by E. R. Whyte
Disturbed, I look down at the phone and wonder if I should call the police. Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial the number.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Hi. I just had… I’m calling because I just received a disturbing phone call. I think someone is watching me.”
“Is there someone in the building with you?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s more like someone was watching through my window, or has a camera —”
“Ma’am, I’m going to supply you with the non-emergency line. Someone there will take your statement.”
“No, you don’t understand. This is an emergency.”
“My apologies. Is your safety being threatened, ma’am?”
“Not specifically, but I’m trying to tell you that someone is watching me. In my home.” A sigh travels the line, soft, but I hear it, nonetheless. “Look, I’m scared.”
“I understand. Just stay calm. I’ve dispatched a unit to your address. Please remain on the line with me until they arrive.”
“Yes. Okay.”
She continues talking, but I can’t focus on her actual words. I listen to the business-like cadence of her voice and check the cinnamon rolls, then pace into the other room to wait. Standing by the window, I chew on my thumbnail and watch the driveway.
It’s not ten minutes before a police car pulls to a stop in my driveway and two uniformed officers step out. The one driving hitches his pants on skinny hips and surveys the house. I don’t wait for them to hit the porch, but instead hang up on the nine-one-one operator and fling the door open.
“Thank you.” The words tumble over themselves in my haste. “Thank you for coming. Please come in.”
The officer from the passenger side is a woman. She smiles at me and extends her hand. “I’m Officer Tibbs, and this is Officer Jonas.”
“Shiloh. Brookings.” We go inside and I perch on the edge of my sofa. Jonas already has a tiny steno pad in his hand and is jotting something down.
“All right, Ms. Brookings. Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Tibbs asks. Her voice is kindly, soothing. I take a deep breath.
“The phone rang. It was an unknown caller, but I answered. Nothing—the person hung up. A little while later—”
“What time was that?” Jonas’ question is more of a bark, and I flinch. He must be bad cop in this duo.
“Ah... nine-thirty, maybe?”
He peers down at me. “Are you asking me, Ms. Brookings?”
“I—no! I just didn’t look at the time. Wait. It was my cell phone.” I open my phone screen and navigate to my recent calls. “Nine-thirty-seven.”
“Continue.” Jonas nods.
“I shrugged it off, went back to the cinnamon rolls I was making. I was sliding them in the oven when it happened again.”
“Unknown caller?” It’s Tibbs who asks.
“Yes. I said something... called him a jerk, I think... and was about to hang up. He spoke.”
“And what did he say? And you’re certain it was a man?”
“The voice was mechanical, like he was using a distorter. But yes—I’m positive it was a man. He said something like, ‘those cinnamon rolls look good’ or that he could smell them. Then he hung up.”
“What was the time of that call?”
“Ten-oh-two.”
“Who would have known you were making cinnamon rolls? Is this something that you do every Saturday morning?”
“Nobody! I do a lot of baking, but it’s not cinnamon rolls every time.” I pause and my throat closes up like it did earlier. “There’s no way anyone could have known what I was baking unless they were watching me.”
“Hmmm.”
I wait, tense, for their assessment. Jonas snaps his notepad closed and looks across at Tibbs.
“We’re going to take a look around, if that suits.”
I nod and stand. “Follow me.” I show them the kitchen, removing the cinnamon rolls from the oven and placing a second pan in while we’re there, and then walk them through every room of my small house. Back in the living room, Jonas slaps his steno pad on his thigh. “We’re going to have a unit do a drive by a few times a day. I want you to lock up tight when you’re here, and we’ll work on figuring out where the call came from.”
With a dip of his head, he turns toward the door.
“Wait. Is that it?”
“That’s all we can do at the moment.”
“But... someone was watching me—”
“We have no way of proving that. Maybe it was a neighbor pulling a prank. We’re going to have to wait and see—” His voice rises when I start to protest, and he holds out a restraining hand. “And... and we will have somebody watching the house.”
