Back to day 7

Didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Just sat on my couch watching the sky go from black to gray to that shitty morning light that makes everything look worse than it already is. Which is saying something because everything already looked pretty fucking bad.

Around 7 am, a sound like angels singing — my fridge kicked on. The lights blazed to life. The TV turned on, still set to whatever channel it was on before the storm, now showing some nauseatingly upbeat morning show with people cooking eggs and pretending the world isn’t a dumpster fire. My Xbox beeped. The microwave clock started flashing 12:00 like it does.

Power was back.

The blackout was over.

I looked around my apartment in the harsh light of day. It looked like a crime scene. Because it was. Beer cans everywhere. Mystery stains on the carpet. That Bluetooth speaker in the corner. The watch — Dad’s retirement watch from Sarah — still on my coffee table. Wrappers and containers from stolen food. Evidence. Everywhere. Evidence.

I should clean. I should throw it all away. I should do something.

But I just sat there, staring at my TV, watching someone make fucking eggs.

My phone buzzed. Nineteen missed text messages. Twelve voicemails. All loading at once now that the cell towers had full power again.

Text from work: “Where are you? You were supposed to open.”

Text from work again: “Call me ASAP.”

Text from Raj: “Dude, you hear about Brennan? Shit’s crazy.”

Voicemail from my landlord: “We need to discuss your rent situation and some complaints from other tenants.”

Text from a number I didn’t recognize: “This is Detective Martinez. We need to speak with you regarding an ongoing investigation. Please call.”

News alert: “Two suspects arrested in connection with derecho crime spree.”

My hands started shaking. I clicked the news link.

There they were. Mugshots. Dooley and Rat. Both looking exactly like the kind of people who’d rob your house during a power outage. The article said they were caught trying to fence stolen goods at a pawn shop. Idiots. The article mentioned they were connected to “multiple break-ins and at least two assaults” during the blackout.

No mention of Hicks.

I scrolled through more messages. Another news alert: “Police seeking third suspect in blackout burglary ring.”

Attached photo: a blurry security camera image. Definitely Hicks. The article said he was “considered dangerous” and anyone with information should contact police immediately.

My phone rang. Unknown number. I stared at it for four rings before answering.

“Hello?”

“Is this…” Paper shuffling. “Is this the residence of Marcus Hicks?”

Oh fuck. “No. I mean, he’s not here. He was crashing here but he’s gone.”

“This is Detective Martinez. We spoke at the QuickEMart earlier this week. I need you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. We just want to talk. Unless you’d prefer we come to you?”

I looked around my apartment. At the evidence everywhere. At the retirement watch. At the speaker. At the beer cans and the stolen goods wrappers.

“I can come there.”

“Good. How about 10 am?”

I checked the time. 7:30. That gave me two and a half hours to figure out how to explain why I’d been harboring criminals without actually admitting I’d been harboring criminals.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“See you then.”

He hung up.

I sat there holding my phone, feeling like I was going to puke. Which I then did. In my kitchen sink. Because my toilet was too far away and also because my life is a fucking disaster.

Took a shower. Hot water. Finally. Felt amazing for about thirty seconds before the crushing weight of my impending interrogation ruined it. Got dressed in actual clean clothes — real pants, a shirt that didn’t smell like sweat and failure. Tried to look like someone who wasn’t an accessory to multiple felonies.

Brushed my teeth for the first time in three days. My mouth tasted like something died in it. Which, metaphorically, it had. My dignity, probably.

Left my apartment around 9. Walked down the stairs. Saw Mrs. Chen in the hallway, installing a new lock on her door. She looked up when she heard me. Our eyes met. She knew. I don’t know how, but she knew.

“I hope they catch all of them,” she said.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Kept walking.

Passed Jenny’s apartment. Her door was open. She was inside talking to someone — a cop, looked like. I tried to walk past quickly but she saw me.

“Hey,” she called out.

I stopped. Turned. She came to the door.

“Did you hear? They arrested two guys. They think there’s a third one.” She looked exhausted. Hopeful. “They said they might recover some of the stolen stuff. Maybe I’ll get my laptop back.”

That laptop was probably at a pawn shop already. Or thrown in a dumpster. Or in Hicks’ duffel bag, heading south. But I didn’t say that.

“That would be great,” I said.

“Yeah.” She paused. “Hey, did you know those guys? The news said one of them lived in this complex.”

