by A. R. Torre
Maybe her self-imposed exile was just an excuse. To stay online. To keep her job. To excuse her behavior and stuff it behind the “it’s my only option” shield. As far as he knew, she had never acted on her so-called urges. Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Was an overly dramatic individual who liked the attention and drama of locking herself away. Had grown addicted to her job and decided to keep the status quo. Play with naïve him while still enjoying all the perks of her prior life.
Maybe he was the fool in all this and she was laughing at him right now. Up in her Mulholland Oaks tower, surrounded by the lights and the cash and her hundreds of admirers.
Or maybe he was just trying to convince himself that his beautiful girl wasn’t really insane.
CHAPTER 22
Past
“I WILL KILL him, I swear to God I will.”
“Deanna, you don’t mean that.” Dr. Derek’s voice was, like always, balm. Too bad he was trying to apply it to sandpaper.
“You’ve worried about me killing for four years, why are you so calm now?!” I shrieked the words, the switchblade still in my hand, the blade handle cool and comforting in my grip. I paused beside my bed and stabbed at a pillow, the puncture quick and smooth. I stopped and held up the blade, impressed. Damn. Well worth the six-hundred-dollar price tag.
“Believe it or not, this emotion is a good thing, Deanna.”
He needed to stop saying my name. It’s like there was a page in his psychology textbook that he was stuck on, in the Say the Client’s Name chapter. “Stop saying my name.”
“Jealousy is a perfectly normal human emotion. It’s good that you care for another person enough to be jealous. It’s a reminder of the world outside your apartment.”
“I don’t need to be reminded of the world outside my apartment. I’m in no danger of forgetting it.” Forgetting? It’s my obsession, second to my thoughts of death. Third to my new thoughts of jealousy.
“The negative is how you are turning your anger into violence. That’s what we want to avoid.”
Obviously. I stabbed the pillow again. A puff of air resulted, blowing the ends of my hair slightly. If only pillows bled.
CHAPTER 23
Present
JessReilly19: Mike
JessReilly19: u there?
HackOffMyCock: hey bb
JessReilly19: is this chat secure?
HackOffMyCock: not really
HackOffMyCock: let’s cam instead
HackOffMyCock: there’s something about schoolgirl plaid that helps too
JessReilly19: don’t be an ass. Seriously, is it secure?
HackOffMyCock: yeah. What’s up 007?
JessReilly19: cops showed up today
HackOffMyCock: about what?
JessReilly19: I’m not sure. They didn’t say.
HackOffMyCock: you didn’t ask?
HackOffMyCock: hello?
HackOffMyCock: u there?
JessReilly19: sorry. Someone called. Anyone come by to see you?
HackOffMyCock: nope.
JessReilly19: let me know if they do.
HackOffMyCock: u know it. U need me to do anything?
JessReilly19: no. Thx
HackOffMyCock: chat this week?
JessReilly19: yeah.
HackOffMyCock: your enthusiasm is a little out of control. Rein that shit in.
JessReilly19: :) *dancing excitedly* *hanging up my I Love Mike poster*
JessReilly19: better?
HackOffMyCock: better. *unzips pants*
JessReilly19: lol. Stop.
HackOffMyCock: *frowns in a sexy manner*
JessReilly19: *raises her middle finger*
HackOffMyCock: *gets hard*
JessReilly19: OMG STOP or else I’ll start charging you.
HackOffMyCock: *making it rain with Benjamins*
JessReilly19: BYE
HackOffMyCock: BYE *tucking gigantic cock back into pants*
---CHAT ENDED: JessReilly19 has left room
CHAPTER 24
Present
DETECTIVE BRENDA BOLES sits at her desk, a crowded space with forgotten paperwork, each case more important than the last, her weakness time management. Hidden behind the stacks, three coffee cups, handmade gifts from her kids, their touch in the formed clay, the brightly painted surfaces, the names painstakingly dug into the sides. One for each child: Matthew, Sage, and Bricen. At one time, she’d attempted to drink from them. Now they collect pens, scissors, and rulers. She glances at one and notices the thin layer of dust across its surface. Rubs a finger across the top of it as the call connects, the dull ring humming in her ear. She closes her eyes and lets out a long breath. Rolls her neck. So much left to do today. No chance of leaving soon, not with cases like this on her desk. A freakin’ jigsaw puzzle, each new pry into Deanna Madden’s life bringing up more questions. Hopefully this call will yield some answers.
