“I don’t want to see them, and they don’t want to see me.”
“What do you do for holidays?”
“The ones I celebrate?” I paused because I couldn’t remember celebrating a holiday in the last few years. “I go over to Bishop’s house for Thanksgiving and Christmas. He’s the captain of my division—but also my father-in-law, I guess.” I smiled at the thought of him. Even though he got on my nerves on the job, he meant well and really cared for me.
“You guess?”
“I’m not with his daughter anymore,” I said, hoping that was enough information to satisfy her.
“Are you dating anyone now?” she asked as she scribbled on her notepad.
“I haven’t dated anyone seriously since Tara…” I trailed off, but it was too late. I’d said her name, and I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t want to bring up Tara, but I knew she was going to come up sooner or later. There was no way I could be in a shrink’s office for an hour and not mention her.
“How long ago was this?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
And that was the point when I wanted to crawl in a hole.
“She died.” Judging by the raise of Dr. Winston’s eyebrow, I knew she wanted more. “I don’t know what happened.” I paused. “She didn’t come home one night.” I looked away from Dr. Winston because I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that look people always gave me when I told the story. “Neither Bishop nor I had heard from her in days. One morning, we got a call from the station. Her body had been found by a group of hikers.” I stopped myself before I started to ramble. I’d had to tell this story a dozen times so far, and it never got any easier.
“Bishop? Your captain?” Dr. Winston continued taking notes.
“Yeah. And Tara’s dad.” I knew I was going to have to tell her the entire story. “Tara and I met when I first started working at the station. I was a rookie, and she would come in to see her dad. After a while, we started dating. We were together for almost five years.” I cut myself off. I tried to play it off that I was pausing to give Dr. Winston an opportunity to catch up with her notes, but I needed a minute to compose myself. “A few months after she was found, Bishop made me a detective. We both knew my promotion was too soon, but I needed something…good in my life.”
“Have you ever talked to anyone professionally about this?”
“No. You’re the first. There isn’t enough time in the day to talk to someone.” I tried to justify myself by adding, “I don’t have a Monday-through-Friday job, and crime doesn’t stop at five o’clock.” To my surprise, that made Dr. Winston laugh aloud.
“No, it doesn’t stop at five,” she repeated. “Did you work on Tara’s case?”
“No, I wasn’t a detective then. And no family was allowed on the case. Bishop and I did our own private work on the side, but everything was a dead end.” I realized my unintentional pun a moment too late. “She had an off-and-on drug problem. It was more on than off toward the end,” I added, hoping Dr. Winston wouldn’t think less of her—like most people probably did when they learned about Tara’s addiction.
“What drugs?” Dr. Winston continued the conversation without reaction.
“Prescription pills—Vicodin, methadone…” I trailed off again. “She hurt her shoulder pretty badly playing basketball in college, and she never fully recovered. She lost her scholarship when she couldn’t play anymore.”
“Is that what killed her? The drugs?” Dr. Winston looked up and waited for my answer.
“In a roundabout way, I think so.” I paused. “We believe she owed people money. And when she didn’t pay up, they took matters into their own hands. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
Dr. Winston gave me a sympathetic look but didn’t say a word.
“I’ve made my peace with it. I loved Tara very much, but her addiction became a real challenge in our relationship.” I could feel the anger and resentment start to build.
“What was challenging, specifically?”
“The lies, the stealing. Toward the end, a lot of my money and jewelry went missing. Well, not exactly missing—I knew she took it for drugs or to pawn somewhere.” The only time I remembered the bad parts of the relationship was when I was forced to talk about it. I preferred to remember her how she was when we first started dating. That was the real Tara to me.
“And you said you haven’t dated anyone seriously since?”
“I’ve been on a few dates, but it barely gets past a second round of drinks. Either I’m too focused on work, or I compare the woman to Tara.”
“Are you still holding on to that relationship?” She began writing in her notepad again.
“So, the shootout…” I said, trying to ignore her question and change the subject back to the reason I was actually required to be here.
“What we talk about in these sessions doesn’t get back to your employer. We don’t even have to talk about work if you’d prefer to talk about other issues.”
“Let’s just stick to work,” I said firmly. “The suspect had kidnapped a teenage girl and was using her as a human shield when we had his place surrounded. He fired first, and the responding officer did what he had to do. Now the girl is home safe with her family.”
“What in your life would you like to improve?” Dr. Winston continued taking notes.
“I’d like to get a dog.” I knew that wasn’t what she meant. “I guess I would like to be with someone again—the way I was with Tara.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“Worry, I guess.” I tried to smile, but it hurt too much to keep up this façade. “What if I get serious with someone and she leaves? Or she has a drug addiction? Or both?”
“It’s the unknown that’s the hardest to deal with.”
“I feel like I’m at a fork in the road. And I can’t decide which path to take. I know going to the left is wrong, but going to the right is wrong too. So I just stand there, like I’m waiting for someone to come along and tell me it’s okay to go left. Or right.” I could feel myself getting worked up, and I knew I had to stop talking about Tara and my personal life.