My heart stopped. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t really pay attention to my neighbors.”

She nodded. Didn’t believe me. I could tell. But she didn’t push it.

I left. Walked to my car. It started on the third try, which was a minor miracle. Drove to the police station with my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

Got there at 9:50. Sat in the parking lot for ten minutes, trying to figure out what I was going to say. Decided on the truth. Or at least, a version of it. The version where I was just a clueless idiot who didn’t know anything. Which wasn’t totally a lie.

Went inside. Told the receptionist I was there for Detective Martinez. She made a call. Told me to wait.

I sat in the waiting area for twenty minutes. Long enough to read every wanted poster on the wall twice. Long enough to watch three different people come in to file reports. Long enough to contemplate just walking out and never coming back.

Then Detective Martinez came out. Tall guy. Tired eyes. The kind of cop who’s seen too much shit to be surprised by anything.

“Thanks for coming in,” he said. “Follow me.”

Led me to an interrogation room. Or interview room. Whatever they call it when you’re not technically under arrest but also definitely under suspicion. Small room. Table. Two chairs. No windows. Very cop show.

He sat down. I sat down.

“So,” he said, pulling out a notebook. “Marcus Hicks. Tell me about him.”

“He’s a guy I know. From Xbox Live. He showed up during the blackout, asked if he could crash at my place. I said yeah.”

“And you didn’t find that strange?”

“I mean, yeah, but we’d been gaming together for like a year. He seemed cool.”

“Did you know he was committing burglaries?”

“No.”

“Did you suspect?”

I hesitated. That hesitation probably told him everything he needed to know.

“He brought food sometimes. Nice stuff. I thought maybe he had money saved or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m an idiot who doesn’t ask questions when someone’s feeding me.”

Martinez didn’t smile. Wrote something in his notebook.

“Did you see him with any stolen property?”

I thought about the watch. The speaker. The laptop that was probably Jenny’s. The generator parts. The food. All of it. Every piece of evidence sitting in my apartment right now.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Some electronics and stuff. He said they were his.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I wanted to.”

More writing.

“Where is Marcus Hicks now?”

“I don’t know. He left last night. Around 3 am. Said he was leaving town.”

“Did he say where?”

“No.”

“Did he take anything with him?”

“A duffel bag.”

“What was in it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

Martinez leaned back in his chair. Studied me. I tried to look innocent. Probably looked guilty as hell.

“Here’s the situation,” he said. “Your manager, Richard Brennan, was assaulted during a home invasion last night. He’s in the hospital with a concussion and three broken ribs. He gave us a description of three suspects. One of them matches Marcus Hicks. The other two match your friends Dooley and Rat, who we already have in custody.”

“They’re not my friends.”

“They were at your apartment.”

“Once. Maybe twice.”

“Witnesses say they saw them coming and going from your building multiple times over the last week.”

Fuck. “I wasn’t always there. I work a lot.”

“At the QuickEMart where Richard Brennan is your manager.”

“Yeah.”

“Convenient.”

“I didn’t know they were going to rob him. I didn’t even know they were robbing anyone.”

“But you suspected.”

“I… look, I’m not smart, okay? I’m just some guy who works at a convenience store and plays Xbox and eats cheese curls for breakfast. I don’t know anything about anything.”

Martinez looked at me for a long moment. Then he closed his notebook.

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I think you’re exactly what you say you are — an idiot who didn’t ask questions. But that doesn’t mean you’re innocent. That just means you’re not criminally liable. There’s a difference.”

He stood up. I stood up too, confused.

“Am I free to go?”

“Yeah. But if Marcus Hicks contacts you, you call me immediately. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

He handed me his card. Again. I already had like three of them at home.

“And for what it’s worth,” he said as I headed for the door, “your neighbors know you were involved. Whether we can prove it or not doesn’t matter to them. You might want to find a new place to live.”

Great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.

Left the police station. Got in my car. Sat there for a while, trying to process what just happened. I wasn’t under arrest. They believed I was just an idiot. Which I was. But also, my life was still fucked. My neighbors knew. My landlord was pissed. My job was probably gone. And I still had a apartment full of stolen goods.

Drove home. Walked up to my apartment. Found a 30-day eviction notice taped to my door.

Perfect.

