So the following Saturday, after I made my police report discovery, I drive up to meet with Donna. I called her under the guise of catching up while Dan is away because I didn’t want to mention Erin’s battered face over the phone.
She lives on the edge of Palos Verdes and Redondo Beach in a contemporary home overlooking the ocean. She sold her veterinarian practice and moved into the slower pace of retirement, but she keeps busy with morning jogs on the beach and writing a novel. She’d been "bitten by the bug," but she says it’s really more like an untreatable infection.
I pull into her driveway, my nerves as frayed as old rope. I haven’t been able to sleep very much since all this happened. My appetite cratered. I have a permanent knot in my stomach, and my stress levels are blowing up. I’m turning into an insomniac, which rhymes with maniac I realized last night at two in the morning while I washed the windows.
Once I pull into Donna’s wide driveway, I get out of my car and make my way up to her glass and wrought iron front door. My usual case of nerves takes hold. It’s silly to be intimidated with wealth, but I can’t help it. I grew up in a humble weather-beaten cabin stuffed into the dense forest of Connecticut furnished with lots of hand-me-downs.
I ring the doorbell and step back, checking my dress for last minute stains. Never know these days. Then I pull in a breath and try to shake off my feelings of inferiority.
My past does not define me, I think to myself.
But what about Dan’s?
A blurry shadow falls on the opaque glass panels. The door opens.
"Hey Brynn," Donna says with her usual peppiness. "Thanks for driving up! Come on in."
She’s an attractive woman in her late fifties with dark, curly shoulder length hair and eyes that remind me of a late summer storm.
She shows me inside, and I still can’t get over my awe of her home. With the sleek granite countertops, smooth white stone flooring, and bright pops of color, I always feel like I’m wandering into a magazine spread when I visit.
A frosty glass of rosé arrives in my hand, and we settle on her outside veranda that overlooks the ocean. A cloud bank parts, flooding miles of sea with dappled light.
"Beautiful, isn’t it?" Donna asks, looking out at the ocean with a peaceful expression.
"Makes you forget all your troubles, even just for a little while." I pull one corner of my mouth into something that I hope will pass as a smile.
We chat for a little while. I tell her I’m doing good—great! But I can tell from her crooked smile that she doesn’t believe me. Her brow furrows with concern, but she can’t blurt out how terrible I look because she’s not my mom. She’s Dan’s mom, so she has to show some restraint.
I know I look terrible. The dark smudges are back, permanently camped under my eyes. I’m tired, and I’m scared.
"So what’s going on?" she asks, crossing her legs, and leaning forward. "This is your first deployment with Dan. Are you holding up okay?"
"Not really," I say. This, she believes.
She rubs the top of my hand quickly. "You want to talk about it?"
I try to find the right angle of entry, a gentle slope that won’t make her spill her glass of rosé. Then I sigh because I just need to say it. "We’re kind of having a problem with one of Dan’s exes."
"I know you asked before," Donna says, jumping on that old topic of conversation. I open my mouth to clarify, but she raises her hand. "I understand. I get it. You’re just trying to do a little homework before you potentially spend the rest of your life with someone."
I’m not sure when I should steer the conversation over to domestic abuse, but Donna keeps talking.
"I remember you asked about Dan’s past before. And I didn’t tell you much because I feel like that’s Dan’s business to tell or not tell . . ."
She glances up at me, waiting for me to reply. I guess this is my window.
"Yes, you’re right," I say. "I didn’t want to pry and I still don’t. It’s just that one of them has kind of come back into the picture."
"Oh, really?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. She makes a face of surprise or distaste; I’m not sure which.
"Do you know someone named Erin?" I ask.
Her expression clouds over. Her brow deepens into a scowl, eyelids dropping into a glower. Donna knows her. "How did you two meet?"
"It was pretty random. Dan and I ran into her the night of his farewell party."
"Random?" Donna asks dryly.