“Why do you feel like either way is wrong?”
“I don’t know.” I had never thought about why I felt that way. “I just do.”
“You’re authorized for up to three sessions with me. So I can either sign off that you’re fine, or I can recommend we continue our sessions. How would you feel if we used the remainder of your sessions? We can talk about work or whatever else is going on in your life.” Dr. Winston looked at the clock. Although my session wasn’t quite over, it was time to go.
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure. If you decide to come in again, my receptionist can schedule an appointment for you.” She put down her pen and took off her glasses. “Whether or not you decide to come back, I want you to do a homework assignment for me. The next time you feel like you’re at this ‘fork in the road’, as you called it, I want you to ask yourself, ‘What do I want to do?’ and then I want you to do it—if you feel like you can.”
“Okay,” I replied and stood. Dr. Winston followed me to her door and let me out. Walking past the receptionist, I politely smiled at her and tried not to make eye contact with the man sitting in the lobby waiting to be seen next. My badge was clipped to my left hip, so the man could have easily assumed I just was here to ask questions about some “crazy” patient.
Once I reached my car, I called Bishop to let him know I was on my way to the station to pick up the reports and field notes on Tammy Davis. Bishop told me that most of the evidence collected wasn’t back from the lab yet and wouldn’t be ready until later in the week. So he told me to go home and enjoy the rest of my Sunday. He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be rather busy with journalists looking for more information and concerned citizens calling in with their theories on what happened to the victim. It was usually the elderly who cal
led in accusing their neighbors of suspicious activities, and their tips rarely led anywhere.
Back at my house, I sat in the living room and propped my feet on the coffee table. Turning on the television, I flipped past one crime show after another until I settled for a rerun of an old sitcom. It was barely seven o’clock, and I didn’t feel like being home. The sun was still shining, and the kids across the street were skateboarding down their long driveway.
I envied the way they could find enjoyment in such a small thrill. I hadn’t been able to do that since Tara was around, and I honestly didn’t know if I would ever be able to again. Moving from the apartment we shared was a huge step toward recovery, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about her every day.
With the only noise in the house being the soft hum of the central air kicking on, I logged into my personal email account with the hopes of maybe finding some sort of friendly message. But I had to laugh when I compared the amount of email in my work inbox to the amount of email in my personal inbox: zero. With nothing to waste but time, I clicked on the spam folder and read through the subject lines. A magic pill that guaranteed sexual stamina all night long—I could definitely delete that one.
Toward the bottom of the spam folder, I saw an invitation to come celebrate Denim’s twentieth anniversary. Denim is one of the only lesbian bars in Lyons, Ohio, and I had spent my fair share of weekends there before I met Tara. At one point I considered that place my second home. The celebration was scheduled to go on all weekend, and with a few hours left of what was supposed to be the weekend, I considered going.
Closing the lid to my laptop, I looked out the bay window in my living room and watched the kids across the street jump ramps and try to perfect their three-sixty spins. They laughed when they fell down and high-fived one another when they landed perfectly. It seemed like no matter how many times the youngest kid fell, he would get right back up and try again. Maybe he was trying to prove to the other boys that he was just as tough as they were.
Feeling myself sink deeper into the comfort of my couch, I thought about what Dr. Winston had asked me to do for my homework assignment. Although watching the kid dust himself off and try the ramp again was inspiring, it was Dr. Winston’s words that gave me the motivation to grab my car keys off the coffee table.
Chapter Three
I ordered a beer and sat in the back of the bar. Granted, it was the last night of the weekend, but it didn’t look much like a twentieth-anniversary celebration. Including myself, there were only four customers here. Two thirty-something women sat at the bar chatting with the bartender, and another woman had her back turned to me. She sat at the table next to the door, her long blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail as she incessantly checked her cell phone, as if waiting for a text from whomever she was supposed to be meeting tonight.
As I finished my first beer, I watched the woman fiddle with her phone a few more times before she sighed and stood up. She turned and faced my direction and started to make her way toward the restrooms. The closer she came to my table, the more I started to recognize her: the woman from the gas station earlier this afternoon. I looked away, hoping she didn’t see me. It’s never a good idea for professional lives and personal lives to mingle, especially in my line of work. As she walked past me, she paused.
“Detective,” she said and smiled.
“Hello.” I politely smiled back, trying to remember her name. I knew I wrote it down on my notepad. “Alison!” I blurted. “Alison Rhodes.”
“Ali,” she corrected me. “What are you doing here?”
“Paying tribute, like everyone else.” I gestured toward my empty beer bottle, wondering whether she got the same email. “You?”
“Being stood up, it seems.” She looked at her cell phone once more then put it in her pocket. “I told myself I was only going to wait ten minutes.”
“That doesn’t seem very long,” I offered. “Maybe she’s on her way?”
“That was an hour ago.”
“Ouch,” I smiled. “First date?”
