by Kayt Miller
Well, the couch is still here. And the chair, coffee table, and my one stool. Also, the pictures on the wall and doodads on my shelf above the television are still in the same places.
I spend the next ten minutes looking through my closet, the bathroom, and the kitchen. He took everything I use every day, from my clothes to my toothbrush. It’s all gone. The furniture’s still here but I suppose he didn’t have time for that.
Picking up the envelope, I tear it open and pull out the note.
Dear Daisy,
I can’t believe I’ve been remiss. I should have insisted you move home the minute I heard about the incident across the hall from my apartment.
God, why does he always have to say it like that—“my apartment”? I read on.
It’s too dangerous for you to remain, so I’ve taken the liberty of moving your necessities back home. Everything is set up in your bedroom. All you need to do is bring yourself. See you soon.
Love, Dad.
No. Fucking. Way.
With both hands, I rub my face up and down. I’m tired. It’s late. And I’m done.
Flopping back onto my bed, I’m thankful Gage lent me his sweatshirt; otherwise, all I’d have to wear is this dress. Staring at the ceiling, I see a spider skitter across above me. I watch to make sure it doesn’t stop above me and slither down a piece of web. Or maybe it’s poisonous and he or she could go ahead and end this bullshit for me.
That could work.
No. I’m not suicidal. On the contrary. For the first time in a long time, I feel overwhelmingly strong. Like I’m ready for battle.
With a sigh—and the assurance the spider is gone—I roll over to my side. I’ve got to think. I mean, when did he plan all of this? It had to be today. Not only that, how’d he know I was gone tonight?
Suddenly, my body feels cold. The realization hits me like a Mack truck. I know how he knows—the prick’s been monitoring me.
Sitting up, I look around my bedroom and shake my head. “No.” No way he’d have a camera in my bedroom. Right?
Sliding out of bed, I walk into the living room and stop in the middle. Turning slowly in my spot, I scan the room, looking for anything that’d hide or obscure a camera. I know they’re small now because I researched them for other reasons.
Never mind. Trust me. I know they’re small.
I rotate around two times, looking at everything that remains after my father ransacked my place. It’s then I see the perfect location for a camera. In the far corner of the living room, above the television, is a small shelf. On it I’ve got a few collectable items from trips we took when I was young. Back when we were a family. There’s a snow globe from the Grand Canyon, various postcards, a keychain from a trip to Disney, a shot glass from Mount Rushmore, and the last item—from the time we went to a Chicago Cubs game—a bobblehead doll of Cubby Bear.
Moving slowly like I’m about to pounce on a rattler, I reach the shelf and stare up at Cubby Bear. Leaning as close as I can, it’s then I spot it. Cubby Bear’s eyes aren’t the same. One is painted a matte black, but the other? It’s shiny like glass. Reaching up, I take the toy in hand and pull the head away from the body, making the spring inside stretch. And there it is: several wires all attached to a tiny battery pack. Instead of ripping it from the head like I want to, I hold Cubby Bear out. Using my middle finger, I raise it slowly so he can see what I’ve discovered and to say “Fuck. You.”
Now I reach in and yank out the wires. With those in one hand, I march into the kitchen and open drawers until I find the scissors, which I use to cut the wires up into tiny pieces. Tossing away the wires and Cubby Bear, I make my way back into my bedroom. Exhausted, I lie down, wrapping Gage’s sweatshirt around me for warmth. And I cry.
Chapter Twenty
Gage
I’m at the station before seven. When I walk in, I’m shocked to see Dan here. “Have you been at it all night?” God, I hope not. I’d feel like shit if he stayed while I had dinner with a pretty girl and then slept like a log.
“I left about two. Slept for a few hours, then came back.” He pushes several items in front of me. “I think I’ve got something. Look—”
Just as he starts to speak, Finch steps in with a cup of coffee. Damn, I could use a cup right now. “Hey,” he says, his voice sounding sleepy. “Sorry I’m late.”
I look at the clock and see it’s 7:01 a.m.
“No sweat.” I nod to Dan. “He thinks he’s found something.”
“I don’t know if it has anything to do with anything, but I thought it was worth a looksee,” Dan explains.
Staring down at what looks to be report cards, I ask, “What are we looking at?”
“These are from last year.” He points to the first page. “Fall term. Midterm grades.” I look at the page he’s referring to and read through her list of classes. She was enrolled in Math 140, Biology 201, Art History 280, and English 228.
I’m not sure which courses the numbers represent, but as I’m about to pull my phone out to check, Finch has beat me to it. Reading from his own phone, he says, “Math 140 is Algebra.”
“Okay.”
“Biology 201.” He pauses. “Intro to Environmental Issues.”
“Art History 280 is pretty self-explanatory,” I say.
Finch nods. “English 228 is….” He nods after a beat. “Got it. Survey of American Lit since 1865.”
Now that we know the courses, I look at her midterm grades. She had A’s in both her art history and biology classes. In math, a C-. But the midterm grade for English? “She had an F in the American lit class.”
