Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  “Eh,” I muttered with a shrug. I was going to eat the whole bar. I was stressed.

  I slid off the counter and strode to my bed. Jordan trotted behind me, anticipating cuddle time. He bounced up and down on his hind legs a few times, too fat to scale the bed, and then sat down in defeat. He let out a wail that should be reserved for wounded or dying animals, and I took pity on him. I dragged him onto the bed next to me.

  I flopped back on the blankets and grabbed the notebook and pen from the top of the cardboard box that served as my nightstand. I released a heavy breath as I uncapped the pen and opened the book.

  It was my nightly tradition. In a life of chaos, it was easy to be swallowed by despair and pain, so I had decided to be thankful for at least one thing every day. I pressed the pen to the page tentatively.

  This was the first time fear hadn’t sent me running, a decision I hoped wouldn’t be an awful mistake, and I considered the reasons for that. I glanced at the purring bundle against my side and started to write.

  Dear Jesus,

  Today I’m thankful for Jordan. And for chocolate.

  Chapter 2

  BREATH RUSHED IN AND out of my lungs with the rhythm of my shoes on the pavement. Autumn had come a few weeks early this year, and dry leaves stirred around my feet.

  Some of the trees bloomed with richly colored leaves, which resembled jewels as the sunlight filtered through them, while others clung to their green leaves rebelliously despite the cooling temperatures.

  Autumn was beautiful in its own way, but it was my least favorite season. The crunch of dead leaves beneath my feet, the sound of gnarled, naked tree limbs knocking together in the breeze, candlelit pumpkins with twisted faces . . . it always left me feeling rattled.

  My gait faltered when something orange smashed into the pavement a few feet in front of me and exploded. I barely avoided being splattered in pumpkin goo. I glanced up at the two adolescent boys who leaned out of an upstairs apartment window and laughed at the remains of the pumpkin.

  I hated October.

  I hopped over the pumpkin and finished my lap around the block at a brisker pace than usual. It helped me to evade the fellow jogger who always managed to overlap my jogging path and insisted on trying to flag me down with a wave. I considered changing my route just to avoid him, but this was my time.

  I tried never to miss my 7:00 a.m. run, even if it was a crisp thirty-something degrees, like this morning, because it afforded me a steady routine that my unpredictable life didn’t.

  Someone was on the sidewalk outside of my apartment when I turned onto my street. I slowed to a cautious walk. I wasn’t expecting company. A shock of black hair frosted with blue identified my visitor.

  Jace.

  She lived in one of the upstairs apartments, which was technically not connected to my underground basement, and she was the closest person I had to a friend. She was never up this early.

  Jace was tall and slender, and her wild hair and slightly Asian eyes made her look like a character from an anime cartoon. She’d been able to walk for most of her life, but I met her after a car accident left her bound to a wheelchair.

  “Hey,” I said between heavy breaths. I strode up behind her with my hands on my hips. My sides ached from pushing myself harder than usual. “How are you even alive at seven thirty in the morning?”

  Jace spun her wheelchair around to face me. She lifted a paper coffee mug and grinned, “Caffeine and sugar. Liquid magic.” She held up a second cup. “I brought you one too.”

  I regarded the offering warily. “It’s not another cinnamon spice latte, is it?”

  She looked offended. “I only made that mistake like two, maybe five times. It’s hard to remember. Normal people like cinnamon.” She dangled the cup in front of me tauntingly. “It’s hot cocoa.”

  “With marshmallows?” I asked hopefully as I took it from her. I’d been fantasizing about marshmallows since I jogged past the pastry shop.

  “They were out. Extra whipped cream, though.”

  I popped the lid and drew in the sweet, chocolaty aroma. “You . . . are my favorite person in the whole world,” I declared.

  “Wow,” she said flatly. “If I wasn’t the only person you spoke to in the whole world, that might mean something.”

  I smirked as I took a sip of the warm drink. Apart from the occasional word exchanged with my landlord when I dropped off my rent, and the information gathering from my customers, she really was the only person I spoke to. I was certain she knew deep down that I kind of liked her.

  “Can we go inside? It’s cold and I can’t feel my toes,” she announced, completely deadpan.

  I laughed. Her toes had been numb since the accident; it had absolutely nothing to do with the cold. I hopped down the steps and unlocked the door. I flung it open and grabbed the slab of wood that rested against the side of the building. There was no ramp or elevator to my apartment, so we had to make do. I laid it over the steps and backed into the apartment to give her room.

  She cruised down the board and maneuvered over the dip at the bottom and into my apartment.

  “What . . . what is this hideously inconvenient lump on your floor?” Jace demanded as her casual glide through the doorway was abruptly halted when the front wheels of her wheelchair collided with the rug.

  “It’s called a rug,” I replied evenly as I took another sip of my hot chocolate.

  “I’m sorry, you said death trap?” Jace asked with a painfully serious expression. She spun her wheels, but the bunched-up rug moved with her, forcing her into a slow circle. “I feel like I’m in a tailspin here.” She sighed and stopped struggling. Her blue eyes met mine. “Can I burn it? Pretty please with sprinkles?”