And that makes me wonder. Was it an accident? The same sort of accident that brought her to my yoga class? She was alone at the bar. She said her friends had just left, and she was on her way home too, until we walked in . . .
"Maybe not random. And Dan wasn’t very happy about it, but Erin seemed nice and you know how it goes. The drinks are flowing and everyone is out to have fun, not a big drama."
"Mmhm."
"Anyway, it was one of those nights where everyone kind of drinks too much and has too much fun and forgets what happened, exactly." I take in a big breath. "Except I remember. I mean, not very well. But I saw Dan and Erin leave together." I glance up at Donna, who looks completely horrified. "And—and Dan said that nothing happened. And I believed him; at least I thought I did. Now, I really don’t know . . ."
"Oh no. They didn’t. Did they?"
I shake my head because what I’m about to say implies something even worse than cheating. It’s unspeakable. Literally. My throat tightens up, making it hard to talk.
I blink, trying to clear an overlay of Erin’s bloodied nose from my vision, trying to work up the courage to say it, to speak it aloud.
"Erin tracked me down," I say, finally. "And showed me a picture of something she said happened that night. It turns out that she—that someone beat her up."
Donna uncrosses her legs and moves to the edge of her seat. "What? That’s awful. Just awful. What have things come to these days?"
My eyes sting with unspent tears. I’m scared that Erin will take the picture to the police and press charges. I’m scared that Dan might do something like that to me.
"She says Dan did it," I say as calmly as I can.
"Dan!" Donna leaps out of her chair and paces the patio, a breeze ruffling her kaftan. She stops and turns to me. "My Dan?"
I nod. "Your Dan,"—and in a low tone, I add, "My Dan, too."
"No way. She’s lying. There’s no way. There’s—"
"There’s a picture. And a recording . . . apparently."
The ocean crashes distantly on the beach. It reminds me of the many times Dan and I went to La Jolla Cove for breakfast and sat on a bench afterwards, looking out to sea, kissing, and talking.
It’s such an incongruent memory. Dan the tender lover. Dan the abuser.
"Oh my gosh," mumbles Donna. Then she swallows a good portion of her rosé.
I want her to defend Dan’s good honor, his gentle nature, his innocence. I want her to tell me that he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. But she’s not saying that. She’s not saying that at all.
Then she looks up at me, her lips drawn tight, her eyes wary. "Hate is such a strong word. And hating someone is like a constant surge of bile up your throat. I would know. I hated Erin. I hated every minute Dan stayed in that toxic relationship."
This I did not expect.
"Dan and I were always such good friends," she continues. "Sure we had our ups and downs. But we were always close. That is, until Erin came into the picture and tore us apart."
I feel a shift inside. Donna was always nice to me, but underneath she was unreachable. I felt like she treated me with professional courtesy instead of embracing me as Dan’s girlfriend. I always thought it had to do with my humble upbringing, and she’d somehow deemed me to be unworthy. But now, I realize that it was because Erin had caused so much damage to her relationship with her son. So Donna is wary now. Once burned and all that. Well, I hope she has a fire suit.
"Donna, I found something in the house. A police inciden
t report." My heart beats unsteadily. "Domestic abuse apparently. It states that Erin had red marks on her arms and Dan was placed in the back of a squad car . . ."
I pause, allowing her space to fill in the pertinent details. But her eyebrows draw up, and her eyes fly wide. "What?" she cries. "Dan was placed in a squad car?"
My heart sinks. I was so hoping Donna could tell me the end of the story. Something along the lines of: Oh yeah. That. Well, that was a big mistake. Actually what happened . . .
Instead she says, "Oh geez, Brynn. What a nightmare. I can’t believe this is all coming out now that he’s on deployment."
"Do you think Dan could do that?" I ask, cutting to the chase. "Beat up Erin?"