“I knew this was a colossal waste of time,” I mutter and swing the door open.
“Ms. Brookings—” Tibbs tries to speak, but I cut her off.
“Thank you for coming.”
They’re still on the porch when I close the door firmly.
“That was about useless,” I murmur to myself. I can’t figure whether I should be relieved they didn’t find anything or frustrated that they didn’t look harder. They were so… dismissive. Discouraged, I walk down the hall to Mom’s home office.
For years, Mom ran a private investigation firm that did surprisingly well given the size of our small town and the fact that it was woman-owned and operated in a man’s world. She specialized in cheating spouses and spousal abuse cases, but surely she’d have known some tricks for figuring out blocked callers.
Once in Mom’s office, I shut the door and stare. The room is swathed in white sheets that protect the furniture and contents from the accumulation of dust. I haven’t been in this room in years. Just a couple months shy of three months, to be exact. That’s the day I returned home for good after identifying Mom’s body at the morgue, after staying with Sammy at the hospital until I knew he would survive... after the funerals were over. I closed the door after covering everything up that day and never entered again.
Pulling the dust cloth from the overstuffed lemon-yellow chair in the corner, I sink into its cushions and give myself a moment to sit among my family’s ghosts. Two minutes, I tell myself. You have one hundred and twenty seconds to fall apart, and then you’re going to pull your head out of your ass and figure out what mom would have done with that weirdo.
There is a mustiness in the air from the layer of dust that clings to the sheets. Mom wouldn’t appreciate it, I know. Beneath it, though, I fancy I can still smell the lavender oil that trailed her everywhere. It was in her diffuser, on her wrists, at her temples. Sammy and I called it her juju, because she claimed it healed anxiety, sleeplessness, attention-deficit… everything. I’d give anything to believe in lavender with the same unadulterated faith she once did.
One wall is covered with bookshelves housing her collection of romance novels and murder mysteries. She loved her fiction. She read every night before bed. I’d find her sacked out on the couch many nights, having fallen asleep in the act. The perpendicular wall, which I always loved as a kid for its window seat, is a photo homage to our life as a family. Every beautiful, casual photo that we ever loved hangs on that wall, the frames a charming hodgepodge of colors and sizes. The other walls hold half-size wooden file cabinets and various office equipment, still under dust covers.
Two minutes are gone. I climb out of the easy chair, pull the dust cover carefully off the desk to keep from disturbing its surface, and start searching. For what, I’m not sure. Something that will point me in the right direction for figuring out my unknown caller.
The surface of the huge wooden desk Mom purchased at a flea market years ago is littered with odds and ends. There’s the bracelet Sammy made for her, a replica of one he made for me that’s currently hanging from my rearview mirror. I pick it up and turn the beads over in my fingers as I look, let the leather thong loop around my hand. Pens scatter the sur
face, most missing their caps because Mom was forever taking them off to chew on them and then losing them. A neat line of Post-Its edges the side of the desk with notes and reminders scribbled in her looping handwriting. I scan them, seeing names and numbers of contacts, dates, meeting times, names of apps, and programs.
One name jumps out at me. Twiggy Gentry. I remember Twiggy. She was a child prodigy in our community, Sammy’s age, but a computer genius. I heard she ended up going to college when she was around fifteen. I tap the Post-It, wondering why Mom had her contact info.
From the kitchen, I hear the timer for the cinnamon rolls start to beep, and I pluck the Post-It from the desk before returning to check the rolls. I’ll call her, I decide. See if she can help. If she can’t, maybe she’ll know someone who can.
The second pan of cinnamon rolls is baked to perfection, golden-brown and risen plump and airy with pockets oozing cinnamon sugar goodness. I place them on a plate, give a wary look around my kitchen, and flick it off. If some perv is watching, I’ll make sure he gets the message I want to give.
