Keep Me In Sight

by Rachel Blackledge

  She hurt him.

  Nine one one. What’s your emergency?

  Help! I need help! He’s going to kill me!

  It’s Denise’s voice, I realize, as my heart rate climbs again. I hear blood pounding in my ears; I hear his screams. The train is back, thundering down the tracks.

  I lift my gaze to meet Erin’s. Her nostrils flare. Her eyes narrow. "Why don’t you come inside?" she asks, motioning toward the accessory door. Her voice has changed into a deeper tone, the girlishness long gone, replaced by a cold, hard voice. A cold hard voice that belongs to Denise.

  "Thanks, but I really have to get going." I back away and turn to leave, moving past Erin, and picking up my pace.

  I rush down the dark side walkway toward my car, trying not to be too obviously freaked out, feeling Erin’s gaze on my back all the while. Just before I turn the corner, before I move out of her line of sight, before I desperately dart to my car, I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of the side accessory door opening and Erin, otherwise known as Denise Livingston, walking inside.

  21

  BRYNN

  Thank goodness I’m not an investigative journalist. I would have been fired long ago. I called the police department and tried to chase up the thrilling conclusion of Dan’s police incident, but the unhelpful officer on the other end of the line advised me that privacy laws prevented her from handing out documents to "inquisitive girlfriends."

  I believe I detected a hint of condescension, but I just thanked her for her time anyway and hung up. Questioning her tone of voice wouldn’t improve her attitude or the outcome.

  Donna never knew that Dan’s police incident had taken place, and my online criminal history searches, which I paid dearly for, simply showed that Dan doesn’t have a record. That only means that Dan’s kerfuffle with Erin didn’t lead to a mug shot. It doesn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t put the marks on her arms.

  So I find myself driving over to the Ocean Beach address on the police incident report and try to find that neighbor, Tammy Moore, who called the cops in the first place. Maybe she’ll know something. I don’t have much to go by, just a name and her location—"two doors down." Which way? I don’t know. But I’ll have to do some door knocking to find out.

  My drive over to Ocean Beach is a quick one. Too quick. I loathe knocking on doors like a salesperson, but I’m not a salesperson, I keep reminding myself. I’m a woman searching for answers. Am I in love with a monster? Not a monster, I quickly concede. Just a guy who supposedly beat up his ex. Does that make him a monster?

  The house where Dan and Erin’s domestic event occurred sits on top of a hilly street that overlooks the placid Pacific Ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see. There’s a scrum of smog on the ocean horizon, a faint yellowish brown line that obscures the blue. The house is a modern contemporary eye-sore with glass walls, strange angles, and a color scheme that will need updating in five minutes. I park out front and start counting doors. Two doors up or down the street is my destination for the day. One of the two will hopefully yield the answers that I desperately need.

  The house two doors down is a tidy small stucco home with a red tile roof. The front yard is fenced and landscaped nicely with a bright green patch of grass edged with flowering bushes. Seems like a cheerful place. I head over there first. There’s an intercom box built into the stucco perimeter wall. I push the button, which springs back nicely, and wait. Nobody replies.

  I push the button again, a couple of times, just to be sure, and wait. A breeze ruffles the fronds on a palm tree planted in the center of their lawn. Nobody seems to be home. It’s early afternoon. I guess I should have waited until evening to catch someone at home. I guess I’ll have to come back later.

  Now I’m on to the other house, two doors up from the ‘incident house.’ I’m loath to knock on this door. The lawn is yellowing, the driveway cracked. There’s a blue tarp draped over the side of the house, half covering all sorts of crap from disintegrating furniture to dirty discarded dog crates.

  I knock on the front door and stand back, listening to a bunch of dogs yapping. A young guy opens the door with piercings in confounding places, wearing a dark sullen expression and black Emo clothes. His hair hangs in his face, which he clears away with one flick of his head.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m wondering if I can speak to Tammy? Is she home?"

  Four small dogs swirl around his feet, snarling and barking, but they don’t dare to step over the door stoop. He looks over his shoulder and yells into the depths of the house. "Mom! It’s for you!" And he leaves me standing there, dogs trailing behind him.

  "Who is it?" Tammy calls from a back bedroom, her voice loud and rough.

  "How am I supposed to know!" replies her son, and then he turns down a hallway lined with boxes, piles of clothes, and orphaned shoes.

  One lone sentinel remains, a cream and black Chihuahua, manning the fort. He stands about four feet away from the front door now, barking himself into oblivion, while I wait at the threshold. I think we’re both holding out hope that someone turns up sooner rather than later.

  Tammy finally rouses herself from the back bedroom and waddles out toward me, blooms of flesh jiggling under her stained floral dress.

  She makes her way over to the door, swiping at the Chihuahua with her leg, but missing. "Sheyuddup, Buster!" she yells at the little dog, who growls and nips at her slouching sock. Tammy is breathing heavily by the time she arrives at the door with beads of perspiration bursting out along her upper lip. "Yeah?" she asks, eyeing me warily.

