by Cassia Leo
* * *
I found Karen’s bad grammar endearing. But I took Kevin’s threats very seriously.
I suspected that “take matters into my own hands” meant that Kevin was going to take one of three different courses of action:
1) He planned to report the group to Facebook for doxxing — or in layman’s terms, harassing someone or encouraging harassment by posting their personal contact information in a public forum. Little did he know that Mark Zuckerberg and I weren’t strangers. I’d had lunch with him the last time I was in Palo Alto.
2) He would contact authorities in Boise, Idaho and make a false harassment claim against Karen, the other Boise residents in the group, or me.
3) He was planning to get revenge or silence us with counter-harassment or violence.
Seeing as there were thousands of other Facebook groups investigating thousands of other murders and missing persons cases, Kevin would get nowhere fast if he took option one. As long as we didn’t share Kevin or Mike O’Toole’s contact information, we were well within our rights to speculate about Mike’s guilt.
He could try option two, but without being in the same state as me, he probably wouldn’t get very far, since I was the owner of the Facebook group, not Karen.
If Kevin even considered option three, he was in for the rudest wake-up call of the century.
Even though I had no reason to believe that Kevin’s threat was imminent, it didn’t hurt to let Ace and Matt know they should be extra vigilant today. Especially since I’d received an interesting email from a Detective Ava Robinson a couple of days ago.
Robinson had some interesting information about Mike O’Toole. This new lead brought into question the prevailing theory that Beth and Junior’s deaths were simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I closed the Facebook screenshots and opened up Robinson’s email again just as a call from Matt came through on my phone.
“Did you find it?” I asked.
Matt breathed heavily into the phone. “Not yet,” he replied, taking a beat to catch his breath. “But there’s still about eight more boxes I haven’t looked at, and four boxes that aren’t labeled. Should I bring in the ones that aren’t labeled?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “I don’t want Laurel knowing about this until she absolutely has to. Just set aside any boxes that aren’t labeled. I’ll look through them later.”
“Right on,” he replied.
“Finish up in there as quickly as possible. I need you watching over the house. This information I’m looking for is in relation to some new leads on the case, and… let’s just say I’m really fucking glad I decided to hire you guys when I did. If you see anyone on the property you don’t recognize, anyone at all, don’t hesitate to take action.”
“Got it.”
As we ended the call, I contemplated how to get Laurel out of the house for a while so I could look through those boxes. Maybe I should suggest that she and Dylan go out for dinner or drinks. Maybe even tell her to invite Drea to really draw the night out.
But I didn’t like the idea of sending Laurel out in public. Even with Ace by her side, I didn’t want to consider the possibility that I might be putting her in harm’s way.
I thought of asking Matt and Ace to discreetly load up the trunk of the SUV with the boxes. Then, I could pretend I needed to go to the office for a while. But I didn’t want to leave Laurel here alone, though not necessarily because of the recent threats.
Laurel had been talking in her sleep a few nights ago. I’d almost forgotten she had this habit because we hadn’t been sleeping together much for the past seven or eight months. But these last couple of weeks, I became reacquainted with her nighttime terrors and occasional sleep-talking.
It was rare that I could understand the words she mumbled in her sleep. When I did catch something resembling a word, it was usually “Junior” or “Mom” or “no.” The other night, I clearly heard her say the name “Isaac.”
I leaned back in the desk chair as I considered asking Ace to keep a watch over Laurel in my absence, to make sure she didn’t get too close to Isaac. But that wasn’t Ace’s job.
And I trusted Laurel. I had to trust her or our marriage was already over. Besides, I highly doubted she would do anything with Dylan around.
It was clear to me that Dylan was a way for her to exercise her maternal instincts. She wouldn’t want Dylan to think poorly of her.
I closed my laptop and took a deep breath as I pondered Laurel and her maternal instincts. She was so smart. She was intellectually and sexually my equal, through and through. No one could fuck or fight dirtier than Laurel. But when it came to her need to have a baby, she lost all sense of rationality.