6
Gunner
For a hundred bucks and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, Twiggy Gentry was the go-to source for virtually any kind of intel. She could find out whose mom was sucking off whose dad, whose pocket those football funds were being misappropriated from, and whose DUI had been erased before it ever even made book. I was texting Twiggy on my way out of the club last night, feeling a bit desperate in my need for information on why Shiloh would be stripping. It just wasn’t jiving with the girl I remembered.
Shiloh and I had a history. She was my first kiss. My first serious crush. The girl I never could, never did forget. I got drunk when she finally decided to give Shane Reasor a shot; witnessed, with satisfaction, her dump the guy not even a month later.
I was there at her mother’s funeral, and later, with her at Sammy’s hospital bed. I held her when she cried like her heart was breaking.
This stripping thing? There’s not a damn thing wrong with it, other than that I can tell it’s not what she wants to be doing. That blank expression on her face as she took her clothes off for a room full of men? That’s not the Shiloh I know.
And damn me for being a fool, but I can’t just sit back and enjoy the show.
And then, of course, there’s English. If I’m going to get Shiloh’s assistance with passing English, I need to know everything there is to know.
Rumor has it Twiggy’s parents bought her first personal computer at the age of three purely so she could dismantle and explore its internal workings. She was so fascinated and adept at reassembly they enrolled her in a fancy junior coding and programming class. In quick progression she managed to exceed the instructor’s skill set, and from that point on, became a self-taught and unabashed genius. Although we were the same age, Twig had ended up graduating from high school at fifteen and was now about to graduate college.
We’ve been friends forever, beginning with playing on the same tee ball team when we were little. Despite the grade skipping, we’ve managed to stay close. Twiggy still comes to parties and the football games, still hangs out with Miles and me for a burger now and then.
Rumor has it her dad’s in bed with some shady characters, but I can’t focus on that, now.
I’m meeting her early Sunday afternoon following Shiloh’s club performance on the backside of my family’s vineyard. It’s beautiful out here, the mountains surrounding our valley cloaked in trees whose leaves are doggedly hanging on the winter gray branches. The gravel road that winds back through the vineyard property allows workers to access the vines at different points. I’ve found privacy along it for hook-ups and getting together to drink and hang out. Not that I’ve ever actually brought a chick here. I don’t bring girls home.
From where I sit there’s a shield of cut-back pine and thinned poplars to my left and field on field of resting vines rolling gently to my right. I sit and wait patiently for Twig’s arrival, letting the vineyard’s peace wash over me.
Twig arrives with a trail of dust following along behind her vehicle. She climbs out and stretches, taking a big breath of the cool air, then hands me a thick manila envelope. I accept her offering with a smile of thanks and a snort as she wastes no time flipping the lid on the green and white cup of coffee sitting on the hood of my truck and grabbing a donut from the box. “You’d think you’d be fat as all get-out,” I say, eying her skinny figure. “I have no clue how you stay... what? A hundred pounds soaking wet?” Twig scratches her eyebrow ring, shoving her rainbow-colored beanie up in the process. She wears the thing year-round for some reason.
She quirks a brow. “Get-out? What the hell is that? And I have a fast metabolism. You shouldn’t comment on girls’ weight. Why are you digging for dirt on Miss Brookings? I heard she was good.”
I brush off her snark about commenting on girls’ weight. I’m sure she’s right, but I speak what’s on my mind and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. “Do I know something Miss Twiggy doesn’t? It’s a classic southern expression meaning ‘to an extreme’. I am disappointed that you do not already know this.”
Twig rolls her eyes. She hates it when I call her Miss Twiggy, complains that it’s too close to Miss Piggy. I continue. “And I like her, too. This—” I hold up the envelope. “—stays between us. I’m not asking for any kind of bad reason. You know there was that whole thing years ago. I’m just curious if there’s any new news on Sammy, how she ended up teaching.” And stripping, I add mentally.
