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

his organs, didn’t miss his spine, though. He’s paralyzed now, in case you’re wondering. That’s on me.”

“C’mon, you can’t—”

“It’s on me, Kyle. We should have stuck together.” After that he smartly knew it was time to drop it. Just wrapped his big arm around me and we fell asleep in the silence that followed.

Now, Kyle is watching me as I replay our conversation. He leaves his point unsaid: Should have kept it a typical Mary Whittaker team operation.

“Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Kyle. Maybe you got your read wrong. I need some air.”

Kyle again shows his intelligence and lets it go. Before I know it, I’m up out of my chair and out the door in what I hope is not too much of a huff. With gravel dust rising from my heels, I make my way to my crusier and lean against the driver-side door. I’m staring at a beat-up old junker parked next to me, replaying Kyle’s words in my head.

Typical Mary Whittaker team operation. I see my distorted reflection in the junker’s window and then something clicks and I stop cold.

“Typical until this morning,” I mouth to the warped doppelgänger.

For a time I can do nothing but stare at the pattern of decay on the car door. Rust and metal. That’s how the brain is supposed to work, isn’t it? Gradual decay, or just gradual change if you’re lucky. Not this, though. This happened overnight.

“So what changed?” I ask the door. “Why didn’t I call 911 after the attack? Why’d I take Sally’s children instead of securing a sitter or…”

My voice trails off as I think of a half-dozen other moments today where I’d shunned teamwork and gone it alone. Hell, I hadn’t even been the one to call the sheriff and get him to my house. A neighbor had done that. Furious with myself, I open the cruiser and shove myself into the bucket seat, slamming the door closed behind me.

“What changed?” I repeat, racking my mind. “What the fuck changed?!”

The answer seems suddenly obvious.

There must have been something on that rag wrapped around the lawyer’s hand. Not chloroform but… something else. I try to recall the report that Sheriff Davies submitted. I’d been too focused on the revelation that Rhod Mitchell had a wife and kids to pay any attention to the forensic analysis. Had one even been included? I can’t remember. Probably not. Too soon for that.

I pull out my phone and send a reply back to the sheriff, asking if he can send the info as soon as it comes in. “Just curious” I tuck in at the end. Not because of any side effects, pinky-swear! As if that would even occur to him. Kyle might be able to spot a change in my behavior, but not Davies, whom I spent all of an hour with just after ending someone’s life in my own home.

Then the dreaded four letters, P. T. S. D., creep into my skull. It’s a real problem. I’ve seen others suffer from it enough to know that much, but I’ve also seen it used as a pat diagnosis to clear a case from the files of overworked therapists. I’ve seen cops fake its symptoms, too, earning not just a pat diagnosis but some serious paid leave as well.

“Fuck,” I mutter, head in my hands. I can’t imagine exploring the post-traumatic theory. Not now. Not while I’m here alone.

There’s a knock at the window.

“Mary?” Kyle’s voice, concerned.

“Just a sec,” I call out. I twist the key to engage the battery and roll down the window.

“You all right?” he asks when it’s about halfway down.

“Yeah,” I say.

He nods, still concerned. I realize he’s not here to check on me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Mr. Wilkinson came in. He says Clara never showed up for her shift.”

Hugh Wilkinson owns the diner where Clara works. “Sure she did. I saw her there this morning.”

“For her second shift,” Kyle replies. “He said she had two today, but went home after the first and never came back.”

My response is automatic, incongruous with the sinking feeling in my gut. “She’s at home. Decided against working a double but forgot to call. Okay? Mystery solved.”

Kyle just turns around and heads back to the bar and I find myself leaving the cruiser and following him. Kyle holds the door, concern radiating off him. For me, or Clara, I’m not quite sure. Both of us, probably.

When I enter the bar Hugh is waiting just inside. He says something, but I can’t hear him over the karaoke machine, which has started up again.

“Someone turn that shit off!” I shout.

The sound vanishes a second later. All eyes are on me now.

“Hugh, she probably took a nap and forgot to set her alarm. Or got a headache. Or a million other things that don’t require police attention.”

“That’s just it,” Hugh says, with his hat literally in his hand. His fingers rub at the worn old Seahawks logo in the middle of the cap. “I went by her place. It’s on my way, so no big deal. But… Officer, listen, the front door was open.”

“Unlocked?”

“No, open. All the lights were off, but her door was just standing wide.”

“Did you go in? Touch anything?”

His eyes get very, very large at all the implications behind this question. It takes him a second to respond, and when he does his voice is shaky.

“A few steps, that’s all. I called out for her, but there was no reply. So I came here. To the station first, I mean. Then here.”

Kyle shifts at my side. “Want me to round up—”

“Just hang on,” I say, pressing both palms downward on the invisible tension rising from the room. My cheek twitches, some revelation lurking under the surface of my thoughts. I push it away and try to focus. “No need to panic, guys. She probably went out and didn’t realize the door hadn’t latched behind her.”

Kyle looks unconvinced. Hell, I’m unconvinced. With everything that’s