Finding Our Reality (The Reality Duet #2)

Chapter 15

ELLA

The trailer hasn’t changed much—except for looking shittier now than it did twelve years ago. At least some of the vegetation has grown, giving it a little bit more of a residential appearance. The ride out here was tense, to say the least, especially when we passed the road that leads to the old homestead.

I did my best to keep my memories locked up tight, but some still seeped out, like a leaky faucet that drips water no matter how many times you tighten it. Visions of floating water lanterns, blue-flamed fire, and mismatched patio furniture tugged at my heartstrings.

Reading books together late in the night underneath the shelter of our tent. Splashing in the cool creek water beneath the bright afternoon sun. Screaming his name into the night sky as I came all over his cock.

Ry was thinking about it too. I know he was. He stopped breathing.

When we passed the gas station and body shop, he spoke for the first time since he apologized. “Different name. Harlan’s son sold it about a year after he died. It’s had a couple of different owners since then.”

And now here we are, at the place where we first met.

“I’ll come around and help you,” he offers.

“I’m climbing down from a truck, not scaling down the side of the Grand Canyon. I don’t need help.” I step on his running board and hop down. My heel does catch on a divot on the uneven packed dirt driveway, twisting my ankle just a bit. I don’t care if the damn thing were to break, I would keep my mouth glued shut. I rummage around in my work bag, grabbing my notebook and pen. Walking around to Ry’s side, I see him standing at the back driver-side door, pulling on a bullet-proof vest.

“Shit, Ry. You think he’ll react that badly to seeing you?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I’m still furious he basically called me a whore. I shouldn’t be happy to see him smile, but for some reason, my heart still leaps out of my chest every single time Ryland Joseph Crutchfield smiles. It always has, and I guess it always will. It has to be my hormones. A nostalgic and biologic reaction.

“My body cam is on my vest. I record all of my interviews.”

I plant my free hand on my hip. “That would’ve been nice to know when I was trying to decode and reconcile your scribbled notes with the typed transcripts.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t ask.” He attaches the last strap in place, nodding at my notebook. “Besides, I have you to take notes now, don’t I?” He pushes past me, leading the way.

He pounds on the door and I quickly rub my scar, trying to gain the courage to see the monster again. Trash is completely taken aback when he opens the door and sees his own brother standing in front of him. He basically looks the same, just older. Tired and weary. I guess on the Richter scale of aging drug addicts, he’s doing fairly well.

“Well, if it isn’t my brother, the cop. Something tells me my PO won’t be coming by today, huh?”

Ry fiddles with his utility belt, lightly running his fingers across his weapon, badge, phone, and walkie. “He’s trusting me to give him a full report. Can we come in?”

“Do I have a choice?” Trash walks away, leaving his door wide open. He bends down, stubbing his cigarette out in the ash tray on the coffee table before turning around. When he does, he blinks several times before realizing that it’s me he’s staring at. “Holy shit, Ella Hill, is that you?” He chokes on a laugh before stumbling forward, pulling me against him in a hug.

Ry’s eyes immediately flare and he reaches out to grab his brother by the collar, ready to fling him across the room. I put my hand up, stopping him in his tracks. I don’t hug Trash back, but I don’t step out of his embrace either. The smell of cigarette smoke, bad breath, and dirty clothes assaults my nose. It takes all my strength not to gag. His body feels so fragile against mine. His bones feel light and airy, like those of a baby bird.

He meanders away, stumbling back to sit in his stained and dingy recliner. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had to come to town to take care of some family business. I decided to stay for a little while. I’m doing some consultant work for the sheriff’s department.”

Trash looks over at Ry and bursts out laughing. “Damn, brother, must be your lucky day. Never thought you’d get over this one,” he flicks a thumb in my direction. “Now, here she is. The gods just keep shining on you, Crutch, don’t they?”

“Don’t start playing that woe-is-me card, Trash. We come from the exact same circumstances. You chose your path, and I chose mine.”

He flings a leg across the arm of his chair. “Speaking of those circumstances we come from, Dad called the other day from lockup, said you weren’t putting in a good word for him or Mom.”

“They don’t deserve a good word. They were caught using stolen credit cards. Again. We’re talking prison this time, not just county or city jail. There’s nothing I can do for them.”

Ry didn’t tell me his parents are currently sitting in a jail cell.

Trash swings his leg. “You mean nothing you want to do for them.”

There’s no emotion on Ry’s face. “Semantics,” he says simply.

Trash snorts and folds his arms across his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but I think it’s just because he doesn’t know what the word semantics means.

Ry changes the topic. “We’ve come to ask some more questions about Carrie’s case. We’ve come across some new information. Okay if we talk?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I’m giving you the choice to do it here or at the station. Your call.”