  I smiled and set my cup down so I could untangle the rug from her wheels. I tossed it aside. She sped across the tile and spun in a deliberate circle in her chair.

  “Oh yeah, smooth sailing.” She popped a wheelie in her chair and somehow managed to maintain the precarious position. I was pretty sure if I tried that I would tip backwards and crack my head open like that pumpkin I saw hit the pavement. “The next time you try to redecorate, buy a pillow. Pillows are fantastic.”

  “Fine, no more rugs,” I agreed as I dropped onto the couch. I folded my legs beneath me and grabbed one of the brown pillows to put in my lap. “So what brings you to my door at the crack of dawn with a bribe?”

  Jace locked her wheels and folded her arms over her legs as she leaned forward. “I need a favor.”

  I twirled my hand in a gesture for her to continue.

  “I have a date,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure what the appropriate best-friend response to that news was supposed to be—seeing as I’d never had a best friend before—so I just nodded and said, “Have fun?”

  Jace stared at me.

  Okay, apparently “have fun” wasn’t the right response. I racked my brain for something better. “Is he . . . cute?” That was normal, right? I could do normal. I took a casual sip of my hot chocolate as if it hadn’t taken me ages to think of that normal question.

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  I waited for more, but she offered nothing. Crap, is it my turn again? “I assume he has a face and it looks like . . . something.”

  Jace rolled her eyes and said with exasperation, “Yes, he has a face. A cute face. And he has an accent.”

  “Southern?”

  “English,” she said, grinning. “Although Southern would be delicious.”

  I wasn’t particularly drawn to a person because they had an accent, but I had to admit that English accents were interesting, and Southern accents, depending on what part of the South they were from, could be downright soothing to listen to. But delicious?

  “I’m assuming he doesn’t have a criminal record.”

  Jace grimaced. “I didn’t ask. You don’t just ask things like that, Holly.”

  It was absolutely a question I would ask, right after “why are you speaking to me?” I
frowned at her as I said, “But it’s important.”

  “Not really.”

  I groaned and rubbed my head. My brain was starting to hurt. “Did you at least get his name?”

  “Gale.”

  “Does Gale have a last name?”

  Jace puckered her lips inward in reluctance. “Doe” finally popped out.

  “Seriously?”

  Jace straightened and her tone was mildly defensive. “Yes, seriously. It’s more real than Smith, so don’t even . . .” She slapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened in shock and horror.

  I forced a thin smile. “It’s fine, Jace. It’s not like I just realized my last name isn’t actually Smith.” I doubted it was the surname I’d been born with, but it was the one assigned to me by the state when I was twelve.

  Before that day, I didn’t officially exist. My first memory was of waking up in a cabin with a strange woman and her husband when I was ten. They clothed me, fed me, gave me chores to do, and to the best of my knowledge we were a family. Until their cabin was raided by the police two years later and I was removed. My “family” went to prison, the state assigned me an identity, and I was chucked unceremoniously into the foster care system.

  In all that time, I had never managed to build a trusting relationship with another human being, and sometimes I questioned letting Jace in. I had only shared a few details about my past with her, and it was still more than I’d shared with anyone. Ever.

  I had rebuffed her multiple times when we first met, and even flat out told her to take a hike, to which she mockingly replied, “I can’t hike; I’m in a wheelchair.” She was one of those frustratingly determined people.

  I cleared my throat. “So about that favor . . .”

  “Right, the favor,” she muttered. “I don’t know what to wear. I could um . . . use a little help tracking down an outfit.”

  I pursed my lips. “You want me to go shopping.” I abhorred shopping.

  “If we go super early when the stores just open, there won’t be many people.” She gazed at me with wide, pleading eyes.

  She wanted me to go with her badly enough that she’d forced herself out of bed hours before she usually did in an effort to make me more comfortable with the idea. And she brought me hot chocolate. How could I say no? I sighed and said, “Fine. But I have a photo shoot at four this afternoon, and I will not model clothing with you in front of the mirrors.”

  “Just one outfit?”

  “No.”

  “Shoes?”

  “I will wheel you out that door and leave you on the sidewalk,” I threatened.

  Jace grinned. “Okay fine, no modeling. I’m ready when you are.”

  “Just gimme a second to change.” I dragged myself off the couch and over to the nook where my bed was. There wasn’t room for a dresser, so I hung my clothes on a curtain rod mounted to the ceiling above my bed. I tugged the heavy purple drapes closed between the bed and the couch to give myself some privacy and stripped out of my sweat-dampened clothes.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off my socks and shoes. My feet ached, though I expected the pain resonated more from my memories than from the scars that covered the bottoms of my feet. The wounds were old enough that the scars had faded to white.

  I wiggled my feet into a fresh pair of socks before the old wounds could stir up frightening memories. I was tugging a thin white sweater over my purple long sleeved T-shirt when Jace asked, “Holly, what is this?”

  I poked my head through the curtain. She was studying the note card I’d left sitting on the couch for the past few days. “Mail,” I replied dismissively.

  Her heavily lined eyes narrowed. “You don’t get mail. And it says it’s from Kansas.”

