MAYBE FOR THE BETTER

(CHAPTER FIFTEEN) DEBORAH

DECEMBER 20TH, 2009:

Deborah paid a hasty visit towards the Statles' property, Missy Statles answering the door. It hadn't gone as Deborah planned–nothing did anymore.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Missy Statles asked, hesitant to peek her head fully outside. Deborah threw her arms up, slinging her badge forward from her breast pocket.

"Deputy Deborah Barley, ma'am. I'm here to ask a couple of questions regarding your deceased daughter, Janiyah Statles." Missy twisted her lips, glancing at something inside and glaring back at Deborah. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but I've had enough with the police. I already told you and your people everything I knew–so did my boy. Now, if you'd please leave my porch, I'd appreciate that," she concluded, flinging shut the front door. Deborah stood there for a few good seconds, hoping she'd have a change of heart and mind, allowing her to do what she needed to do. She hadn't.

Now here she is, the long walk from where Aaron and her met to the Statles' house dragging her feet, her body tired. If only she had a ride, or vehicle. But no one seemed to drive anywhere on the road she journeyed along. By the time she would make it back towards the station to gather the old recordings or reports about that horrible month of December three years ago on foot, it would be well past dusk, the sun once again scurrying itself away.

She sighed, wiping bits of sweat trickling down her forehead, swishing her hair from her oily-face. As she quickly clamped her eyelids shut in exhaustion, the cracking of pavement pierced her eardrums, a cautious jolt being mustered, her body swinging towards what sounded like a vehicle slowly approaching.

Deborah was correct; it was a vehicle. A blue one–an older model. Her heart thumped, and she almost drew her gun, insistent towards the driver to stop before she shot their tires–but she didn't need to as it came to a stopping point, parking itself right by Deborah, only disconnected by the sidewalk curb. She attempted to see through the windows of the person's vehicle, but the windows seemed almost tinted, the outline of one's top half of their body cloaked behind the dark.

The passenger's window rolled down, and that's when Deborah finally made a heart-piercing eye contact, her brain now fully aware of who owned that mysterious blue vehicle that Jinny White felt weary of.

"Where are you headed, ma'am?" a man asked from the driver's seat. That man had that obscure color of hair, a ginger color. Through the very little sunlight that glared inside his vehicle, it reflected off his blue eyes, his cheeks glistening in pigmentation–like he were a girl's doll, a graceful elegance to the way his lips moved as he spoke.

She knew him. She saw him somewhere. He was so familiar, like they'd exchanged multiple conversations.

"Oh...is that...Deborah Barley?" The man mumbled to himself, still loud enough to where she could hear. Both their pupils dilated, the two of them trapped inside a cage of remembrance of one another. Even he had recognized her, and she adored the way his head was shaped, the way his thick hair sat perfectly on his scalp. Then a whiff of wind tangled her nostrils, the atmosphere drawing the scent of his vehicle outside towards her.

It was a flavorful taste, a frutiness to it. Lemon-lime with a quince of floralness. It was very heavy and strong, the same effect of cologne. She itched down a sneeze, the memory booming inside her brain.

She remembered speaking to a man one afternoon and when he leaned into a side hug as a greeting, she got a full face of his sharp cologne, a sweet smell that she wanted to drown in, to drag his coat through her nose to get a better smell of it.

Then he introduced himself, stating his name. It was Alexander Briar. That's who he was.

"Mr. Briar?" Deborah said tiredly, a pleasant surprise of a man she hadn't seen in a good while. The last time they spoke was a little bit after Janiyah Statles passed, her short life being recalled by those who knew her. He was there to join in on the grief, as it stabbed a hole in the community. He was the one who held it together, keeping it closely knitted after all the distraught and anger amongst townspeople. His fineness softened the hard emotions cried that day, providing hugs and free quick spews of therapy, or having a shoulder for people to cry on.