Collection (2 page)

A Season of Sleep

Afterword

About The Author

Introduction

I’ve been debating for a while about whether or not to release any of my early short stories.
 
Part of me thought it would be fun to dig them up and push them back out into the world, but until recently, a larger part of me believed they were better off left buried.
 
It wasn’t until I began receiving emails from curious readers wanting to know where they could find these early stories, that I seriously considered putting a few of them together in a collection.
 

With the exception of one lone horror story, this is primarily a collection of mystery, noir, and suspense tales.
 
Each one was written before I ever attempted a novel, and they appear here exactly as I originally wrote them and as they were first published. Some of these stories I hadn’t looked at for years, and reading them over again turned out to be a lot more fun than I was expecting.
 

For anyone interested in where a particular story was originally published, when it was written, or what went into the writing, I’ll go over each story in more detail in the afterword.
 
For everyone else, I hope you find something here you enjoy.
 

Thank you for reading,

JR

A Sharp White Light

I’m usually better at hiding things, but Ava knew something was wrong even before I hung up the phone.

“That was the Department of Corrections,” I said.
 
“My father died last night.”
 

Ava didn’t say anything, instead she rested her head against my shoulder.
 
It was exactly what I needed.
 
She knew how things were with me and my father, and there was no need for a big display of emotion.

I pushed the sheet back and reached for my pants on the floor.

“Stay home today,” she said.
 
“You’re already late.”

“I can’t.
 
Marcus will kill me.
 
I’m already going to hear about this.”

“Yeah, but—” She paused.
 
“Today, Jack?
 
Stay home with me and Jacob.
 
Marcus will understand.”
 

She pulled me back into bed, and I let myself be pulled.
 
The morning sun slid between the curtains and dripped, soft and golden, across the sheets.
 
It was nice, and I leaned my head against her stomach and stared up at the ceiling and the sharp white light reflecting in from the world.
 

For a long time, neither of us spoke.
 
When Ava did, her voice was soft.
 
“Did they say how he died?”

“You know how he died.”

“I know,” she said.
 
“But was he peaceful?
 
Did he say anything?”

That was just like Ava, always looking for some deeper meaning in everything.
 
My father had lung cancer and had been hacking up clots of blood for months.
 
He never went to a doctor and never said a word to anyone.
 
When he did finally see a doctor during a required six month check-up, they told him it had spread to his brain.
 
And still, he never talked about it.
 
The idea of him saying something that would shine a clarifying light on his life, and somehow make everything okay just didn’t click.
 

He died and that was it.

“I didn’t ask,” I said.

I knew she wanted to say more.
 
I could feel it just below the surface, and I wasn’t ready for that.
 
I looked at the clock and pushed myself up.

“You sure?”

I nodded then looked at her in bed.
 
The shape of her body cutting through the sheet almost made me change my mind, then I thought about Marcus and the diner.
 
Saturday was our busiest day, and he’d be there alone.
 
At seventy-six, Marcus wasn’t as quick behind the grill as he’d once been.

I grabbed yesterday’s shirt off the floor, smelled it, and slid it on.
 
“I’ll be back around three,” I said, then leaned in close and kissed her on the forehead.
 
“Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t worry about you, baby.”

She smiled, but I knew she was lying.

On my way out I went into Jacob’s room.
 
He was still asleep in his crib.
 
I stood for a moment watching, then I reached in and put my hand on his chest.
 
I knew from experience I could lose hours like that, but right then, feeling the slow back and forth of my son’s breathing, I couldn’t have cared less.

~

The bus let me off two blocks from the diner, and I walked the rest of the way.
 
As I got closer I saw the flashing lights out front.
 
There was a rooming house across the street, so it wasn’t unusual to see cop cars and fire trucks.
 
But this time there were too many of them.
 

Something was different.
 

Rita, the morning waitress, saw me before I saw her.
 
She met me halfway down the block.
 

“They finally did it,” she said.
 
“They tried to burn down the God damn building.”

Rita was a conspiracy theorist.

“Lewis saw a couple of them sneaking around the alley last night after we closed up, and then this happens.”
 
She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head.
 
“We’re lucky no one was inside when it happened, otherwise someone might’ve been killed.”

Rita read crime novels.

“You know they’ve been trying to drive us out, and now, they might’ve succeeded.
 
Marcus is too old to rebuild this place.
 
He’s already said he’s going to Daytona to live with his sister and—”

I held up my hand and she stopped.
 
“There was a fire?”

“Damn right.”
 
She pointed to the rooming house across the street.
 
“And they started it.”

“You don’t really know that, do you?”

“Lewis said he recognized one of them, and that’s good enough for me.”

Lewis worked the desk at the rooming house.
 
He was a regular at the diner, and Rita always had a smile for him when he came in.
 
For some reason she didn’t associate him with the people who lived in the house.
 

It was almost cute.

When we got to the diner I saw Marcus standing by the alley.
 
He had his chef’s apron around his waist, and he looked thinner than normal.
 
Rita yelled for him, and when he looked back and saw me he frowned.

“Where the hell have you been?”

I didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him.
 
The entire back end of the diner was gone, all that was left was a mess of black and gray ash.
 
“Did anyone see anything?”

Marcus motioned to Rita who’d wandered over to one of the firemen.
 
“Her friend across the street said he recognized one of the guys, but it don’t matter.
 
What’s done is done.”

“Insurance will cover it.”

He shook his head.
 
“I don’t have time to wait for insurance.”
 
He waved a hand toward what was left of the diner and looked away.
 
“What do I care anyway?
 
I’m sick of the place.
 
I tried to give it to Phil, you know— after I’m gone, but he don’t want it.”
 
He paused.
 
“Maybe to sell it, I suppose.”

Phil was Marcus’s son.
 
The last time I’d seen him, he’d come in the diner asking for money.
 
There had been an argument that looked like it might come to blows.
 
I’d almost jumped between them, but then Marcus stormed out to the cash register and emptied it and handed the cash to Phil who walked out without another word.
 
That was a year ago at least, and from what I’ve heard not much has changed with him.

“I’d buy the place.
 
You know that.”

“I also know you’re broke, that’s what I know.”
 
He turned and pointed at me.
 
“And I wouldn’t stick you with this place anyway.
 
You need to get out and find something better for that boy of yours.
 
Stop wasting your time around here.”