Went inside. Started cleaning. Threw out the beer cans. The food wrappers. The evidence of the worst week of my life. Found the watch — Dad’s retirement watch from Sarah. Looked at it for a long time. Then I wrapped it in a paper towel and shoved it in my jacket pocket. I’d figure out what to do with it later. Maybe drop it at the police station anonymously. Maybe throw it in a river. Who knows.

Spent the rest of the day cleaning and feeling sorry for myself. Around 5 pm, I realized I was hungry. Checked my fridge. Actually had power now but was completely empty. Checked my cabinets. Found one can of SpaghettiOs. The same can that had been there before the storm. The emergency backup that had somehow survived everything.

Opened it. Ate it cold with a spoon. Didn’t even bother heating it up. What was the point?

Turned on the TV while I ate. Local news. They were doing a special report on the blackout crime spree. Showing footage of people talking about what they’d lost. The Windors, in wheelchairs, talking about their assault. Mr. Patel, crying about his stolen generator. Jenny, talking about her lost dissertation.

Then they cut to a different story. A feel-good piece. “Local hero helps community during blackout.”

And there he was. Hicks.

At a Red Cross shelter three counties over. Smiling. Shaking hands with volunteers. Posing for photos. The reporter was interviewing him.

“Tell us about your experience during the blackout.”

“It was terrifying,” Hicks said, looking sincere as fuck. “I was staying with a friend who was really struggling. He wasn’t coping well with the power loss. So I tried to help. I gathered supplies, distributed food to neighbors, checked on elderly people. Just trying to do my part, you know?”

“That’s wonderful. We’ve heard you’ve been volunteering at the shelter, donating supplies.”

“Yeah, I had access to some resources through my friend who works retail. He was generous enough to provide emergency supplies that I could distribute to people in need.”

My jaw dropped. He was making me the inside man. Making it look like I’d stolen supplies from QuickEMart to give to him to distribute. Making himself look like a hero while setting me up as the thief.

The reporter continued: “You’re being recognized by the county for your volunteer efforts. How does that feel?”

“I’m just grateful I could help. That’s what community is about — coming together in tough times.”

They showed footage of Hicks receiving a certificate. A fucking award. For being a “blackout hero.”

I sat there, holding my can of cold SpaghettiOs, watching my Xbox buddy get celebrated for stealing from my neighbors while simultaneously framing me as his supplier.

My phone rang. Unknown number again. I almost didn’t answer. But I did.

“Yeah?”

“Saw the news.” Hicks’ voice. Whispering. “Pretty good, right? Got myself a nice cover story. Told them you were my supply guy. That you provided the goods out of the kindness of your heart. Very heroic of you.”

“You piece of shit.”

“Hey, I’m just covering my bases. If the cops come asking, I got a whole shelter full of witnesses saying I’m a good guy. And if they trace any of the goods back to QuickEMart, well, you worked there. You had access. Not my fault you used it to help your buddy.”

“I didn’t steal anything from work.”

“Doesn’t matter. Optics, my friend. Optics. And right now, I look like a saint and you look like a dumbass who harbored criminals. So let’s keep it that way. Don’t call the cops. Don’t try to find me. Just lay low and keep your mouth shut. Deal?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Oh, and enjoy your eviction. Heard you got one. Bummer.” He laughed. “Hey, look on the bright side — at least you got your power back.”

He hung up.

I sat there. Staring at my TV. At Hicks smiling and shaking hands. At the certificate he was receiving. At the lies he was telling.

Then I looked around my apartment. At my fancy 55-inch plasma TV that I’d blown all my money on instead of being a responsible adult. At my Xbox. At the empty beer cans in my recycling bin. At the eviction notice on my counter. At the can of SpaghettiOs in my hand.

I could call the cops. Tell them the truth. Expose Hicks. Do the right thing.

But what would that accomplish? He had witnesses. He had a cover story. He had an award. And I had nothing. No proof. No credibility. Just a history of bad decisions and a pile of circumstantial evidence that made me look guilty.

So I did nothing.

Again.

I just sat there on my couch, in my lit apartment, with my power finally restored, feeling more powerless than I’d felt during the entire blackout.

Picked up my Xbox controller. The power was back. I could finally play. Could escape into a game. Pretend none of this happened.

I held the controller for a while. Then I put it down.

Didn’t feel like playing anymore.

Eight days. It only took eight days without power to realize I’d been living in the dark all along.

THE END