  “I know nothing about Kansas.” I teetered precariously on one leg as I tried to shove my other foot into a stubborn brown boot. Who ever thought it was a bright idea to make a boot without a zipper?

  “That you remember,” she insisted. “You can’t remember anything before the age of ten. For all you know you could have been raised in Kansas.”

  Fair point.

  “This could be from your family. Your real family.”

  If my biological family had managed to track me down, which was incredibly unlikely, then I was genuinely offended that all they left behind was a cryptic message typed on a note card. Surely after all these years I at least deserved a face-to-face “this is why we didn’t want you” explanation.

  Like any other child who was discarded into the foster care system, I had thought about my family every day. No one could even tell me their names. Someone said once that you can’t miss something you never had. I didn’t have a single memory of my family, but I missed them.

  Eventually I decided that if they existed—if they had even a glimmer of love for me—they would never have left me in some of the “homes” where I was placed.

  “I don’t have a family,” I replied flatly.

  “That you remember,” she repeated with emphasis. She rotated her wheelchair to face me. “People don’t just forget ten years of their lives, Holly. That doesn’t just happen.”

  Except it did.

  My brain wasn’t broken; the state had sent me to various hospitals to have brain scans done when I was a child, but there was no evidence of physical trauma to my brain, which left one possibility.

  “Maybe you were abducted, maybe something bad happened that made you wanna forget everything,” Jace continued.

  And that was the other possibility. No amount of therapy had helped me to regain those lost memories, so I couldn’t say one way or another if my memory loss was due to psychological trauma.

  I folded my arms and gazed at her from behind the small opening in the drapes. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore, okay? Let’s just go shopping.”

  Jace sighed in defeat and dropped the note card back onto the couch. If I would rather go shopping than discuss my family, she knew the conversation was utterly hopeless.

  Chapter 3

  “MOVE A LITTLE TO YOUR left,” I suggested. I watched through the camera lens as the couple shifted under the orange-and-yellow oak tree. The light captured their faces perfectly, and I snapped a few quick shots before stepping to my right to adjust my angle.

  I tried to avoid taking photos straight on despite what my customers requested; it was the angle and the lighting that gave a picture life.

  A gust of wind sent orange leaves showering down around the couple, and I snapped the picture just as they both looked up in laughter. That would be a keeper. When I lowered the camera and scrolled through the last few photos to be certain I liked the quality, something odd caught my attention.

  I zoomed in on a dark blur in the background of the last photo. It was a human figure standing in the shadow of a tree. It was too dark to tell, but he appeared to be looking in our direction. Frowning, I slowly scrolled back through the photos. The figure was present in every single picture for the past hour.

  Unease fluttered through my stomach. I looked up and gazed into the distance, but I couldn’t see anything but trees. I lifted the camera and zoomed in.

  Whoever had been standing there was gone.

  “Is everything all right with the pictures?” the woman asked.

  I lowered the camera and looked at the couple. “I think you’ll like them. I would take a few more but the lighting’s shifted too much. I’ll develop a few of the better ones in a couple days and let you take a look. If you don’t like any of them, we can set up another appointment.”

  The woman smiled. “Okay. Thanks, Holly.”

  The man intertwined his fingers with hers, and they strode off toward the road. I tucked my camera safely into the bag and slung the strap over my shoulder. I usually crossed it over my body, but that just wasn’t comfortable tonight. I wound the purple scarf around my neck to stave off the chill of evening.

  I turned toward the trees that divided the park from the inner city and then paused, reconsid
ering. I glanced back at the tree where the mysterious figure had been standing. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been pure chance or if he’d been spying on one of my clients. A quick glimpse of the receding sun told me I had about an hour before nightfall.

  This is a dumb idea.

  I sighed and walked toward the tree. As I drew nearer, my steps became more cautious. If someone was hiding behind the tree, I didn’t want to risk being jumped.

  I gave the area a wide berth as I circled it. The shady photobomber was nowhere to be seen, but I found the impressions of his boots in the moist grass. I would have guessed it was a man from the height and shape of him in the photos, but I hadn’t been sure until now.

  I placed my foot next to his footprint. I wore a size 6 shoe, and this print was a little more than double the size of my foot. It was definitely a man, and a large one. That kind of unnerved me a bit. I had my fair share of run-ins with creepers, but none of them hid in the trees and watched people.

  “You’re a special kind of weird, aren’t you?” I murmured to the man who had left these prints.

  I pulled out my camera and snapped a picture of my foot next to the footprints. I doubted anything bad would happen to the young couple, but if I knew anything about the nature of human beings, it was that they were just as prone to outbursts of violence as they were to unexpected kindness. It was always better to err on the side of caution. And if anything did happen to the couple, I could at least provide the police with a direction.

  I wasn’t particularly fond of the police. Not only had they snatched me out of the first place I could identify as a home, but they had hunted me down every time I fled from one of my foster homes. If I ran, it was for a good reason, but none of them had bothered to listen. To them, I was just another troubled child looking for attention. They threw me right back into the situation I had worked so hard to save myself from.

  Sometimes it was hard not to see them as the enemy. But they had a purpose, and I knew that many of them were heroes and wonderful people. Why couldn’t I have met some of those?