Trash sweeps his arm in the direction of his couch. “I don’t feel like driving anywhere so you might as well have a seat.”

I glance at the couch. It’s a different one from the last time I was here, but it looks just as old. I’m definitely not interested in sitting on the nasty thing, but I don’t have much of a choice. Alienating the subject right off the bat by refusing hospitality is never a good start to an interview.

Ry steps to the side, placing his hand on the small of my back as I maneuver around the coffee table. My spine stiffens like an electric shock just paralyzed me. Feeling it, he immediately removes his hand. I’m grateful he removed it when he did... before that old and familiar tingle poured through my body. I perch myself on the edge of the couch and prepare to take notes. Trash snickers like a child in trouble, garnering my attention.

“Shit, Ella. The last decade has been good to you. I nearly forgot how good those legs of yours look.” He leans forward, scrunching his nose, baring his yellow and brown stained teeth. “I bet they’d look even better wrapped around my waist.”

Oh crap. Normally, my reflexes aren’t that quick. I mean, they’re quick, but not supersonic speed or anything. So, how I react so quickly this time can only be described as a miracle. Ry growls, shifting to pounce from the couch and beat the snot out of his brother. Before he can move more than a centimeter, my hand slides across his leg, pinning him to the couch in stunned silence. We both look down at my hand, splayed across his upper thigh. I can feel the tight band of his muscles contract beneath the fabric of his jeans. Slowly, his head lifts, his eyes meeting mine.

I should move my hand. I should move my hand.

But I don’t.

I always do what I shouldn’t.

My heartbeat pounds through my fingertips, playing a rhythm against his body. Suddenly, his calloused hand covers mine, holding me to him.

Was I mad at Ry? I can’t remember.

Our moment is interrupted by the squeal of his obnoxious, parolee brother. “She’s still got you on a leash, Crutch. After all these years, huh? Can’t do anything without the little lady’s approval? You tell her about that house—.”

“Enough!” Ry’s yell startles me and I yank my hand away. The discord tumbles me back into reality. Blinking rapidly and breathing a sigh of relief, I remember that’s a good thing. Reality reminds you where you belong. And according to Ry, we don’t belong together. That’s the reality I have lived with for nearly twelve years, and I need to remember that.

“Geez. Settle down, brother.”

Ry peeks over at me. I can’t even read his expression. What’s the point in trying to decipher what just happened? I nod, urging him to move on. “Let’s just get started.”

He turns on his body cam and states the date and time. “I will be recording this session with audio and visual. Please state your name.”

“The amazing Daniel Crutchfield. Everyone calls me Trash.”

Ry spends the next twenty minutes going over things we already know. General background information, things that we knew back then, duplicate questions from the last two times he interviewed Trash. None of this is uncommon. We can take the answers and comments to this benign stuff and compare it to previous conversations to see if anything has changed, if anything raises a red flag.

“A couple of weeks ago, we came across some new evidence that is most likely tied to the disappearance of Carrie.”

This part intrigues Trash. It’s what he’s been waiting to hear since we started. “What evidence?”

“Some photographs.”

“Photographs of what?”

I hand Ry the blown-up copies of the photos from my notebook. “We wanna show you some of these photos. See what explanations you may have for what’s going on in them.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“We’re keeping that information confidential for now,” Ry says, handing the first picture to him.

To my surprise, Trash actually sits up straight and really focuses on the picture. “Carrie.”

Duh.

Ry tries to corral his brother’s thoughts. “Can you tell me anything about the picture? Location? Who took it? Anything based on the date stamp?”

“This is at Trey’s. I guess Christina took the picture. She always had that fancy camera with her. Don’t know why, she could’ve just used her phone.”

“Anything with the date?”

Trash rolls his eyes. “How am I supposed to know what I was doing on a particular date? I was either partying or working.”

“What about Carrie’s appearance? Do you remember seeing her in clothes like that? Anything?”

“I know she looks fucking fine with a capital F. That girl was like a model.” He flaps the picture back and forth in his hand. “In this picture, she looks like she really needs some bananas.”

He’s talking about hydrocodone.

Ry gives him the next two pictures. “Hey, it’s me!”

Duh.

“What can you tell me about these pictures?”

“Well, that’s me. Carrie’s probably laughing at something I said. She was always real fond of me, you know.” He glances up and winks at me. “Not sure who that other person is. Can’t see his face.”

We figured out it was that Tyler guy based on the color of his shirt.

“Your hand is on her thigh.”

“Yeah, I’ve told you a hundred times, we were friendly. Touching someone’s leg isn’t a crime.” He looks over at me. “Is it, Ella?”