  Looks like cheerful greetings run in the family. I had envisioned a cozy chat with a conscientious neighbor. I envisioned a tidy home kept by a nice neighborly lady, who had some cookies and news to share. I had envisioned the house two doors down.

  My heart sinks as Tammy stands before me, scowling, breathing hard in my face, gripping the doorjamb. How she managed to get herself out the house and down the street to meet the police officer is another enduring mystery, but I’m not here to delve into that unanswered question. I’m here to find out about Dan. She flicks her chin toward me. "Whaddaya want?"

  "Hi Tammy, I’m so sorry to bother you." I start fumbling with the flimsy pink police report, unfolding it, readying it for easy reading if she needs her memory jogged.

  "What’s that," she says, peering down at the paper.

  "Tammy, I don’t know if you remember, but there was a—a domestic issue at the house two doors down a little while ago, involving a guy and girl. You called the cops? This is the police incident report."

  I hold out the paper for her to view, and she does look at it very briefly, but then she looks up, beyond my shoulder, and scratches her sweating hairline. "Yeah I think I remember something like that."

  "The guy that was involved in the incident is my boyfriend, and—"

  "You’re dating that guy?" she asks, eyebrows raised. I straighten. I hardly think Tammy is in the position to dole out dating advice, but she barrels on with her opinion. "Sweetie, you’re as dumb as a nut if you think he won’t do to you what he did to that girl."

  I so want to be offended. And I do feel myself recoil, a little pucker, but my knee-jerk reaction is buffered by the hope of finally finding some answers.

  "What did he do?" I ask. "What happened?"

  She shifts on her feet, and hangs onto the doorway. "Listen, I can’t stand here forever and talk to you. I’m really busy right now, but I’ll tell you what happened, if you really want to know."

  I feel my knees give with relief. Finally, someone has some answers. "Yes, I’d like to know."

  "There was a lot of yelling. And screaming. I believe that girl was screaming for her life. There was all sorts of racket, winding up my dogs and making me all nervous." She goes on about how events conspired to upset her and her peaceful abode and the heroic mission she undertook to call the police, all the while my heart is sinking. Will I ever get an answer out of thi
s lady? But then she sighs, swipes her brow with the back of her hand, and says, "Hon, he hurt that girl as plain as day. That’s what I believe."

  "Believe or know . . ."

  Tammy grows visibly flustered. "Nobody ever knows what goes on behind closed doors. Not you. Not me. Not anybody. So how about this. When someone shows you who they are, you better believe ‘em." She flicks her chin in my direction. "You have a nice day."

  And she retreats into the house, shutting the door behind her.

  22

  GIA

  The shock of discovering Erin’s true identity reverberated through me long after I got home. The idea of using my ability to help someone had seemed right. Timely. Alluring even.

  Now? I don’t want anything to do with her. I thought Erin was in trouble, and warning her away from the ‘trouble’ would be manageable. Like telling someone to buckle up because I see a car crash coming. Well, I do see a car crash coming. And it’s not a fender bender.

  Someone is going to die.

  Erin’s last name isn’t lost on me either. Lazarus of Bethany was the last resurrection Jesus performed before his own. Erin is rising up, resurrecting herself. Whatever she’s up to, I don’t want to get involved. Not with my superpower so young and untested. Not with Jack relying on me to come home every night. Not with the wound of my past still raw.

  So the following morning, I call up Nikki and deliver the shocking conclusion of our investigation. The answer is likely to hit her like a roundhouse punch.

  "Are you freaking kidding me?"

  "No, not at all. I saw everything, like a straight-to-DVD movie playing right before my eyes. Erin is Denise. They’re the same person. I saw how she killed her ex. I saw how she set him up, made him attack her first . . ."

  After a short period of stunned silence, Nikki finally replies. "So Erin killed her ex-boyfriend and made it look like self-defense."

  "Yep," I say, recalling the voice I heard when I went to Erin’s nail salon.

  Stop, Dan. Stop!

  And in the same beat, I can hear the same words she cried out before Chris met his gruesome end.

  Stop, Chris. Stop!

  And now, I know she’s targeting someone else. I think she’s setting up Dan the Man in the same way that lead to Chris’s death.

  "Wow. I don’t want to get involved in that," Nikki says.

  I thought I was doing my best to stop a terrible accident from happening. I thought I was helping Erin. Now, I realized I’m hurtling myself into the dark mechanism of set-ups and secrets and murder.

  "Me neither," I agree.

  So I get on with my life, trying to forget all about Erin. But every time the front door of the shop jangles, dread washes over me. Is that her? Is she back? After a few days, I neither see nor hear from her. And slowly, the whole jarring discovery begins to fade.

  It’s Thursday, and I’m feeling a little drained. Business is slow, so I decide to close up ten minutes early and skip my six-thirty Jazzercise class at the gym, so I can take Jack out for his evening walk myself. After I finish closing up, I send a text message to Sarah, the dog walker.