“Yep, an F,” repeats Dan. “Now look at this.” He pulls out the second sheet. “Her final grades for fall.”
“Wow. She really turned it around in English,” Finch says with a nod.
I look at the sheet. Finch may be right. She got her shit together and raised her grade from an F to an A. It can happen.
“Uh-huh,” Dan mumbles. “Check this out.” He grabs the third sheet. “Her spring schedule.”
I read through the list and see a sociology class, two education classes, a gym class, and another English course.
Before I can ask a question, Dan says, “I looked it up. English 362 was taught by the same professor as the English class she nearly flunked in the fall.”
I look at Dan, then down at the papers. “And?”
“Well, if that were me,” Finch says, pointing at her spring schedule, “and I struggled or had to work extra hard to pass the last English class, I don’t think I’d take another one. At the very least, I’d take it with another professor.”
“Do we have the grades for spring?”
Dan shakes his head. “Not in this stuff.”
“Was there anything from her apartment?”
“We weren’t looking for that,” Finch says, stepping away from the table.
“We can try the registrar’s office,” Dan suggests as Finch grabs one of the boxes of papers from Kara’s apartment and sets it in front of me. He does the same two more times until we each have a box to sort through.
“Probably need a subpoena,” I mumble, reaching into the box to take a stack of papers. “Let’s look through these and go from there.”
With each of us sorting through her papers in silence, I can’t help getting the feeling Dan was right and we’re on to something.
After about forty minutes and two cups of terrible Ames PD coffee, Finch announces, “Got it.”
Dan and I move in until we’re looking over Finch’s shoulder as he points. “Spring midterms.”
Again, she does okay in her other classes, getting As and Bs, but English, another F.
“Did you find the final grades?” I ask Finch.
“Yep.” He slaps down the second page. “She ended up with an A in English 362: Studies in 19th-Century American Lit.”
We stare at the pages for several minutes. My mind is whirring.
“I’m still not sure why this is significant,
” Finch says. It’s a good question.
“It may not be.” Dan shrugs.
He’s right. This could be a whole lot of nothing.
“You mentioned they were taught by the same person? Who was that?” I’m afraid I already know the answer to this question.
Dan moves some things around on the table until he finds what he’s looking for. “Dr. D. Buchanan.”
Shit. Instead of saying something I may regret, I say, “How ’bout the footage from the elevator in Kara’s building?”
Finch begins to carefully place papers back into his box. “Nothing yet.” He looks over at me. “And Social Apartments’ management promised to get the garage camera repaired today.”
“Follow up with that today, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“What about Falco?”
Finch turns to face me and Dan. “Left a message.”
“Okay. Keep on him. Call again until you get him.”
“We could go to his place,” he suggests. “I found an address for him.”
“Good job, Finch.” I nod. “Yeah. Let’s try this afternoon.”
Standing from my spot at the conference table, I turn to leave.
“Hey, Golden?”
Looking back at Finch, I wait.
“Isn’t that girl… the one who made the cookies… isn’t her last name Buchanan?”
“Yes.”
“She any relation to that professor?”
“She may be.” She is. I just need a minute before I relay that information to the team. “Let me use the john, and I’ll check my notes when I get back.”
“Cool.” Finch smiles proudly. As he should. He’s smart. He’ll make a great cop in time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Daisy
When a knock sounds on my front door, I’m startled awake. Looking around my room, I do my best to remember what day it is and why I’m so damn cold. The sight of my bed with no sheets, blankets, or pillows reminds me. I should have turned on the furnace last night, but I had other things on my mind.
The knocking redirects my attention to the front door. Sliding off the bed, I don’t even bother looking in the mirror. I know I look like shit and that my hair probably resembles something close to a rat’s nest, but I don’t care.
Without looking through the peephole, I wrench the door open and stare at the man of my dreams and that other guy. The one who loved my cookies. “Oh.” I do my best to get my hair under control, but it’s no use. “Morning.”
“It’s afternoon, ma’am,” the other guy deadpans.
“Rough night,” I mumble. Turning, I walk back into my place, leaving the door open wide and hoping they just take the hint and follow me inside. I’ve got no energy to be courteous this morning—er, afternoon.
“You okay, Miss Buchanan?” Gage asks.
Miss Buchanan? Since when…? Flopping onto my couch, I tug on the sweatshirt he lent me last night. “What’s going on?” Because this seems very official.
“Mind if we ask you a few more questions?” the other guy asks.
“No, I don’t mind.” I wish it were just me and Gage, but like I said, this seems super official.
I watch as Gage nods to the other guy. Since the other guy is the one talking, I assume that means Gage is giving him the lead. Yay.
“Are you related to a Dr. D. Buchanan?”
I look at Gage, asking him with my eyes, What the hell? Then I turn to the other cop. “Yeah. He’s my father.”
My father who’s dead to me.
“Did you know Kara Becker was taking classes with your father?”
Shaking my head, I respond, “Lots of people take my father’s classes.” And the reason is because his classes are easy. Who doesn’t love to get an easy A in their college English classes? It’s one of the reasons they wouldn’t give him tenure.
