they nod politely and go on their way. I’m certain they know nothing about me. I have to assume that if they knew I was in law enforcement, they might be more discreet about the weed. It’s not their fault. I’m gone for weeks at a time. When I’m home, I come and go at odd hours, leaving for work early in the morning, often returning well past midnight. I have no pets, no plants, no significant other. I can fit most of what I own in a single large duffel bag. I wonder how long it will take for them to notice I’m gone. Maybe they never will.

The only person who has called me while I’m here in Suffolk County is Sam Lightman, the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit and my boss at the FBI. Last month, I shot and killed someone in the line of duty. His name was Anton Reznik. He was an associate of Dmitry Novak, one of the Russian Mafia’s most profitable traffickers of drugs and women within the United States. Reznik was known to his friends as the Butcher, for obvious reasons. Not someone I will miss. Still, killing a man is never pleasant and this time has been particularly hard on me. For one thing, a bullet nicked my shoulder in the exchange. I was lucky, technically speaking. An inch to the right and it could have opened my brachial artery, almost certainly killing me on the spot. Instead, I traded my badge and my firearm for a couple of stiches, a paid medical leave, and the business card of a Bureau-endorsed therapist who specializes in PTSD. By now, the doctors say my shoulder should’ve healed, and it mostly has. It still feels sore now and then, particularly in the evenings, but that’s probably because I haven’t found the time to do physical therapy to rehabilitate the muscles beneath the wound. The Bureau thinks my head should be on straight, too. It isn’t yet. Maybe it never was to begin with.

My father’s death has earned me a reprieve of sorts. “Take the time you need,” Lightman said when I told him, which we both knew meant “as little time as possible.” I can tell Lightman’s patience with my recovery is wearing thin. I’m sure he’s getting pressure from the higher-ups to either put me back in the field or cut me loose. These days, I’ve started to think that the latter is the right thing to do.