Sight Lines

by Michelle DiCeglio

  She turned to face me once again. “I didn’t,” she said. “I just collected every article about any murders in Lyons from the past three years. I didn’t know who Tara was until you told me about her.”

  I didn’t know what to say. As silence filled the room—to the point that I thought the walls were going to crack from the pressure—I thought about my homework assignment from Dr. Winston. I asked myself what kind of a resolution I wanted with Ali. I envisioned what it would be like to never see her again. It was a life I didn’t want to live but knew I could if I had to.

  “Where will you go?” I finally asked.

  “What?”

  “The case is solved,” I said. “Crystal Yui’s killer has been put away. I don’t imagine you have any reason to stay in Lyons.”

  “You’re making it clear that I don’t.”

  The sharpness of her words cut right through me.

  She paused and looked at me, like she was waiting for me to correct her, but I didn’t. I didn’t say a word. I just stood there, letting the emptiness of my house consume me.

  “I’m going back to Chicago soon,” she said. “The house the Yuis rented for me is paid up through the end of September. After that, I’m gone.”

  I slowly nodded. We looked at one another, and I tried to force a smile. Without saying a word, she turned around and opened the front door. Viggo adjusted himself in her arms. Before I could offer to give her back the dog toys I had brought from her house for him, she walked out and closed the door behind her.

  Feeling all the blood leave my heart, I sat on the blanket where Viggo had been just a few moments ago. I reached down and picked up the stuffed frog from his pile of toys. I held the frog against my chest and rested my head against the arm of the couch. I curled into a tight ball and didn’t move until morning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the second week of September, I was back on regular duty and starting to become accustomed to the monotony of my life again. Lyons was a small town, but Ali and I had yet to bump into each other. I had no idea whether that was on accident or on purpose, but I was relieved—yet also somehow saddened.

  A big part of me wanted to forgive her and move forward. The part of me that wanted to hate her felt small—until someone would mention her name. It was more than the fact that she lied; it was how she lied, the way she did it so naturally.

  Keegan was set to be transferred to Connecticut for four murders he had committed there before moving to Lyons. The local prosecutor requested that his trial stay in Lyons’s jurisdiction, but the people of Connecticut wanted justice too and I didn’t blame them.

  The gas station where Keegan worked was in the process of being demolished. Once the investigative team finished collecting evidence from the junkyard, the city did an inspection. The gas station was no longer up to code, and the owner decided to let the city demolish the property. It was the smart choice. The gas station barely had any business anyway. And now that it was a key locale in criminal history, the only future it had was at the hands of morbid tourists, vandals or Villagers.

  Vantage Woods was back to being an area everyone could enjoy—aside from the fact that it was overpopulated by Villagers once again. But there was no longer a lingering fear whenever someone mentioned Vantage Woods, and the local reporters had stopped making terrible puns about “Disadvantage” Woods. It seemed as though the town was finally getting back to normal and that my work assignments would consist of much less gruesome crimes.

  Keegan was scheduled to be transported later this afternoon, so I had decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. I didn’t want to be tempted to avenge Tara’s death.

  Although Dr. Winston had signed off on my return, I knew deep down I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t really be anywhere. Still broken-hearted and unsure of every move I made, I knew coming back to work was a hasty decision made out of a longing to fix other people’s lives because I couldn’t fix my own.

  I opened my bottom left drawer and laughed to myself at the mess inside. I had created that mess to cover what was really beneath it all. But what was beneath no longer had to stay in hiding. Tara’s killer had been caught—though that didn’t give me the solace I’d been looking for.

  I walked over to the recycling bin, which was next to the oversized trash can by the back door, and I moved it closer to my desk. If I couldn’t clean up my personal life, at least I could clean up my desk. As I threw away the outdated manuals and scraps of paper from my bottom drawer, I couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching me. But each time I looked up from my desk, I didn’t notice anyone lurking or quickly looking away.

  The recycling bin was nearly full by the time I had finished clearing out the bottom drawer—with the exception of the false bottom. Everything in my Tara file was either copies of the actual investigation or my own personal notes. There was no legal precedent saying I had to submit any of it, so I could just throw it away.

  But I didn’t want to.

  That file, and all of its contents, had been a part of my desk—a part of me—for more than two years. Just knowing it was there, an arm’s length away, at any given time, brought a kind of sullen comfort, like the sweatshirt of an ex after a break-up. But it was also something more. It was a goal, something I could work toward. But now that her murder was solved, holding on to the file seemed masochistic, a way to torture my psyche by remembering the brutality in her life.

  I placed Tara’s file on top of the false bottom and closed the drawer. I no longer felt the need to hide my failure from the world. Her case was a success story in the eyes of the department, and her case was now permanently closed. But I wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

  As I shut down my computer, I saw Bishop at his desk, reading a case file. I didn’t have to see the name on the file to know who it belonged to. I stood up from my desk and walked into his office. He immediately shut the file and turned to the cabinet where we stored solved cases. He placed the file in the “B” drawer, for “Bishop, Tara”, and closed it softly. Although Tara had been buried for two years, she—and her father—could finally rest in peace.

