“No, it’s not okay,” I say, handing him a wad of napkins. “Let me—”
He jerks back, as if I were about to touch him.
“I’m fine,” he says, and again, the words are cool. No annoyance. No anger. Just the sense that he is terribly busy and wishes I would stop talking. Please.
He moves up to the counter, placing his order as he plucks napkins and dabs his shirt. I hesitate, but an older woman beside me whispers, “He’s all right, dear. You go on now. Enjoy your drink before it gets cold.”
I nod and murmur my thanks. That’s when I realize I’m still holding my cell phone. I glance down to see my informant has hung up.
It’s night now. My grandmother is asleep. The nurse warned she might never wake up, and I am not certain that is a bad thing. I want more time, so much more time, but she’s so confused and in so much pain that a tiny part of me hopes she will not wake, and a tinier part wonders whether that is for her sake or mine.
I told the hospice nurse I was going for a jog, but really, I’m running away as fast I can, and every footfall on the pavement drives a dagger of guilt through my heart. I should be at Nan’s side, and instead, I’m fleeing her death as if the Reaper dogged my own heels.
I’m in the Grassmarket. I remember Mom telling me how she volunteered at a homeless shelter here during uni. It’s long gone, and pubs line the street now. It’s much too busy for jogging, even at this hour. After fielding catcalls and dodging tourists, I find a quieter street lined with funky little shops, all long closed for the night.
I pass a tourist trap with a hangman’s noose painted on the window, which reminds me that the Grassmarket had been the site of executions. Nan took me to the “shadow of the gibbet” when it was first unveiled, maybe ten years ago. There’s an old memorial plaque to commemorate some of the executed and, during a renovation, the city had installed dark cobblestones nearby in the shape of a gibbet. Neither Nan nor I has ever been a keen student of history, but when it comes to the macabre, we’re there.
As I wonder where exactly that spot is, I catch a flicker of movement. I spin so sharply that my sneaker squeaks. An empty street stretches before me.
At another flicker, I lift my gaze to a cigar-shop flag fluttering half-heartedly in the night breeze.
I roll my shoulders and stretch in place with one foot braced against the storefront. I drink in the smell of a recent rain and the faint odor of cigars. When I listen, there is only the wind, tripping along the narrow street.
I am alone with my grief and my regret and my rage and my guilt, the last one slipping away as I acknowledge how much I needed this break. A chance to run myself to exhaustion, letting tears dry on my face. A chance to lower my guard and gather my thoughts, and then return to face the horror of my grandmother’s death.
I finish my stretches and gaze out on the street as a long exhale hisses between my teeth. It is lovely here. Peaceful and quiet and beautiful in a haunting way. I want to linger, but I have what I came for—a sliver of solitude—and it’s time to head back.
I’m lunging into a run when a woman yelps. My first reaction is no reaction at all. It may be quiet, but there are people around. That playful yelp only makes me long for a moment that is, for now, beyond my grasp. I can’t even recall the last time I went to a bar with friends.
No one on their deathbed ever wished they spent more time in the office.
Nan’s admonition from last Christmas creeps up my spine. She was right, of course. If something happened to me tonight—a slip-and-fall or drunk driver—would I regret not making the major-crimes section? Or regret the fact it’s been six damn months since I had dinner with friends? A year since I went on a date, and even that was more hookup than romantic evening.
I could swear that first cry sounded playful, like a woman being surprised by a friend, but when it comes again, it’s a stifled shriek. A shriek of delight? A woman out for the evening, a little tipsy, goofing around with friends.
Maybe, but I still strain to hear more, just in case.
Muffled whispers. The scuff of shoes on cobblestones. Then silence.
I pivot toward the sounds as my hand drops toward the holster I am obviously not wearing. Blame five years of patrol duty, with a preference for long nights and rough neighborhoods.
The sounds came from down a narrow lane ahead. I roll my steps as I ease that way, and my fingers itch for the knife I carry when I jog at home.
My fingers close around my phone instead. I pull it out, ready to call 911.
911? Wrong country. What is the emergency number here? Damn it, I should know that. I’m sure Mom and Nan and even Dad all hammered it into my head when I was young. 511? No, that’s traffic information at home. 411? Directory assistance.
My thumb grazes the screen, but my eyes stay fixed ahead. Get a better idea of what I’m facing, and then I’ll pause to search for the local number.
As I approach the end of the lane, I clutch my phone in one hand. In the event of urgent trouble, I’ll dial 911 and pray it forwards to an emergency service. I don’t expect to need that, though. The closer I draw to the lane, the more I’m convinced that I’m about to interrupt an intimate moment. The woman’s date had surprised her and made her shriek. They’d goofed around and then whispered together and then it fell to silence as they settled into a private spot.
That doesn’t mean I turn around. I’ve rousted couples in dark alleys because what I heard didn’t quite sound consensual. Half the time, I’ve been right.
I ease into a shop alcove. At the first indication of shared passion, I’ll scoot. I hear nothing, though. Maybe they’ve moved on, seeking true privacy—
A whimper.
I press my hand to the wall and lean as far as I dare, my eyes half shut as I strain to listen.