“Hello?”
At the man’s voice, she pries an eye open. “Dr. Vanderbilt?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“This is Detective Brenda Boles from the Tulsa Police Department. Is this a good time?”
“It is. How can I help you?” The man’s voice is deep and calm, the type a tired mother of three would love to crawl into and confess all her woes.
“I have some questions about one of your patients. Deanna Madden?”
Complete silence. She pushes the phone against her ear. “Dr. Vanderbilt? Are you there?”
“I thought you were calling from the Tulsa City Police Department.”
“Yes. I’m a detective. Brenda Boles.”
“May I ask what your interest is in Deanna?”
Deanna. Interesting. “She’s a suspect in an investigation we are conducting.”
“In Tulsa?”
God, this guy, for his incredible voice, is denser than dirt. “Yes.”
“But Deanna lives in Utah.”
“I just left her apartment. I can assure you that she lives in Tulsa.”
There is another long moment of silence before he speaks again. “I see. I must have been confused. What is your question?”
“We found clozapine in her apartment, which you prescribed to her.”
“Yes. She’s had that prescription for several years.”
“What is it supposed to treat?” She spins in her chair, tapping her pen on the arm of the chair.
“I’m bound by doctor/patient confidentiality, Detective Boles, a fact that I am sure you are aware of.” She raises her eyebrows at the tone, which has taken a hard turn.
“I’m just trying to get to the truth, Dr. Vanderbilt.”
“Please call me Derek. May I ask what you are investigating?”
She spins a paperclip and debates what to share. “No, you may not.” He won’t share his goods, she won’t share hers.
“Have you arrested Deanna?”
“Not yet. But it’s not for lack of trying, Derek.” The name comes out incredibly awkward, like the first time she introduced herself by her married name. She shouldn’t have said it, should have stuck to Dr. Vanderbilt. Shouldn’t be trying to picture the man with the sexy voice. That’s what she gets for… God, how long has it been? A month without sex? Her marriage will crumble if this keeps up. Other than sex and children, there isn’t much they have in common. She draws a line on the piece of paper before her and tries to remember where this conversation had been going.
The man on the other end coughs. “Will she need a psych evaluation?”
David’s frame appears on the far side of the room, his head turning left as he speaks to another badge and she stands, the phone captured in the crook of her shoulder, waving to catch his attention. “Oh, I think she’ll need a lot of things. I’d keep your phone on.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, Brenda.”
“Me too.”
She hangs up the phone and rolls her neck, grimacing through a smile as David approaches.
“Get the doc?�
��
“Sure did. He clammed up, wouldn’t give anything. But an interesting side note, he was under the impression that she lived in Utah. So maybe we can call over, do some digging, see if she lived or raised any hell there.”
“I’ll do it. Anything else?”
“If I had to guess, they have a personal connection. A friendship… maybe something more.”
“That’s interesting, given that this girl seems to have a shortage of friends.”
“Interesting and problematic. Last thing we need is a doctor who’ll protect her.”
“You think he will?”
She taps her fingers against the arm of the chair, a slow rhythm that only serves to deepen her agitation. “Not necessarily. My mind’s jumping ahead a bit.” She watches him toss his coffee into the trash. “You heading out?”
“Got to run downtown. There’s a lead on the Downover case I’m going to follow up on. Then I’ll be back.”
“Call me on your way back. Depending on the time, I may get you to pick me up something to eat.”
“Thought Sage had that recital tonight.”
