The Last Alibi

105

Shauna

9:05 P.M.

I sit upstairs on Jason’s bed with my iPad, doing research on addiction recovery centers around here. They certainly aren’t hard to find. But finding the right one could be a chore. So I’m looking for reviews, as well. Some of these clinics specialize in painkiller addiction, which is probably a better fit, but how the heck do I know?

I check my watch and do the math. Jason got the call from Alexa at a quarter past eight. Even with bad traffic-and I doubt traffic is bad this time of night-Jason would have reached Alexa’s house by now.

What’s going on there? It didn’t feel right, the way Jason popped up and left. Alexa calls in a breathless panic and he goes running.

She could have told him anything. Jason wouldn’t tell me, but it’s not hard to imagine. I’m going to kill myself, I swear I will! Or: “James Drinker” just tried to kill me. Anything.

I should have gone with him. He said no. That will make it worse, he said to me, undoubtedly true, but still-I should have gone.

And his ultimate rationale: I have to get my cell phone, anyway. He’d left it at Alexa’s house earlier today, after reading that threatening e-mail from Alexa about telling the Board of Attorney Discipline about his drug problem. I need to get it sooner or later.

True. And maybe that’s all it was. Sure, she’ll beg him to take her back. But he won’t. He knows better.

Maybe he’s hoping that this one last time with her will do the trick, will finally calm her down and make her go away. Fat chance, but I could see Jason thinking that, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

And I can’t discount the level of guilt he’s feeling, however misplaced it may be. No matter how much she manipulated him, he assumes responsibility for her broken heart.

Is she capable of something more? She wouldn’t hurt him, I tell myself. Would she? No. No?

But if I really didn’t see Alexa as a threat, then why did I run upstairs to Jason’s closet to retrieve his gun, hidden in the old pair of wingtips in the back of his closet? Even though I despise guns, can’t stand the sight of them, detest the very idea of them, I carried down the gun, the Glock handgun, the creepy black instrument of death, and put it in Jason’s hands.

Take your gun and be careful, I said to him.

I let out a long, nervous sigh, my stomach stirring. Then I continue my search of rehab clinics.