“Hummm.” Twig nods. “That’s okay, then. You could always just ask her, though, you psycho. She called and left a message yesterday. Said she had a creepy unknown caller she needed help with. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t you. Because, you know, if it was? I’d have to gut you or something. And I kind of like you.”
I have to laugh at the idea of tiny Twiggy gutting anybody, but the thought of Shiloh having some creep calling and skeeving her out enough to call Twiggy for help sobers me. “What did she say happened?”
“She said she was in the middle of making cinnamon rolls and got a phone call. First one was a hang up. Called back around ten, fifteen minutes later and breathed heavy, then told her cinnamon rolls sure looked good, or something to that effect—”
“So, this person knew what she was doing? A prowler, you think?”
“That’s the way it seemed. I haven’t spoken to her yet, but she sounded freaked out in the message.”
“Did she recognize the voice?”
“Used a distorter.”
“What the hell, Twig.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. It’s not a normal prank call.” She pauses, her expression troubled. “I found something when I was digging up information for you, by the way. Did you know that she’s been working in a strip club?”
“I just found out. That’s part of the reason I wanted this.” I wave the envelope at her. “It just doesn’t fit, you know?”
“Yeah, I agree.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I just want to help her.”
She grins and turns to leave. “And there’s that permanent hard-on you have for her, too. Can’t forget about that.”
I am never going to live that party down. I clasp my heart. “Twig! Shots fired. Let’s not go there.” She facepalms me playfully as she opens her car door and something else strikes me. “And do me a favor, Twig?” She turns back, a question on her gamine features. “Anyone else comes to you, asking about her? You let me know before you give them any information.” She hesitates, and I get it. Part of why she was successful with what she did lay in her ability to be a neutral party. She couldn’t play favorites unless she was an exclusive hire. “Consider it another box of donuts and a standing commission,” I offer, and she smiles.
“That I can do. Later, gator.” I wave her off and we part ways, Twig climbing into her sweet Hellcat. I make my way to my truck, a roomy late model that works well for the occa
sional rough terrain in our vineyards, and slide behind the wheel. Settling in, I crack open the envelope, giving in to that rise of anticipation that has been with me since Twig handed it to me earlier. I am about to pilfer through every one of Shiloh Brookings’ secrets, and I can’t bring myself to feel an ounce of shame for it.
After our seven minutes in heaven, Shiloh Brookings went back to ignoring my existence. I put myself in front of her every opportunity I had, Miles and I inviting ourselves to her brother Sammy’s home for unnecessary study sessions and making general nuisances of ourselves. We ate all their chips and drank all the soda, and as soon as Shiloh returned home in the afternoons from dance team or whatever it was she did that got her all sweaty and… glistening… we were instantly in her way. Hogging the couch and Netflix account. Monopolizing their small home’s hallway bathroom while she waited impatiently outside the door. Flopped across her bedroom floor while we begged her for a ride somewhere.
We were everywhere underfoot, and to their credit, my friends were my faithful allies in the Win Shiloh Campaign.
She was good at ignoring me, though.
The first document I pull out is a copy of her acceptance letter to the University of Virginia. Prestigious school, not the easiest to gain admittance to. She’d graduated just this past spring with a teaching certificate and degree in English, but looking through transcripts and a few other documents, it looks like she changed her major at the end of her first year—which would actually have been her junior year—from photography to English. I remember Shiloh being crazy smart. Nerdy, despite her popularity. She did our state’s early college program in her final two years of high school, graduating with her freshman and sophomore credits already under her belt.
The major change doesn’t feel right. She had a camera ever eternal up to that face of hers. She used to take pictures of weird shit—a crack in the sidewalk, somebody’s shoe, a hand raised in the air. The pictures lined the walls of her room, tacked to the bulletin boards and when space ran out, the walls themselves. Miles had asked her about them once, why she took such odd shots, and she had shrugged. “If you don’t see the beauty in them, my telling you it’s there won’t change anything,” was all she said.
