Sharp_Objects

That’s what I got today, and the cop I’ve been working with, he didn’t even know.”
    “You told him that? What was his comment?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Why the hell didn’t you get a comment, girl?”
    See, Curry, Detective Willis felt I was holding back some information and so he sulked off, like all men do when they don’t get their way with women they’ve fooled around with.
    “I screwed up. I’ll get it, though. I need a few more days before I file, Curry. Get a little more local color, work on this cop. I think they’re almost convinced a little press would help juice things. Not that anyone reads our paper down here.” Or up there.
    “They will. You’ll get some serious notice for this, Cubby. Your stuff is getting close to good. Push harder. Go talk to some of your old friends. They might be more open. Plus it’s good for the piece—that Texas floods series that won the Pulitzer had a whole story on the guy’s perspective about coming home during a tragedy. Great read. And a friendly face, a few beers might do you good. Sounds like you’ve already had a few tonight?”
    “A few.”
    “Are you feeling…like this is a bad situation for you? With the recovery?” I heard a lighter strike, the scratch of a kitchen chair across linoleum, a grunt as Curry sat down.
    “Oh, it’s not for you to worry about.”
    “Of course it is. Don’t play martyr, Cubby. I’m not going to penalize you if you need to leave. You’ve got to take care of yourself. I thought being home might do you good, but…I forget sometimes parents aren’t always…good for their kids.”
    “Whenever I’m here,” I stopped, tried to pull it together. “I just always feel like I’m a bad person when I’m here.” Then I started crying, silent sobbing as Curry stammered on the other end. I could picture him panicking, waving Eileen over to handle this weeping girl. But no.
    “Ohhh, Camille,” he whispered. “You are one of the most decent people I know. And there aren’t that many decent people in this world, you know? With my folks gone, it’s basically you and Eileen.”
    “I’m not decent.” The tip of my pen was scribbling deep, scratchy words into my thigh. Wrong, woman, teeth.
    “Camille, you are. I see how you treat people, even the most worthless pieces of crap I can think of. You give them some…dignity. Understanding. Why do you think I keep you around? Not because you’re a great reporter.” Silence and thick tears on my end. Wrong, woman, teeth.
    “Was that funny at all? I meant it to be funny.”
    “No.”
    “My grandfather was in vaudeville. But I guess that gene missed me.”
    “He was?”
    “Oh yeah, straight off the boat from Ireland in New York City. He was a hilarious guy, played four instruments….” Another spark of a lighter. I pulled the thin covers up over me and closed my eyes, listened to Curry’s story.

Chapter Twelve

    R ichard was living in Wind Gap’s only apartment building, an industrial box built to house four tenants. Only two apartments were filled. The stumpy columns holding up the carport had been spray painted red, four in a row, reading: “Stop the Democrats, Stop the Democrats, Stop the Democrats,” then, randomly, “I like Louie.”
    Wednesday morning. The storm still sitting in a cloud above town. Hot and windy, piss-yellow light. I banged on his door with the corner of a bourbon bottle. Bear gifts if you can’t bear anything else. I’d stopped wearing skirts. Makes my legs too accessible to someone prone to touching. If he was anymore.
    He opened the door smelling of sleep. Tousled hair, boxers, a T-shirt inside out. No smile. He kept the place frigid. I could feel the air from where I was standing.
    “You want to come in, or you want me to come out?” he asked, scratching his chin. Then he spotted the bottle. “Ah, come in. I guess we’re getting drunk?”
    The place was a mess, which surprised me. Pants strewn over chairs, a garbage can near overflowing, boxes of papers piled up in awkward spots in the hallways, forcing you to turn sideways to pass. He motioned me to a cracked leather sofa and returned with a tray of ice and two glasses. Poured fat portions.
    “So, I shouldn’t have been so rude last night,” he said.
    “Yeah. I mean, I feel like I’m giving you a fair amount of information, and you’re not giving me any.”
    “I’m trying to solve a murder. You’re trying to report about that. I think I get priority. There are