Well, until they did.
“So, he’s popular?”
Where are they going with this? “Look.” I lean forward. “People love my dad’s classes because he’s an easy A.”
The two officers turn to look at each other, then back at me. “So….” The other cop sounds hesitant. “Everyone ends up with an A in his classes?”
“Well, not everyone. You have to turn things in. But the majority get As and Bs.”
The men look at each other again, like they’re trying to communicate without words.
Gage asks this time, “Is this something you’ve seen firsthand or just heard?”
“Well, obviously I don’t do his grades for him.” He wanted me to, but I refused. How lazy can one man be? “That’s the rumor around campus.” I blow out a big gust of air and lean back. “So, why are you asking about my father?”
“No reason.” Gage shrugs. “We’re just trying to get to know more about our vic.”
“Vic?”
“Victim.”
“Ah.”
The two men stand simultaneously, like it was choreographed, but my eyes are on Gage. I do the same and follow them to my front door.
“Thank you, Miss Buchanan.” Gage again.
“No problem.”
Shutting the door behind them, I turn and lean my back against it. “What was that about?” Do they think my dad knows something about Kara’s murder?
There’s no way….
It’s not possible. My father’s way too self-absorbed to know or care about what’s going on with his students.
Stepping into my living room, I can’t decide what to do next. I know I need to shower, but Dad took all of my toiletries. The memories of last night rush back, and I’m overcome with anger again. I curl my hands into tight fists.
Taking in calming breaths, I relax my hands and decide on a plan of action. Picking up my purse, I shove my phone inside and grab my keys, I leave my apartment and jog down the steps to my car.
Well, to where I thought I left my car.
And then I realize. “That motherfucker.” He took my car!
Reaching into my purse, I extract my phone to send my asshole of a dad a message. When I press the Home button, a message appears on the screen: No longer in service.
“Fuck!” My voice is so loud, I draw some attention from a few people in the parking lot, but I don’t care. My eyes burn, which means there are tears making their way forward. I close my eyes in an attempt to focus because I refuse to cry. Not over this.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’ve got this.” And thanks to Ames having one of the best city bus services in the country, I’ll just hop on CyRide to get where I’m going. “No problem.”
Once I’m on the bus, my mind is numb. All I can think of is how desperate my father has become. Well, that’s not all I can think about. No, I’m also pondering how I’m going to show him, once and for all, that I don’t need him.
At my stop, I look down at the worthless phone I’m still clutching. I decide, in that moment, to leave it behind, in the seat. There’s nothing personal on it; I was always careful about that. No, it’s better to let someone who doesn’t have the latest device use it.
In the store, I gather the things I need like shampoo, toothpaste, and a toothbrush, which reminds me that I need a hairbrush. Along with that I find deodorant, some panties, a sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, leggings, a couple of tees, and a few tops. Once it’s all rung up, the cashier gives me my total. Opening my wallet, I stare at the debit card my father gave me a few years ago, the one that goes with our joint account, and I just know. I know before I even try to use it that it’s not going to work. Still, I run it through the card reader and wait.
“Oh,” the cashier says, looking embarrassed—embarrassed for me. “It says declined.”
“Mmhmm.” Of course it does. Slipping that card back into my wallet, I take out my other one. The one I’ve been holding onto until it was time. “Let’s try this one.” I do my best to smile, but it’s not real.
“Oh, good,” she says with a relieved giggle. “That one worked.”
&nb
sp; Reaching out, I take the card and put it back in its spot.
With my bags in hand, I wait at the CyRide stop right outside the door. It doesn’t take long, and luckily the bus is fairly empty right now. I move to the back of the bus and slide into a seat next to the window, leaning against it. The coolness of the glass feels good against my forehead.
This day has sucked.
The walk back to my apartment from the bus stop is slow thanks to the fact that I’m carrying six Target bags, a bag that holds a sub from a local sandwich shop, plus my purse. I trudge up the apartment steps, thinking about the shower I’m about to take. “Then I can eat,” I mutter.
Setting everything down, I reach into my purse to find my keys. I remember throwing them back in when I discovered my car was gone. Locating my apartment key, I line it up with the lock and push, but it won’t budge.
“No.” I stare down at the key. Holding it up in front of my eyes, I make sure I’ve got the right one. Maybe I had it upside down. Placing the key in the lock, I try again.
“God. Fucking. Damn it.” I say it loud enough for anyone on my floor to hear. Growling to myself, I hiss, “You just overplayed your hand, motherfucker.”
“Daisy.”
The voice catches me so off guard, I scream, jump back, and drop my keys. “What the hell? Gage?”
“Sorry.” He moves closer, holding his hand out like he’s trying to keep me from falling over. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Well, you did.” I look over at him and see Kara’s door is open. “Were you in Kara’s apartment?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I was waiting for you.”
Another spy. God, I’m so sick of this crap. “Stalking me?” I spit.
He throws his head back like he’s shocked at my words. “Absolutely not. I was worried about you.”
Scoffing, I bend to retrieve my keys along with my bags. Turning, I start the walk back down the steps.