It made me sick that I had exploited her one weakness in order to get her to come home. Her need to replace Junior and prove she could be as great as her dead mother was heartbreaking and also infuriating.
Junior could not be replaced. And Beth wasn’t the saint Laurel had turned her into posthumously.
Yes, Beth was awesome, and just as smart and beautiful as Laurel. But she was also as stubborn and lost in her own world. Laurel’s father would never win Father of the Year, but sometimes, I didn’t blame him for divorcing Beth and moving halfway across the country.
She was funny and a great conversationalist, but underneath the sharp-witted, nurturing grandma façade, she could be pretty fucking icy.
I would never forget how she refused to come to the hospital when Laurel first went into labor. I was aware that grandmothers weren’t always in the delivery room, and the hospital in Hood River was more than an hour’s drive away from Beth, but Laurel had asked for her. Beth didn’t leave for the hospital until I texted her to let her know Laurel was having an emergency C-section.
Laurel was crazy if she thought I was seriously going to entertain the idea of having another baby right now. Neither of us were ready for that.
Nevertheless, I loved my pixie more than life itself, even if she couldn’t seem to get her neighbor out of her thoughts. But I couldn’t keep having sex with her and hoping she wouldn’t get pregnant. It was too risky.
As soon as Laurel returned tonight, I was going to come clean about not being ready for another baby. It would be an excellent way to test her, to see if she would open up and tell me the whole truth about Isaac, if there was anything more to tell.
This was either going to blow up in my face, or it would be the communication breakthrough we needed.
Chapter 27
Isaac
As I pulled out of the parking lot at Sunny’s, I couldn’t contain my grin. I shouldn’t be so happy that Dylan quit his job, or that Vera was so upset. But I had faith that they would work out their differences. I was grinning because I knew how happy this would make Laurel.
She expressed to me her concern about Dylan not being true to himself. Next time she dropped by to work on the garden, I’d have to tell her what Vera just told me. And I hoped she dropped by soon or I’d have to take care of the pruning and mowing for her.
As I drove home from Sunny’s, I thought of this morning’s appointment with Harold Erickson, my VA worker. Harold had a bunch of paperwork for me to fill out. He also had a list of things I needed to bring with me to my next appointment, to prove that the event — referred to as an in-service stressor — that caused my PTSD happened during my service. I would have to bring my discharge papers, my medals, records of my unit assignments, an official diagnosis from a physician, and written statements from fellow veterans.
The diagnosis was made by a VA physician, so that would be simple enough. I kept my medals in a box in the attic. I hadn’t been up there since I put them away a couple of years ago, but they would be easy to find.
Getting copies of my discharge and unit assignment records should not be a problem. But getting written statements from my fellow vets was not something I was looking forward to. I was certain that most of us wanted to forget those “in-service
stressors.”
But without the statements, the VA couldn’t establish the nexus — the link between my PTSD and my service. Without the nexus, I couldn’t take part in the prolonged exposure therapy program starting at the VA in January.
I didn’t want the damn disability compensation. If they made me take it, I would just donate it. All I wanted was to take part in that program.
My buddy Marcus called me last year to ask me to give a statement for his claim. He had to move from his podunk town in Kentucky to Atlanta so he could participate in the program. He called me about six months later to tell me that it was the best decision he ever made and I should sign up as soon as I could.
As I turned onto my street, my mouth spread in a wide grin at the sight of Laurel’s SUV in the driveway. I didn’t see her husband’s truck anywhere, though there was a black SUV parked at the curb. But even if he was there, I didn’t see the problem in heading over to say hi to her, and tell her the news about Dylan.
Luck shined upon me when I stepped out of my truck and heard the sound of Laurel’s laughter coming from the other side of the cedar fence.