“She does. But there’s no way I’ll make it. Not with all this.” She gestures to the pile on her desk. Matt will take pictures, video her solo with his phone. She’ll get sporadic texts throughout the night, enough to make her feel included, but not so much to reach the point of guilt. They “understand.” A horrible word that ranks right up there next to “I’m not mad at you, I’m disappointed.” They never should have had another child. The added guilt has only pushed her deeper into the hole of work-related depression. She should be at home. She should be a mother to her children. She should cook dinner and know about their classes, and help with homework, and not be wearing her ass out chasing down psychotic prom queens like Deanna Madden.
She smiles when David waves good-bye. Opens up her right-side drawer and pulls out her headphones. Plugs them in and hits the Play button on her phone. Inhales a deep breath and flips open the folder, shaking out the images, the initial strands of music starting as she flips over the first photo and looks down at Jeremy Pacer’s battered and broken face.
CHAPTER 25
Present
I USED TO worship this window; it was my altar to the outside world. Now, with its cardboard barrier gone, I can still feel its pull. I stand before it, the window fully raised, the fresh flow of outside air blowing over my skin and carrying with it the scents of life. Of garbage, fried food, car exhaust. I close my eyes and drink them in, a smile on my face. I need to lock it. Paint it shut again. Cardboard it up again, or just paint the glass. I’ll do it soon. But not yet.
From behind me, I hear the chime of my phone, Derek’s ringtone. I frown, my eyes still closed. It’s not Wednesday at three o’clock. Why is he calling me? I move forward and snag the phone, returning to the window and holding it to my ear. “Hey.”
“Deanna, I just got a call from the Tulsa Police Department.”
Shit. I feel the twist of guilt that I used to get right before my father would ground me. I swallow. “And?”
“What did you do?”
I look out the window, the night falling over the skyline, the resulting effect one that hid imperfections and painted the scene in one of rosy Instagram perfection. “Do they have anything on me?”
“Answer the question, Deanna.”
I hang up the phone and bend over, resting my hands on the sill and hanging my head out the window. The wind blew as if in response, blowing my hair in gentle brushes against my face.
“What did you do?” Such an accusatory tone, completely devoid of trust or positive expectation.
But it was a great question. What did I do? And why can’t I remember it? I pull out my phone and call Jeremy again. This time, there is no ring, his voice mail picking straight up. I hang up and feel sick.
CHAPTER 26
Past
IT TOOK TWO days for me to get over myself and forgive Jeremy. Unfortunately for me, he was in the right. And I didn’t wear humility very well. At all.
He had every right to ask me questions.
Every right to invite me to his sister’s.
Every right to want a normal girlfriend.
Every right to not be locked out of my apartment.
Every right for an explanation when I refused him entry.
I, on the other hand… didn’t have many points in my favor. I’d been wrong in how I handled it. How I handled him. I needed to share more, speak more. I needed to open up a bit and let him further in. I needed to be able to have a conversation with him without slamming my head into the tile and giving myself a concussion.
“How would you handle it if Jeremy broke up with you? Ended your relationship?”
It’d been a stupid question on Dr. Derek’s part, but it was a question that hadn’t left my mind since. How would I handle it? My first instinct was to shrug off the question. Like I did with Derek. It isn’t going to happen so it doesn’t matter. But… what if?
What if he broke up with me? Would I go back to my life? Keep the door shut? Restrict my human contact to the digital variety? How much of my sanity lay in my ability to touch someone? Be held? Be kissed and caressed and loved? Jeremy was my bodyguard, the person who could escort me out into the world and whom I knew would keep me from hurting someone. He was my security blanket, the person without whom I could have never stepped out into that hall. He, literally, handed me the keys to freedom that first day. And he’d held my hand ever since.
What if he left? Would I survive? Would my madness stay in check? What about my heart? How would I react? Would I retreat into a sniffling ball of patheticness? Or would I lash out, angry and vindictive and red with rage?
A hundred different combinations of reactions. No wonder Derek had pushed the horrific question upon me.