  “Mills,” Bishop said as he sat back down. “Have a seat.”

  I sat in the wooden chair across from his desk and folded my hands on my lap. I didn’t know what he was going to tell me, but I had a pretty good idea it was going to be about Keegan.

  “Braxton was named sergeant this morning. I realize I might have pushed you too hard to apply,” he said.

  “I didn’t actually apply for it. And I get why he was offered the promotion. Brax is a good detective. He works really hard.” And as I said it, I realized I meant what I said.

  “Keegan is being transferred within the hour. I’m going to take off. I advise you do the same.” He looked at me with a father’s worried eyes.

  “I am. That’s what I came in here to tell you.”

  “Good. Good,” he repeated. “I’m glad you’re back at work. We missed you around here.”

  “I missed being here.” And I meant that too.

  “So…” He paused. “How are you? How are things?” He paused again, as if this awkward series of questions might lead to a subject he knew I didn’t want to discuss.

  “Things are fine.”

  “Good. Good,” he repeated.

  “Just say it, Bishop.” I wasn’t going to play this game all afternoon.

  “Have you talked to Ali?” he asked.

  A heavy sigh was my only reply.

  “I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” he said as he put his hands up to signal that he meant no harm in asking.

  “No, I haven’t talked to her.”

  “The reports say what they need to say in order to cover this department, but you and I both know that, without her, there would’ve been more victims before we caught him. She saved a lot of lives,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I know she did. But that doesn’t change anything between us.”

  “I know how
happy she made you. And I would hate to see you lose that. Again.”

  “This situation is different,” I said as I stood up. “She isn’t the only one who lied to me. You did too.” He gave me a confused look, and I shook my head at him. “Don’t try to act like you didn’t. You could have told me who she was when we were at the hospital. You let me pour my confused and broken heart out, and all you said was for me to talk to her.”

  “I was giving her a chance to explain. It wasn’t my place to tell you. But I was going to, if she didn’t,” he said.

  “It was almost three weeks later,” I said, raising my voice.

  “It was almost three weeks later because of you. You were the one who left her alone in the hospital,” he said, raising his voice right back. “I care about you, and Ali’s a nice girl. But don’t act like you’re an innocent party—because you’re not.”

  I looked at him and tried to calm down. Although I was furious, I knew he was right.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I turned to walk away.

  “Mills,” Bishop called after me, and I stopped walking. “I’m sorry,” he said. I turned around to face him. “I don’t want to lose you too,” he said softly and looked away from me so that I couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

  “You won’t,” I said. “Not for good, anyway.” That seemed to make him feel at ease, so I continued walking toward the elevator and headed into the parking garage.

  I turned on my car and let it idle as I decided where I wanted to spend the remainder of my afternoon. It was too early to go home and sit in the haunting silence. Not having any errands to run, I decided to drive around Lyons until I found somewhere to go.

  As I drove, that familiar feeling of the mundane started to creep back in. It was the same feeling I’d had after Tara’s body was found, and it was the feeling that had stayed with me until I’d met Ali. Now that Ali was no longer in my life, melancholy had moved back in.

  I mindlessly turned down a side street and suddenly realized that I was driving toward Ali’s. I could either keep driving and go right past her house, or I could turn around to go in the opposite direction. Momentarily paralyzed, I stopped in the middle of the road and looked down the street. I couldn’t see her house yet. I still had time to turn around.

  As I sat in my parked car, I weighed the pros and cons of my ridiculous dilemma. It was just a house. No physical harm could come from driving past it. But the emotional harm was more than I was willing risk. If things were over between us, then they had to be really over.

  I put the car in reverse, backed into a driveway, and turned my car around. The next thing I knew, I found myself at Denim’s front door.

  I walked in, sat at the bar, and waited for the bartender to come over. She set a cocktail napkin in front of me and asked me what I wanted to drink. I asked for a glass of red wine and watched her walk to the other side of the bar and reach for a bottle of cabernet. She set the full glass on the napkin in front of me and asked if I wanted to keep my tab open. After some thought, I said yes and settled into my barstool.

  Including the bartender, I was one of eight women in the bar, which was a surprisingly good crowd for a Monday afternoon. I listened to pool balls collide and looked around at the other women. At the same table where Ali and I sat when we had unexpectedly ran into each other, I noticed four professional-looking women engaged in a private conversation.

  As I looked toward the woman who sat in Ali’s seat, I started to reminisce about the last time I was here. So much had happened since then that it felt like I hadn’t been here in years—as opposed to the three months it actually had been. Staring at the seat Ali once occupied, I saw the woman look back at me. In my daydream state, I had been staring for quite some time, and I hadn’t even realized the woman probably thought I was staring at her. My assumption was confirmed when I saw her pick up her drink and walk over to the bar.