"No! I mean, I don’t think so. Those things . . . violent tendencies . . . they don’t just come out of the blue. And he has never hit another girl. But—but I have to be completely honest here." She focuses on the great expanse of the ocean with a faraway look, as if gazing into the past. "Their relationship was very volatile. I didn’t recognize the person Dan had become when he was with her. He was quiet. Edgy. It was like he lost a part of himself . . . And if he did do something like that, call me a monster, but I’d be right there, sitting behind him in court." She looks over at me, one corner of her mouth drawing up into a sad smile. "All I’m saying is that it takes two to tango."
"Of course," I mumble.
"Brynn, I don’t know what went on between them,"—she takes hold of my hand—"but I’m here for you. Whatever you need, just call."
"Thanks Donna," I say with a lop-sided smile.
And I left that day, wondering if I’ll ever find a definitive piece to the puzzle.
18
GIA
Erin is in trouble. This I know. And someone is going to die. This I also know. Well, it’s something I deduced, technically, because I can’t see the future, at least historically that was my limitation. This is more of a gut certainty, I would say, after what I saw at Nail Palace. It’s also the official interpretation that I am going to stick with. Does this suggest that my ability growing and morphing? Giving me glimpses into the future?
I’m not sure. But I do know that die has been cast. The pieces have been set in motion. Erin is trouble. I can’t stop thinking about how my windpipe ached, the 9-1-1 call, the frantic voices, the screams, the train . . . I need to help her. But in order to do that, I need more information.
First stop, Google. Except there’s a bewildering number of people named Erin Lazarus. ‘Lazarus’ kind of seems like a fake last name, but on Facebook alone there are over thirty profiles. Are they all fake? Surely not. Plus, there’s other social media accounts and other random offerings from what looks like bonafide people, none of whom look like my Erin though. I spend some time sifting through the profiles, the ones that aren’t set to private anyway, until finally, I give up. I need some specific information—Has she filed any restraining orders? Does she have a stalker?—and I know exactly how to get it.
My best friend Nikki works at a private investigator’s office that collaborates with attorneys handling white-collar crimes, the type of crimes that fall under the category of ‘requiring a few brain cells to pull off.’ These days, she helps with cases that have to do with doctoring flight logs, switching around private jet licenses, and creative money laundering schemes.
The following evening, after work, I take Jack outside for a walk around the neighborhood. While he zeros in on a bush, I call Nikki.
"Hey,” she says when she picks up the call.
"Hey, Nikki. Do you have a sec?"
I hear some papers rustling in the background. "Kinda. Just finishing up this contract, but it’s not super urgent, and my boss just left for the day."
"Oh, that’s happy news."
Nikki snickers. "So what’s up?"
"Can you look into someone for me?"
"Sure," Nikki says, her voice echoing in her water flask.
"Thanks, Nik. So, I’m trying to find out some information about someone named Erin Lazarus. I think that’s her name anyway. That’s what the Nail Palace website says. She’s the manager. Do you think you could find out if she’s filed any restraining orders or anything like that?”
"Hm. Okay let me log on to my handy dandy database here . . ." I can hear her keyboard clacking in the background. Nikki has any number of nefarious ways to dig up the dirt on people. An astonishing number to be precise. Why people even bother breaking the law in today’s surveillance society is beyond me.
"So how’s James?" I ask, while we wait for the results.
"I don’t really know, to be honest. He’s sailing in a regatta on the East Coast, apparently. I’m not sure when he’ll be back . . . "
"Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed like such a nice guy."
"He’s a great guy, but he’s getting over a divorce as you know. And . . ." she sighs. "I don’t know. He seemed really weird after we went sailing."
"Really?"
"Yeah, he just kind of shut down."
"Well, I may have an idea why."
"You do?"
"Something happened while you were busy turning green. I’ve been meaning to tell you. Actually, I just kind of thought he would tell you himself because it’s not really my business to tell or not tell. I didn’t want to spill his beans, you know?"
"Yeah but he hasn’t spilled any beans at all. Like, not even one. He just backed away from me. Can you tell me what happened?"