As I got ready to head over, it dawned on me that I still hadn’t returned one of Laurel’s pruning shears. They had been sitting in my garage since I borrowed them from her when mine crapped out. If she’s working in the backyard, she might need those.
As I walked down the driveway toward the back gate, I smiled as I realized the hostas she’d planted along the side of the house were thriving with the recent rains. Even if I’d only played a tiny role in this transformation, it still made me pretty fucking proud to see it with my own eyes.
Maybe there was still hope for me. Maybe the prolonged exposure therapy would actually help me figure out what the fuck was wrong with my brain. Maybe helping Laurel was the key to finally coming to terms with the death and destruction I’d unleashed on this world.
I couldn’t wait to see Laurel and thank her for being a catalyst for change in my life. I wanted to get a good look at her, make sure she was still eating and getting plenty of sleep.
The six-foot high cedar gate wiggled and a deep male voice called out, “Matt, I’m going to put my phone charging in the car. I’ll be right back.”
I stopped in the middle of the driveway, about eight feet from the fence. The wooden gate swung open and out stepped an enormous beast in a suit. His buzz cut and the hard look in his black eyes screamed ex-military. But the way he immediately swept his jacket back and reached for his sidearm told me he was either a skittish bodyguard or a thug.
“Who are you?” he shouted, my ears picking up the faint sound of the leather strap holding his firearm securely in place being unsnapped.
I dropped the shears as my body flooded with adrenaline and a familiar feeling of sheer dread overcame me.
Most people had the wrong idea about what a PTSD flashback felt like, their perceptions warped by Hollywood’s sensationalism. A PTSD flashback wasn’t like watching a movie of a memory you’d been trying to suppress. It was more like re-experiencing a feeling you’d been trying to bury.
The feelings of terror, rage, disgust, shame; the sensations of oppressive heat, ringing in your ears, blinding pain; those were the things that overcame me in stressful situations. And nothing set me off worse than having a gun pointed at me.
When I didn’t answer the question, this man who was the size of a grizzly bear pointed what looked like a nine millimeter Glock straight at my face.
I lost all sense of reality.
Chapter 28
Laurel
“Stop!” I shrieked with laughter, as Dylan pointed the shower hose at my face.
He giggled as he turned the showerhead back toward my arms. “Sorry! It was just too tempting.”
I gasped at his admission.
“I mean, it was an accident!” he corrected himself through his maniacal laughter.
My hands and wrists were so caked with soil, I had asked Dylan to come upstairs with me to help me rinse off in the shower. I was fully clothed, except for my bare feet. The sleeves of my green hoodie were pulled up above my elbows as I bent over the tub drain and held my arms out for Dylan to hose me off. Apparently, he thought it would be funny to “accidentally” spray me in the face.
I tried to wipe my wet face off on my shoulder. “Oh, I’ll get you for this,” I declared, rubbing the inside of my wrist to scrape off the dirt.
A very loud noise, like the crack of an ear-splitting firework or small explosive, cut through our laughter. Unable to stop myself, I batted the shower hose out of Dylan’s hand and slid in the bathtub as I hastily attempted to escape. Dylan attempted to help me up, but I swung at him.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Laurel, let me help you up,” he pleaded, reaching out to me again.
“Laurel! Are you okay?” Jack’s voice got louder with every word, and within seconds he was standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
I looked up at him, my body bristling with horror. “What was that? Was that a gun?”
Dylan slowly reached past me to turn off the water.
“I don’t know,” Jack replied, his eyes wide with horror. “Just stay here. I’ll take a look outside.”
“No. No, no, no, no. You can’t go out there!”
“I have to!” he shouted, then he disappeared down the hallway.
“It’s okay,” Dylan assured me as he helped me out of the tub. “He’ll be fine. You should get changed into something dry and I’ll go see what’s going on outside.”
“No, you can’t go out there. Jack can’t go out there.” I clutched at the painful spasm in my chest. “I have to go. I can’t let Jack go alone.”