A knock sounded, hard and firm. I rose from the bed and walked to the door. Opened it and raised my chin. Looked into Jeremy’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER 27
Past
A WOMAN APOLOGIZING is a rare thing. Deanna apologizing is a rarity that had only happened once before. Jeremy blinked and tried to form a response, her delivery hanging between them from his outstretched hand.
“For…?” It wasn’t a test. In that unexpected moment he couldn’t think of what she was apologizing for. It didn’t help that all coherent mind processes stopped when she stood before him in panties and a sheer tank top.
“For being a bitch. For not letting you in. For shutting you out. For not explaining.” She lifted a shoulder and dropped it, a half shrug, as if it was an obvious answer. Which, now that she’d verbalized it, it kind of was.
“Oh.” He lifted his free hand and scratched at the back of his neck. Let the hand containing the package drop to his side. “So… I can come in?”
“Of course.” She stepped back and gestured him in. When he stepped inside, he noticed her tennis shoes, kicked off and lying next to her bed.
CHAPTER 28
Past
YES, I WENT for a run. Whatever. It didn’t mean anything. It was the middle of the day, I was having a mini–panic attack after a short conversation with Dr. Derek, and I laced up my tennis shoes and ran.
Well… ran/walked. Like those 5kers who can’t make it the full 3.1 miles so they plod down to a walk, their fists still enthusiastic in their swings through the air, ponytails bobbing, their heads jerking right to blab to whatever poor soul suffers along next to them.
My run was a little different than that. I started out strong, my tennis shoes smacking the pavement fluidly, my arms loose and in rhythm, my breath even and clear. Then I hit the fourth block and my exhales became a little ragged. Sixth block I had to shake out my arms. Tenth I cut left in preparation for my return home. Twelfth I began to wheeze. Fourteenth I stumbled to a halt and bent over, gripping my knees for strength.
It was so stupid. The entire thing. The “brilliant” idea I’d had to go and blow off stea
m. Because I’d done it in high school, when pissed at my parents or wound up over a test. Because back then, when everything in my life was rosy and perfect, I’d pounded pavement, chalking up three or four miles in one flawless, sweat-glistened athletic event, my heart pounding as I sprinted the final stretch home, my abs tight, endorphins high, grin triumphant. That was then.
My new reality, the one wheezing to a slow death against a fire hydrant, only sent me deeper down stress road.
I straightened, my heart pounding, everything coming into focus, the blaring sun beating down. The hard rattle of an approaching car. The woman, ten feet over, sitting on a step and bitching into a cell phone.
I suddenly realized a variety of things.
I was outside the apartment.
I was unarmed.
I was free.
I had walked slowly home, one tired foot before the other, listening to everything, absorbing it all. And I wasn’t sure, by the time I pushed a sluggish hand on my building’s front door, if the beating in my chest was from exertion or exhilaration.
“So, you went out?” The question came from behind me, an edge in Jeremy’s voice, and I turned, stalled, unwilling to put all of that into words. I had just apologized. And I wasn’t particularly used to apologizing. It felt weird. Icky. Ridiculously unnecessary. But half of me, the part that got panicky at the thought of Life Without Jeremy, insisted on it. That half of me was a nervous, weak little thing. I wanted to cut open her throat and watch her die. But instead, I’d just let her out, let her apologize. And Jeremy had seemed to respond well. He’d stepped inside. I’d seen the light enter his eyes. The hint of a dimple in his cheek. And when he’d followed me in, I’d given myself a little pat on the back, was already squashing the weak, apologetic half of me back down, into some dark piece of myself where she’d hopefully starve to death and die. Was busy doing all of those things when he asked the question. A simple enough question. One a thousand people probably used every hour, but it came out hard. Accusatory. And when I turned, he stood in place, his hands on his hips, eyes down, on my tennis shoes. The inside soles were probably still warm, the outside glistening from the puddle I hadn’t quite skirted.