Ry grinds his teeth so hard I can actually hear the sound. “Keep your answers on topic and address only the interviewer, please.”

Trash chuckles. “Testy, testy.”

“So, despite this display of affection, things were never sexual between you and Carrie? No kissing, no sexual activity?”

“No, she didn’t want me like that. It’s fine, though. I had my fair share of women to pick from.” He narrows his eyes and points at his brother. “But, if I remember correctly, she did have a thing for you. Didn’t she make a pass at you once? Didn’t things get sexual between the two of you?”

Ry ignores the question and hands pictures four and five to Trash. He laughs and kicks his legs up on the coffee table. “Well, there’s some faces I haven’t seen in a while.”

“Can you detail that picture?”

“Well, that’s Tyler and Holly and James. And of course, there’s Trey.”

“Tell me about them. Last names, jobs, what did they do, do you still see them, where are they now?”

We know a lot already, but we want to see what we may have missed.

“Tyler Spangler and Holly Yates. They had this on-again, off-again thing. They partied with us quite a bit. They were hardcore. He was some kind of welder, and she was on disability for something. Her back, maybe? Got into a car accident when she was little. I haven’t seen them in years. Last I heard, they weren’t together anymore. I think they still live in the area, but I don’t know for sure. They were mostly Trey’s friends.

“And this other guy, his name is James. I don’t know his last name. He was a tool. Tried too hard to be funny. He just wanted a good party and a pretty woman by his side. He was more of a drinker, anyway. I heard he got scared shitless when the rest of us got busted. Cleaned up his act and moved away.”

“Do you remember this night?” Ry asks. “Now, that you’ve seen who all was present?”

“Yeah. We partied good that night. Trey was waiting on his supplier to show up, so he let us clean out the rest of the old inventory he had on hand. Carrie paid for everything. That rich chick always had money on her.”

Bastard. He talks about Carrie like she wasn’t even a person. She was my person. My sister.

“None of you are concerned that Carrie is unconscious?”

He snorts, “You can’t get concerned every time someone passes out. That happens all the time. There’s a big difference between a ‘normal’ pass out and an ‘OD’ pass out. We were all pretty good at telling the difference. Carrie just got some really good shit that night.”

Ry presses him, “What happened when the supplier came? You all stayed at Trey’s? Kept partying?”

“We kept partying alright, but down here. You know Trey never let anyone meet his supplier.”

“So, everyone left before the supplier got there, including Carrie?”

“No, Carrie was out like a light. We couldn’t get her to move, she stayed. But there’s no way she saw the supplier. She took enough meds to be in dream world for hours. Trey knew that. That’s why he let her stay. The rest of us were too wasted to pick her up.”

“And what about Christina? Did she stay?”

Trash rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Trey never let her stay. Doesn’t matter they were together. Rules are rules.”

Glancing at me, begging silent forgiveness for the trauma he’s about to put me through, Ry hands the modified last picture copy to Trash. Carrie’s body is blurred for a small modicum of decency. The only thing you can see are her hands, arms, and face. Her gorgeous, beautiful face, with her twisted and knotted hair draped across it.

“Holy shit. Is she getting boned?”

My voice is firm and steady. “Raped. Unconscious women can’t give consent, Trash. Perhaps you should remember that for future reference.”

He drops the picture in his lap and holds up his hands. At least he has the common decency to act surprised. “Hey, Ella, I had no idea that Carrie was raped, okay.”

Ry interjects, “You had no clue that this happened that same night? No one said anything to you? After the fact?”

“No, Trey kept a lot of things close to the vest. He called us his friends, but we were his pushers, his ticket to money. You know that. It’s why I flipped on him to get reduced time. He didn’t give a shit about me. Hired some big, fancy lawyer. Left me with the acne-faced, dick-in-hand public defender.”

I point to the picture. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Look again,” I beg. “Is he the supplier? Is there anything familiar about him? The clothes? The scar on his leg?”

“I don’t know him.” He scoffs, “I don’t look at naked men. How am I supposed to know about a scar on his leg? And his clothes? He’s dressed like a professor.”

Closing my eyes, I reach back, rubbing the scar on my neck. I take several deep breaths trying to calm myself while Ry wraps up the interview. Feeling defeated, I tuck the toxic pictures back into my notebook while Ry turns off his body cam.

“Do you mind waiting for me in the truck? I need to talk to Trash about a couple of personal things before we go.” Ry hands me his truck keys.

Nodding, I make my way out of the room, trying to escape before Trash lights up another cigarette. “Ella, don’t I get a goodbye hug?”

I turn and flip him the bird.

