Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus Page A

would consider looking for me here. Plus it’s dark and the bushes are large and do a good job of concealing me and keeping the wind off my back.
    My father’s gold watch says it’s almost five a.m. and every time I close my eyes I hope I’ll nod off into the sleep my body desperately craves. But my mind’s on edge. My body’s wired. Because out of everything that’s happened in in the last twenty-four hours – Epiphany, Roland, my mom; Roland’s tongue on my mom – the only thing I can’t get out of my head is the videotape. The one the detective said they were looking for in my apartment.
    And that’s when it hits me that the videotape they’re talking about is the one in the camera that I almost knocked over in Roland’s studio. The one the insurance company required the museum to record on when anywork was being done on the Van Gogh. If the cops are looking for it, it means it’s missing, which means it shows Roland being murdered. Which means Epiphany is doing the murdering. Which means she took it.
    And just then, just when I’ve connected all the dots, all the fruitless dots that don’t count for anything because I let Epiphany get away, I feel a very cold, thin line form along the front of my throat.
    It’s Epiphany, behind me in the bushes. She tells me to remain quiet. No more talk, no more lies, no more distraction. One word and my throat gets slit. ‘You touch me again and I do not run this time. Understand?’
    And I feel a little blood dribble down my neck.

Sharks
    T here was this story I read in Time magazine. It was about a little boy. Timmy, I think. One evening around dusk, Timmy’s swimming in the shallow Gulf waters near Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He’s splashing along having a great time when suddenly a shark swims up and takes a bite out of him. So Timmy, he starts screaming like crazy because his arm’s shredded and there’s blood everywhere. Hearing his nephew’s screams from shore, Timmy’s uncle rushes into the water. He’s thigh-deep in the surf when he spots the shark approaching Timmy for seconds. And Timmy’s uncle, what does he do? Does he pluck Timmy out of the water and carry him to safety?
    No.
    The uncle, he wades into the water and grabs the whole damn shark in his arms and wrestles it.
    He wrestles it .
    He literally grabs this six-foot eating machine from the ocean and throws it, fucking throws it , onto the beach. Its sleek grey body lands right where a stranger is walking along on his evening stroll. This stranger, he sees the shark – the poor thing – just lying like a big fish stick on the sand.
    The shark’s breathing becomes shallow as its black eyes stare at the stranger. Its eyes seem to say, ‘I always thought a fishing hook would be the end of me.’ This is when the stranger calmly reaches into his pocket. This is where he slowly pulls out a gun and points it at the shark – who at this point just has to be wondering if his day could possibly get any worse. The shark’s big, black eyes stare down the barrel as three bullets are fired into its head.
    Time called the uncle and the stranger heroes, but I couldn’t help but feel for the poor shark. He was minding his own business – having some dinner – when he’s plucked from his normal life and forced into an insane world with insane people.
    I know how he feels.
    I’ve been holed up with Epiphany in this shitty place for only an hour, but it might as well be a lifetime. We’re somewhere on the south side of the city – the place middle-class white people go if they want to die. The street we’re on is either called Windsor or Jacobson. The street sign was ripped from the ground, so I can’t be sure which. This place, it’s not even her place I bet. She’s gotta be squatting. The outside of the building has a painted sign that reads ‘Upholstery’ in faded yellow letters with white drop-shadows. The furniture looks like it was found on the street. The ceilings leak and you can hear