Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

the shit that’s happened since Johnny was laid to rest has finally shaken the town out of its state of mourning, and everyone decided it’s time to get together and be normal. Well, Silvertown-normal.

I try to play it cool, hanging up my jacket and taking pole position at the bar, but before my butt’s on the stool there’s a sort of recognition that ripples through the room like a belly flop on a placid lake. It’s the opposite of everything going quiet. People are raising their beers to me and shouting their hellos over the karaoke-slash-jukebox thing. A few pass me and give me a hearty pat on the back.

The stool next to me is suddenly occupied by a keenly interested Miles Osman, the local pastor. Normally I’m opposed to clichés, but Miles is exactly what you expect for a small-town preacher. It’s like Ned Flanders grew a pair and then became a used-car salesman. Pencil-necked and festooned with thick lenses in unfashionable frames, he rests an elbow on the bar, his fist gripping a frothy pint of Guinness.

“Mary, hello! How are you holding up?” he asks.

I nod at Kyle, whose grin is saying look what I dragged you into, sucker! “Corona,” I tell him.

“Put that on my tab,” Pastor Osman adds.

“Make it two then,” I say, and I hope my expression tells Kyle to make it snappy. “Thanks, Pastor, I’m doing fine. It’s not as big a deal as it seems. The media’s just… you know.”

Several others are hovering now, beers in hand, sensing the story is coming out. The room gets a little quieter.

“It’s true then?” one of the women standing nearby asks. “That lawyer attacked you in your house?”

I nod, to her but also to Kyle as he places two bottles in front of me. “Yeah, it’s true, but it’s all over now. Nothing to get excited about.”

Someone barks a surprised laugh. “You killed the fucker, though, didn’t you? I mean c’mon, Officer, that’s worth getting excited about.”

“Unfortunately lethal force was necessary, yes.”

This sends another ripple through the crowd, some nodding understanding and others gasping their surprise. It’s easy to forget that death is a big deal in a small town. Three of them in as many weeks is positively huge.

I sigh. “Really, it’s not a big deal. Go back to your drinks. Enjoy yourselves.”

This has precisely the opposite effect of what I wanted. They’re having none of it. The pastor channels that as he taps his pint with a fork. “Mary, please. A man assaulted you in your home, and he’s… paid the price for that. We have a right to know what happened.”

“A right?” I snap. The aggression in my voice hits him like a backhanded slap. “It happened in my private residence, Pastor. You have a right to know whatever information the Granston sheriff decides to release. Anything else is at my discretion.”

The warmth and energy drains from the room, and for several seconds everyone’s looking at their cups. The song from the karaoke machine has ended, and nothing follows it. Above the bar the muted TV is still playing Doc’s awkward commercial, making me wonder if that thirty seconds of stilted hilarity has been on since the last time I was here, playing over and over again. At least it’s still muted.

Pastor Osman, no doubt used to strong reactions when poking his nose into other people’s business, is unfazed. His smile exudes understanding and compassion. “I just meant in the sense that, currently, you’re our only police officer. I’m a small-town guy but I’ve read the news enough to know the term ‘administrative leave’ often comes up in situations like this. We just want to know what will happen next.”

“Nothing. Nothing is happening next,” I say tersely. Then I take a deep breath, faltering under the weight of all their downcast eyes. A man was shot right here in their little town, with me at the center of it, while the cop they’ve known and trusted for years is a thousand miles away. I guess I understand their anxiety. And, I remind myself, I’m supposed to be trying to win them over. Telling them all to butt out of my business isn’t helping in that regard. I swallow back this urge to push them away and force myself to address the room.

“Look, sorry, it’s been a long couple of days. I’ve heard from the sheriff and, while there may be an inquiry at some point, his report has cleared me of any wrongdoing. Even if they want me to come down and answer questions, it would be after Greg returns. So, relax, all of you. I just want to enjoy my drink in peace, okay, everyone?”

Some accept this right away, returning to their own conversations. A small shift in the room’s social gravity away from me, and it’s enough to restore some balance to the situation. Gradually things return to what passes for normal here.

The pastor takes a healthy swig from his pint glass, contemplating the dark brown liquid. “Can I ask you about something else, Mary?”

“Shoot,” I say, in a tone I hope says otherwise. He soldiers on, though.

“While it may also be none of my business, I should mention that Sally Jones is a parishioner at the church and, I think it’s safe to say, a friend. Any chance you could help me understand what happened with her this morning? I’ve only heard secondhand—”

“You’ll have to ask her, Miles. We might not have much in common, but a respect for confidentiality is something we both must share.”

He eyes me for a moment, and I can see the realization dawn inside him that, were the roles reversed, he wouldn’t reveal to me something told to him in confidence, either. He nods respectfully.

Kyle, standing just within earshot, has been wiping the same glass with a cloth since I sat down. We make brief eye contact and he pulls off the stealthiest wink I think I’ve ever seen. I lift my bottle to him