Before I even stepped out of the bathroom, another loud bang startled us both. Dylan and I dropped to the floor, holding onto each other as another shot rang out.
“Mrs. Stratton! Are you okay?” It was Matt.
“We’re fine!” Dylan shouted back as he held me tighter and whispered, “You’re fine, Laurel. We’re all fine. Everything’s fine.”
But as he stroked my hair and murmured consolations in my ear, I remembered that Jack was downstairs. Or was he outside?
I pushed Dylan off of me and sprung to my feet. “Jack!” I shouted as I ran out of the bathroom, through the hallway, and raced down the steps toward the open front door. “Jack!”
Matt tried to stop me as I barreled past him onto the front porch, but I was moving too fast. I raced down the steps and followed the sound of male voices and grunts to the driveway. When I got there, my heart nearly exploded when I saw Jack on the concrete, his enormous bicep and forearm locked tightly around Isaac’s neck.
“Stop fighting!” Jack grunted.
Ace held his left arm close to his body, as if he was injured. He seemed to be unsuccessfully trying to stop Isaac from kicking, but he was at a serious disadvantage as he could only use his right arm. Isaac clawed at Jack’s forearm, attempting to free himself.
“Stop!” I cried. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”
As I approached, I saw the dark-red glistening blood pouring out of a wound on Isaac’s leg.
“Stop it, Jack!” I shrieked. “Stop! You’re killing him!” I took one more step before Matt grabbed both my arms from behind and pulled me backward. “Call 9-1-1!” I shouted, hoping Dylan or another neighbor would hear me. “They’re killing him! Call 9-1-1!”
The last thing I felt was my heart thumping a million beats per minute before I blacked out.
I woke in a dimly lit hospital room. My lips and throat dry, my nose stuffy, and the skin around my eyes raw and taut. The harsh fluorescent lights burned holes in my vision, dark spots that danced around as I tried to sit up.
“Don’t sit up yet. Give yourself a minute or you’ll blow.” Jack’s voice sounded annoyed, almost angry.
I turned my head slowly to the right to look at him. “What’s going on? Why am I in here?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “They had to
sedate you,” he said, rising from the chair. “I’ll let the nurse know you’re awake so we can get you signed out.” He stopped in the doorway with his back to me, his head turned slightly so I could see the side of his face, but he didn’t look my way. “I’ll send Dylan in. He was pretty worried when I left him in the waiting room.”
I drew in a long breath as I took in my surroundings. I was still in my clothes, which still felt a bit damp along the backs of my legs. Except for a couple of scratches on my forearms and a cotton ball taped to the crook of my arm, I appeared unscathed.
I was lying on top of the bed, not tucked beneath the hospital blanket. There were no IVs in my arms, like the time I was strapped to a gurney and placed on a 72-hour psych hold. This all had to mean I wasn’t being committed. Jack would be able to take me home today. But, what exactly had I done that I needed to be sedated?
Dylan stood in the doorway, his hands tucked in the pockets of his skinny jeans. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I replied, slowly pushing myself up into a sitting position.
“Here, I’ll help you,” Dylan said, leaning in to whisper in my ear as he adjusted the pillows behind me. “Jack is pissed.”
I narrowed my eyes at him as he stepped back. “Why? What happened? Where’s Isaac?”
Dylan ran his hand over his hair as he glanced through the doorway at the corridor beyond. “Isaac is in surgery. He tried to attack Ace, so Ace shot him in the leg. The bullet must have nicked an artery, because he lost a lot of blood. Ace is in surgery too. I guess Isaac got the gun away from him and shot him in the arm. It’s such a mess.”
My breathing grew shallow. “Is he… Are they going to be okay?”
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not family, so they won’t tell me anything. But…” He glanced at the doorway again, then leaned in to whisper. “You had to be sedated because when you woke up, Jack was having trouble keeping you from trying to get into the ambulance.”
