Real Bad Things(73)
Jason Tran’s last Facebook post was the announcement of a fight in Hot Springs at the end of the month. And, as she’d suspected, photos of rock-hard abs and adoring fans.
She yawned and stared at the TV awhile. Finally, she navigated to the Facebook group with which she’d become deeply familiar since landing in Maud, scanned the most recent post, sat straight up, and dropped her yogurt, which splattered strawberry splotches all over the carpet.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
HOT OFF THE PRESS:
LEZZIE BORDEN’S ACCOMPLICES (!!) CONFESS!
Twenty-Six
GEORGIA LEE
It took Georgia Lee a long time to remember a worse morning than waking up in jail, but she did: the year after she and Rusty had gotten married. The boys had just been born. They wouldn’t latch and cried without pause. Her boobs hurt. Her feet were swollen. Her butt was big. She’d not had a good night’s sleep in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like. All she wanted was to head down to the Waffle House alone, order a cup of coffee, and eat some bacon and eggs in peace.
She’d let herself shift to darkness. It’d come on swiftly with the boys. Wanting to be the best mother and seeing that perhaps she was not. Wanting them to love her in ways they didn’t. Becoming angry with them for not appreciating her the way she wanted.
She stared at the concrete walls, which had been painted white and stayed white. She imagined it’d been some time since the Maud Police Department had locked up anyone longer than the usual overnight stay. Possibly the last person who’d stayed longer than one night was Jane. They had no procedure for what to do with an extended-stay guest such as Georgia Lee. They let her use the real toilet in the hallway instead of the not-at-all private one in her cell. Her privilege afforded her such gifts. She vowed to ensure future residents would also be handled with such courtesy should she be allowed the opportunity. The cot was perfectly fine. She’d always preferred a firm mattress to Rusty’s insistence on one that sank “as if on a cloud.” Tom even delivered her a bacon-and-egg sandwich on an english muffin, which was as close to that Waffle House dream as she’d come in as long as she could remember.
Tom was older than the rest of the squad. You’d never know it from his soft voice and agreeable personality, but he was a sworn believer in vigilante justice. Charles Bronson was his favorite actor, after all—a random fact Georgia Lee had gleaned from years of dropping by for chats. He’d been kind enough to tell her that if his daughter or granddaughters had gone through the same situation as she claimed she had, he would’ve encouraged them to act in the same way.
Though no one would believe her if she were to confess it, she felt light. Lighter than she had in some time, what with the weight of what she’d done and how she’d lied to Jane off her shoulders, out of her mind, and into the public realm. She was ready to face her judgment from her family, her friends, her town. Jane, the person she’d hurt the most. That was all that mattered. The only bruise to the day came when Tom escorted her to the interview room, where John and Benjamin waited. How she hated to see Benjamin in the room. How he’d pursued the case when there were plenty of drowned and dead bodies to prove that none were special. No one but Diane missed Warren. She supposed she could give him credit, though. He’d been a good, competent hire. No one would give her credit. Of that she could be sure.
“Handcuffs?” John asked. “Really, Tom?”
Tom opened the cuffs. “She asked for them.”
Georgia Lee rubbed her wrists, though it’d been no trouble at all. A quick walk down the hall. It seemed the right thing to do.
John shook his head and told her to sit down, which she did. On second thought, the cot could use a bit more cushion. Her back was in a way.
“You know you’re free to go,” Benjamin said.
She folded her hands on the table. “I did the crime; I should do the time.”
“What kind of sense is this?” John held his hands out on the table, flustered. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
Tom returned to the room and gingerly placed a plastic bottle of water on the table for her. He’d been good to her, bringing her the fresh bottles from the fridge instead of tap.
“You’re wasting city resources,” Benjamin said.
She uncapped the bottle and drank it all in one fell swoop to spite him. “I’m wasting resources? You’re wasting resources! And my time. I told you what I did. I told you how. I told you everything. And I’m not leaving here until you charge me with murder.”
“We’ve already got our murderer,” Benjamin said.
He looked at her in the same manner she’d sometimes looked at certain constituents who had no end of complaints about the plans for a new green space and public park as a waste of city resources. The plans had been put permanently on hold; the complaints continued.
“Well, Jane’s lying. I did it. Alone. Not her.”
Benjamin shifted in his chair, propped his elbows on the table, and rested his chin in his hands. “Funny how you all come in here claiming to have acted alone.”
His use of you all was peculiar. She refused to respond.
“It seems to me like everyone’s lying. And I think I know why.” Everyone? What did he know? He opened a folder on the table, found what he was looking for, and pushed the photo of Jane and Georgia Lee from the picture booth toward her.