It’s not meant to be funny, but for some reason, he laughs like a hyena. “That’s okay. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again. Now that you’re back, you think my brother’s gonna let you leave? Think again.”

I slam the door, which is hard to do when it’s made of warped aluminum. So, I kick it for extra measure.

The winter sun has already set, coating the earth in darkness. Chill bumps immediately break out on my bare legs. I jump in the truck and start the engine, cranking up the heat. It’s a really nice truck. Leather seats, all the fancy buttons, moonroof. My eyes meander to the glove box.

Huh. The glove box.

Ignoring the urge to snoop, I pull out my phone and listen to the two voicemails I received while we were interviewing Trash. One is from Aunt Teresa telling me to be careful on my work trip tomorrow. The other call is from an assistant producer, telling me she emailed some specific questions she wants answered with the first-round interview tomorrow afternoon. I check my emails, but quickly decide it will be easier to work from the laptop when I get back home.

I slip my phone back in my purse and find myself staring at the glove box. Again.

Little tendrils of curiosity climb from my stomach to my throat, weaving through my body like a suffocating kudzu.

Screw it.

Before I can change my mind, I flick the button, and the lid of the glove box bounces open. There, sitting obnoxiously among the car title and insurance cards, is a red box of condoms. Not only that, but there are several loose condom foil packets floating haphazardly around the compartment. The loose condoms are a different brand from the condoms still in the box. How many different kinds of condoms does one man need? I pick up a black foil packet.

XXL. Ultra-Thin. Ribbed.

Well, it’s ribbed for her pleasure. Whoever the hell her is. But I already know the answer to that. There isn’t just one her, there’s a million. Ry is having sex with every Susie, Jane, and Jill in the county.

And it makes me furious.

Absolutely furious.

Like cut off his dick and run it through a blender furious.

For me, sex with Ry was indescribable. I closed my eyes and pictured him every single time Hudson laid a hand on me. I thought what Ry and I had was more than just sex—I thought it was making love. And to know that he’s still chasing that feeling with every vagina in town breaks my heart. He must really love sex. Was I just another hole to stick it in?

Because for me, it was more.

He was mine. He was supposed to be all mine, forever.

And then, he threw us away. Threw me away. Threw Reality away.

I’m engrossed in my own thoughts when the driver-side door opens. It scares the crap out of me, and the condom flies from my hand, landing somewhere on the floorboard. I slam the glove box closed and stare out the window, pretending like I wasn’t snooping through his truck.

He climbs in without saying a word. I wait for him to drive off, but nothing happens. I’m too chicken to turn around and face him, so I just keep staring out the window.

He leans over, picks up the condom, and holds it underneath my nose. “Need to borrow something? You could’ve just asked.” The edge of the foil wrapper tickles my nostril, making me squirm and sniffle.

I tsk through my teeth. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can make my own purchases. Besides, from what I’ve seen over the past few weeks, you need every little packet in your glove box arsenal.”

“Me? I’m not the one who went home with a stranger Friday night.”

Now, that has me turning around. “That’s what’s wrong? Your piss-poor attitude today? It’s because I left the bar with a guy on Friday night?”

He grunts, not saying anything.

“That’s rich coming from you. I’m surprised your dick hasn’t rotted off over the past twelve years. And I’m not even talking about disease. I’m simply talking about over-use. A twig can only bend so many times before it breaks.”

His jaw clenches. He does not like that analogy.

I forge forward, hot in anger. “I’m thirty years old, Ry. If I wanna leave the bar with ten men at one time, I can do that. It’s nobody’s business but mine. Why do you even care?”

“First of all, you’re not thirty yet. Second of all, why do I even care ? That’s like asking someone why the sky is blue. You know why I care.”

“Do I?” He doesn’t say anything. He just scowls. So, I turn the spotlight on him instead. “Tell me, when’s the last time you had sex?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not answering that.”

“Oh yes, you are. You’re the one who started this conversation. When is the last time you had sex?”

His eyes flicker down my body, from my mouth to my legs and back again. I don’t like the way he looks at me when I say the word sex, like he’s thinking of me. Because I know he’s not.

“So help me, Ryland Joseph Crutchfield, you will answer this question. Tell me. Now.”

His eyes soften, the fire in them dying. “New Year’s Day.”

Of course. Of course, it was. That’s just great. “So, while my parents were dying in a plane crash, you were sticking your cock in some perky teenager?” I snort in sarcastic disgust. “And you wanna chastise me for trying to connect with someone? Trying to feel something?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “You gave up the right to monitor what happens to my crotch twelve years ago when you left. Now, start this truck and drive, or else I’m going back inside and asking Trash for a ride.”

He starts the truck and drives.