Deadly Games. Steve Frech

Keep your mouth shut or I’ll tell them about the blood in your car, MY SWEET LITTLE CUPCAKE.

      This can’t be happening.

      Another realization causes my stomach to plummet into my shoes: last night, as I stood outside the door of number 37 at the Seaside Motel, it wasn’t Emily that I was texting. It was this guy. He knows who I am. He knows my number … and he knows about “my sweet little cupcake”.

      That’s impossible! It was a joke!

      “Clay? Are you all right?”

      My mind snaps into horrible focus.

      Whoever this is can easily make the cops think I killed Emily. I didn’t, but how can I explain that to Detective Mendez? Yes, we were having an affair. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel and yes, my fingerprints are on the door, but I didn’t kill her. And if I show him this text, and there is blood in my car, how do I explain that? Even if there’s not, he’s going to ask what “my sweet little cupcake” means, and if I tell him, that’s it. I’ll be locked up in a cell and whoever did this to Emily goes free.

      “Mr. Davis?”

      Some sort of survival instinct is triggered. The chaos happening in my head is swept away and I see my situation, clearly. If I try to tell him everything and show him the text, they’ll think I did it. I’ll be locked up. No one will ever believe me and this guy, whoever he is, walks away.

      I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I see no other option.

      I have to lie.

      I blink my eyes and shake my head in an attempt to concentrate.

      “I’m sorry, Detective Mendez. I just—I can’t believe it.”

      “It’s all right,” Detective Mendez says, picking up the rest of the photos and putting them back in the file folder. “I know it’s a shock but I need you to tell me: how did you know Emily Parker?”

      “She, um, she was a regular at the bar.”

      “That’s how you met?”

      “Yeah …”

      All I can do is keep the panic at bay. This guy, whoever he is, knows who I am. He knows things about me and Emily that no one could possibly know.

      “When was the last time you saw her?”

      “Um … two nights ago when she came in.”

      “Did you talk to her?”

      “Yes. I served her some drinks.”

      “How many drinks?”

      “A couple of vodka tonics.”

      “How many?”

      “Like, maybe four.”

      “Did she seem strange to you?”

      “No.”

      “Did she say if she was meeting anyone?”

      “No.”

      He nods and makes a note on his pad of paper. “Who texted you?”

      “It was a work thing.”

      He nods again, not looking up at me.

      I’m keeping my trembling hands under the table so he can’t see them. I don’t know if he believes me. Is he like this all the time, or is this an act to get me to break?

      “So, you two were … friendly?”

      “I’m a bartender. I’m friendly with everyone. It’s my job.”

      Something about his question causes my mind to click.

      What can I get you?

      It’s the old bartender question. I know it sounds like I’m being subservient to you when I ask, but your answer, what you ask for, your body language, your tone, tells me everything I need to know. Are you happy? Sad? Do you have money? Do you want someone to talk to or do you want to be left alone? You tell me everything about yourself and I’m going to use that to get what I want, which is the biggest tip. But now, looking at Detective Mendez, I think, “What can I get you?” What is it that you want that I can give you that will get me what I want, which is out of this room?

      His demeanor is infuriating. He’s not intense. He’s not digging too deep. He just wants some answers. He seems like kind of a loner, someone without many social skills; a Sydney Loomis-type. I need to be casual with him. Make him forget about his social awkwardness.

      “Did she ever come into your bar with anyone?” he asks.

      There. Right there is my “out”.

      I try to relax or at least appear to relax because relaxation is not possible under the circumstances, and treat the table between us like it’s the bar. I slip into my bartending persona, which makes me feel gross, but I have to get out of this room.

      “Yeah,” I say with a slight roll of the eyes. “Her husband. Have you seen that guy?”

      The change in him is instant. He loosens up.

      “Yes,” he says, mirroring my eyeroll. His lips tighten into something almost like a smile.

      My tactic worked. Now, we’re just two guys talking.

      “He’s a piece of work.”

      “Mmm-hmm,” he says, making another note. “How did they seem to you?”

      I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

      “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m only asking for your opinion.”

      “They were … not great.”

      “Really?”

      “Well, yeah, but nothing like that,” I quickly add, pointing to the file. I may have overplayed this. I wanted to get on Detective Mendez’s good side to loosen him up so I can get out of here, but I don’t want to insinuate some other innocent person is guilty of Emily’s murder.

      “I see,” he says, taking more notes. He’s much more at ease. “But she came in by herself two nights ago?”

      “Yes.”

      “And where did you go after you got off work?”

      “Home.”

      “Can anyone vouch for you?”

      “Bachelor for life,” I reply with a shrug and a sheepish grin.

      He makes a note. “Okay. That’s all I’ve got for now.” He takes something from his pocket and slides it across the table. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please tell me.”

      There are a million things I could tell him, right now, a million things I want to tell him because I want him to catch whoever did this to Emily, but if her blood is in my car, he will never believe me. No one will.

      “Okay.” I deposit the card in my pocket and try not to rise too quickly from my chair. I have to get to Katie. I need to know what they asked her. Why did Detective Mendez show me those photos? There’s no way he showed them to Katie because she would have said something. So, why me?

      Detective Mendez stands. “And let me know if you plan to go out of town any time soon, okay?”

      “Sure.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Davis,” he says, extending his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean ‘Clay’.”

      “No problem,” I reply, shaking his hand. He’s got a grip.

      I begin walking towards the door.

      “I’m sorry, Clay. One last question.”

      Well, there it is.

      He’s done it. He’s spotted a crack in my story. He’s