  “Would you like to join us?” she asked me. Her short blonde hair was heavily moussed, and she set her beer next to my wine while she waited for my reply.

  “I don’t think there’s enough room for another person,” I politely replied. It was nothing against her or her friends; I just wasn’t in the mood to be social.

  “Do you mind if I join you, then?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I forced a smile as she took a seat next to me.

  “Name’s Jan,” she said.

  “Lacey.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said and took a sip of her beer. I watched her intently and could tell she was much older than her face let on. “What brings you in?”

  “I left work early,” I said. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for small talk, but I didn’t know how tell her so without being rude. Just because I was at a bar didn’t mean I was looking for conversation.

  “Us too,” she said and gestured toward her friends. “Mondays can be a bitch.” She took another drink of her beer. “I’ll leave you be,” she said and turned to leave her seat. “You don’t seem up to talking.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t feel like going home.”

  “I get it.” She looked over my shoulder at her friends. “That’s my girlfriend sitting there.” She pointed to the woman who was now sitting next to an empty seat. “And the other two are my coworkers.” Knowing she had a girlfriend made her conversational attempt seem less intrusive. “How long have you been broken up?”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked. I heard what she said—I just didn’t understand why she had asked it.

  “How long ago did you break up with your girlfriend?” she clarified. “The only time someone doesn’t want to go home is if they have no one to go home to—or if they don’t want to see the person who’s there. And you don’t seem like the kind of person who would put up with someone’s crap,” she added.

  “I’m not,” I said with a laugh and took the last sip from my glass. Jan motioned to the bartender for another beer and pointed to my empty glass.

  “You want another?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said and nodded to the bartender. “Put them both on my tab please.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jan said and smiled. “So how long did you two date?”

  “Not that long. Three months.” I traced my fingertips around the stem of the freshly filled glass.

  “Sometimes I think it hurts more to break up during the fun months than to break up after spending years together,” she said and took a long drink from her beer.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “The first six months are exciting,” she said, like she was about to tell a story around a campfire. “You’re still learning about the person, and every day it seems like there’s a new surprise. So it’s easier on the psyche, I think, to break up after a few years. By then, you know exactly who the person is. There’s no mystery left.” I watched her take another drink from her beer before she continued. “But the first three months? That’s when all the potential of the relationship sinks its claws into you.” I looked away and thought about what she said. By now, the Ali I thought I knew felt more like a ghost than a real person.

  “How long have you and your girlfriend been together?” I asked and took a sip of my wine.

  “Five years,” she said. “And she surprises me every day.” She winked at me and I laughed along with her.

  “I’m glad you came over here, Jan.”

  “Me too.” She paused. “So what kind of work do you do?” she asked, trying to keep the friendly conversation going.

  “I sell insurance,” I quickly replied. It was my usual cover story.

  Suddenly, I felt my entire body lock, as if I had just unintentionally admitted to a crime I didn’t commit.

  “Are you okay?” Jan asked and looked at me with genuine concern, as if I were about to pass out and fall off my barstool.

  “I’m fine.” I lied. I set my glass on the bar and peered into the deep red liquid as I thought about the similarities between my lie to J
an and Ali’s lie to me. I never told people I’d just met my line of work for safety reasons. Over the years, I had convinced myself that telling a white lie about my occupation was just part of the job. It was the exact same reason Ali had lied to me. The only difference was that I would confess the white lie if I knew the friendship was going somewhere. Although Jan was a nice woman, I didn’t think I was going to see her again. If I did, I would decide then whether to tell the truth.

  “Fresh wounds,” she said. “I get it. Sometimes the booze makes them feel deeper,” she added. “But my friends and I are right over there if you feel like joining us.”

  I nodded and watched her walk away. I turned back in my seat and hunched over my glass of wine. The harsh realization that I was no better than Ali hit hard against my chest, and I struggled to take a breath. It felt like my heart was encased in cement, and no matter how hard it tried to beat, the concrete tomb wouldn’t break.

  I glanced at my cell phone and half-smiled to myself when I saw the time. Keegan had left Lyons an hour ago, and he was on his way to Connecticut. I took the last sip of my wine and rejoiced in the fact that he would soon be convicted of his crimes.

  As I sat alone at the bar, waiting for the buzz to wear off, I thought about Ali. I pictured her house filled with moving boxes as she prepared to go back to Chicago. Had I forgiven her, I wondered whether I would have left Lyons with her or if she would have stayed here with me.

  I partly regretted my decision to let her go, but I knew that was the way it had to be. Even if I wanted to change my mind, I couldn’t. Our lives were headed in separate directions. Being with her would just create another fork in the road.

  After an hour of sitting at the bar alone, I motioned to the bartender that I was ready to close my tab. I turned to Jan and her friends and waved a polite goodbye. I collected my phone and debit card from the counter. With daylight hours shortened by fall, I got into my car and decided it was a good time to head home. As I replayed Jan’s words of wisdom in my mind, I almost felt at peace about my decision to live with the silence in my house.