I hesitate, remembering back to the few words we shared when he walked me out to my car that night. He didn’t say anything like, Don’t tell Nikki. So I’m not breaking any promises exactly, but it feels a little wrong to be sharing his personal tragedy. I can tell Nikki is hurting though, and she really cares about him. I also think she can help him heal, having survived her own personal tragedy: the loss of her younger brother to leukemia.
I pull in a big breath. "So when I went down below to flip the circuit breaker, I got electrocuted, which somehow jumpstarted my psychic ability and I saw that he lost . . . well, his ex-wife and him—they lost a baby."
“Oh my God,” Nikki mutters. “That’s heartbreaking. How did it happen? And—your psychic ability is back?"
"Yeah, it was so awful though. Terrible timing. I felt so bad for him. I saw that the baby was born still, but the doctor didn’t know what had caused it."
Nikki falls silent.
"It’s a lot to take in, I know, Nik. And that’s probably why he’s pulling back. He’s probably trying to find his bearings. I think it was an old wound that I accidentally ripped open."
"Yeah, that makes a lot of sense," she says quietly. "Thanks for telling me."
"Sure. But let him tell you first, okay? I don’t want to get caught blabbing about his secrets."
"Girl code. You can’t keep secrets about the guy I’m dating!"
"That’s true . . ."
"So your psychic ability came back? Wow. That must have a shocker, no pun intended."
"Har har. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. It’s like Grand Central Station in my head now, and I’ve got a bad feeling about something. Did you find anything about Erin?”
"Yep. Here it is. So Erin Lazarus is a blank sheet of paper. There’s nothing. No educational records. No work history. No credit history . . .”
"Um. That’s weird," I say, head bent down in concentration, following Jack down the sidewalk.
Nikki leans back; I hear her chair squeak. "You know, secretaries get a bad rap for having boring jobs, but I think it’s fun. You wouldn’t believe how many fascinating facts I’ve managed to discover about people. Except this person.”
"Yeah," I say, kicking my neighbor’s flowerbed edging with my toe, thinking about Erin and her lack of history. "Can you look into the person who owns that nail business? I think she’s having financial problems. That might be a good place to start."
"Sure." More keyboard clicking, followed by a long pause. "Okay here’s something. So it looks like someone named
Denise Livingston is listed on the business license. And let me just run a quick background check on her. Denise Living-S-T-O-N. Search-o-ramma . . . doo dee doo . . . Okay, here it is. What the—holy shit. Whoa whoa whoa."
"What! What is it?"
"Denise’s criminal record is what."
"What about it? What did you find?"
"Let me print this up and bring it over. You’re gonna want to see this in person."
"Wow. Is it that bad?"
"Yep."
"Okay hurry up. I’ll see you in a few."
19
GIA
Nikki lets herself in the front door, calling out, "Yoo hoo! Anybody home?"
At the sound of her voice, I rush down the stairs to meet her; Jack hot on my heels. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, heels, and a pretty red blouse that flatters the color in her cheeks. Her sleek hair is tucked behind her nymph-like ears.
Jack runs to her, whimpering and wagging his whole body. "Heyyy Jacky Baby," she says, bending down to give him a quick cuddle. "You gorgeous little thing."
"Thanks for coming over so fast, Detective Nikki," I say, walking into the kitchen.
"You can thank me later," she says, plonking her handbag on the counter and pulling out a stack of papers.
We sit down at the kitchen bar, side by side, and pore over her discovery.
"So, check this out," she says, handing over the first document.
It’s a court document cover page of some sort, a lawsuit, showing the parties involved:
DISTRICT COURT ARAPAHOE COUNTY
STATE OF COLORADO
PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF COLORADO
Plaintiff,
V.
DENISE M. LIVINGSTON
Defendant.
I can make out the case number and the name of the attorney on record. "Okay, so Denise has had some legal troubles. Bad business dealings, you think?" I ask, looking at Nikki.
"Not exactly." She slides over the next document, and I pull it in front of me. It’s a document approving her removal from general prison population to the psych ward because of a suicide attempt.
Keep Me In Sight Page 8