“Second,” she said as she glanced at the empty seat across from me. “The first one didn’t go well, so I don’t even know why I agreed to a second.” She eyed the seat across from me again, so I smiled and nodded. If this conversation was going to go any further, she might as well sit down.
“Technically, you’re not on a second date,” I said, trying to add a little humor to the situation. It came out more like sprinkling salt in her wound.
“No, technically, I guess I’m not.” She laughed, her blue eyes catching the light from the dance floor. For a moment, I couldn’t help but be taken by her. I knew she was trying to save face after being stood up, but I found her self-effacing laughter intoxicating. “Any luck with the bleach buyer?” she asked. It took me a second to realize what she was talking about.
“Too soon to say,” I replied. “Right now, we’re still investigating the scene.”
“I hope you find whoever did this,” she added.
“Me too. Have you been following the case?”
“No…I don’t read the papers,” she said after a moment’s pause.
“Never?” I asked.
“Nope. I just read the headlines on my phone from time to time. Today was the first I’d heard of the murders.” She looked away from me, then back again with an awkward smile. “Have you been a detective long?”
“Two years. But I was a cop for seven before that.”
“Wow.” She looked impressed. “I bet you have some great stories.” She looked at my empty bottle and smiled. “I’d like to hear some—if you’ll stay for another drink?”
“My stories don’t have happy endings,” I said bluntly. People are so fascinated by the brutality of this job. But it’s not like how it is on television. I don’t pull actors out of rivers. I pull out real people. “And I’ll just have a glass of water,” I added. I wasn’t quite ready to go home, but I didn’t want another drink. I enjoyed talking to Ali—but not about work. I didn’t want to talk about anything, really. But I didn’t want to go home and sit in the emptiness.
“Two waters coming up.” She smiled and walked over to the bar. The bartender handed her two bottles of water, and she walked back to our table. “I don’t mind unhappy endings,” she said as she sat back down. It was obvious I wasn’t getting out of this one.
“Okay…my first day on the job, I got a call from this car salesman who’d been left on the side of the road. The guy he thought was test driving a new car stole the car they were in. Apparently the guy would make fake IDs with his picture on it and then ‘test drive’ cars,” I said, using air quotes. “And then, when he and the salesmen got to a deserted location, he’d tell the guy to get out of the car and take off with it.”
“Did you catch him?” Her eyes were full of wonder.
“A few days later, we did.” I took a sip from my water. “He accidentally gave the salesman his real ID, so we went to his address and there he was—just sitting on the couch, watching cartoons and eating cereal.” I laughed. “He cooperated. It was an easy arrest.”
“How much time did he get?” She was laughing along with me.
“He made a deal with the prosecutor, ended up with five years after he pled out.”
“Some first day,” she said.
“It was.” I smiled. “What about you? What do you do?”
“It’s not as fascinating as solving crimes, detective.” She smiled, and I noticed a hint of flirtation in her voice. “Web design,” she answered. “I manage a small team of people—mostly recent art-school grads who think they’re going to redesign the world.” She shook her head. “But they’re good kids. Talented, too. I also paint.”
“I don’t imagine you get to use a lot of your paintings in web design,” I said. And then I noticed a hint of flirtation in my voice too.
“I paint for me. I rarely sell them—although I’ve had offers,” she said. “I just like knowing I’m in control of my wor
k.”
“That makes sense.”
“Any other stories?” she asked, shifting the focus back to me.
“Read a crime novel if you want a good murder mystery,” I said with a smile. I respect the dead too much to use their murders as a way to entertain a date. A date? If this were an actual date, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Like I told Dr. Winston, my dates tended to end before we finished the appetizer. And this, whatever this was, didn’t feel like a date. But as I contemplated what to make of the flirtation on both our parts, I looked at Ali, who seemed disappointed by my refusal to entertain her with my stories. “Okay…” I said. “A few months ago, we found a suspect hiding in an abandoned building.” I could see her eyes light up again. “He was holding a teenage girl hostage.”
“Why was he hiding in there? What had he done?”
“He was wanted for the attempted murder of his wife.”
“Who was the girl?”
“His daughter.” I took a sip of my water.
“Oh my God. What happened?” she asked as sympathy washed over her face.
“The whole thing was a custody argument. He stabbed his wife and then kidnapped their daughter. We were called to the scene, and he took off on foot when we blew out his tires.” I took another sip of my water. “When we caught up to him in the abandoned building, it turned into a shootout. He used his daughter as a shield.”
“Did she get shot?”
“No, fortunately. But he did.”
“Did he die?”
“Yes.”
Ali sank into her chair and looked at me. “Oh,” she said—and didn’t ask for another story.
“So, what about you? What’s your story?” I asked. It was approaching my bedtime, but a big part of me felt like the night was just beginning. And this wasn’t a date, so I had nothing to worry about.
“My story?” She laughed. “My story’s rather boring.” She finished the last sip of her water and set the bottle aside. “I moved here two years ago. I had just turned thirty and needed a change of scenery.”
“Where from?”
Sight Lines Page 2