  Hey there. I’ll be home early today so I can take Jack out. Sorry for the trouble. Regular schedule tomorrow.

  And I add a smiley face, hoping she’s not too put out over the loss of income. I can see the three little dots, indicating that she’s typing a reply. Great. I love quick responders.

  Jack is with Erin. She said you wanted her to look after him for a while. You know more than me, I guess she’ll drop him off soon?

  It’s hard to breathe. I call Sarah immediately. She picks up on the second ring, but I don’t even wait for her to say hello.

  "What do you mean he’s with Erin?" I blurt, hands shaking. "Erin . . . took him? Erin has Jack? Jack—my dog??" Maybe she’s talking about another Jack.

  "Yeah, she said you were stuck at work." My mind is racing. "She said that she helps you out sometimes? She said she’s known you forever, and I mean Jack didn’t seem to mind. She had a treat for him and everything, so I—"

  "Known me forever?! We just met!" I’m pacing the store, hand on the top of my head, trying to keep it place. Erin has no idea who Jack is! She’s never even seen him before. How the heck did she get her claws on him? Erin recommended Sarah. Did they plan this? "Did you coordinate with her or something?"

  "No! Of course not!" Sarah seems genuinely shocked. "I—I didn’t know. She sent me a text and asked where I was when I was out for his regular walk at twelve. I wrote back and said I was at the dog park with Jack, and then she came over and picked him up. I thought you knew! She was so adamant about it. And—and I’m so sorry. I guess I should have called you first."

  Yes you should have! I want to yell at her, but what good will it do? I need to get Jack back. Sarah is the only person who can help me. But then a horrible realization dawns. It’s six o’clock now. Erin took Jack at noon.

  My heart starts beating in strange irregular thumps. "Erin’s had Jack for almost six hours? Oh my God. Do you have any idea where she went with him? Did she say?"

  I want to be mad at Jack for waltzing off with a stranger. Doesn’t he have better judgment than that? Maybe he didn’t have a choice . . .

  "No," Sarah says. "I have no idea where she went. But let me give you her phone number. Just a sec."

  She gives me Erin’s phone number, which I dial eight consecutive times. Each call goes to straight voicemail. I call again and decide to leave a voice mail.

  "Hey Erin. It’s me Gia. I’m not sure what’s going on here, but you took my dog. I’m not even sure if that’s even legal, taking someone’s dog, but I’d like him back. Maybe it was an accident. I don’t know. But please send me a message and tell me where I can pick him up. I want to come get him now. Thanks. Bye."

  But then common sense swoops down and pecks at me. An accident? Who accidentally steals a dog? OK. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. But Erin killed someone, even if she was found "not guilty." So I’d rather try and stay on her good side for the time being.

  Besides, honey is supposed to catch more flies than a punch in the face, right? Except I’ve always found a punch in the face to be far more effective . . .

  I’ll punch her in the face later, if she refuses to give up Jack. In the meantime, I check my phone. No new messages. No missed calls.

  Honey for now. Punches for later. Except later is now, and Erin isn’t calling me back.

  I send her another text message.

  Erin, I want my dog back. Now. Please tell me where you are. I’ll come get him.

  Still using the honey—please—but I’m getting more agitated. My teeth are starting to sharpen into fangs. My hand is curling into a fist.

  I don’t know what else to do. She’s not replying. So I close up the shop, get in my car, and start combing the streets for Jacky Baby. I fire off more text messages, but those go unanswered.

  I scour the dog park, cruising past alleyways in the nearby neighborhood, eyes alive for signs of him. I find nothing. The sun sets. I flick on my headlights and keep driving.

  After the rush of anger passes, a feeling of fear and loneliness sets in. Is she going to hurt him? Is she going to drop him off a million miles from home? Or on the other side of the San Diego-Tijuana border?

  Fear spurs me into fighting mode. I pull over and call her up. She doesn’t answer. Big surprise.

  "Listen to me you—dog thief! I know you have Jack. I want him back. Right now. Do you hear me? What is wrong with you? Stealing someone’s dog? If you have a problem with me, go ahead and tell me to my face. But don’t involve an innocent animal! Give me my dog back, you—you monster!"

  I push the red hang up button, but it doesn’t quite have the same satisfaction of slamming the phone down. As I sit there, fighting back tears, I realize driving around is a fruitless endeavor. I check my phone in case Erin called with ransom instructions. Nothing. So, with my heart breaking and nothing else to do, I drive home.

  Home
is a desolate and strange place without Jack greeting me at the door. I want to sit down and cry, but I need to keep searching. I can’t give up. I call all the local animal shelters, asking if anybody turned in an orange Staffie mutt.

  "He’s super sweet," I say, just in case, but nobody has any good news. The day is winding down. I don’t know what else I can do. The long, dark and lonely night is settling in.

  I flip open my laptop and google ‘how to find a lost pet.’ There’s helpful tips and stories with happily ever afters. There’s lost pet flyer templates that I can download for a small fee. And there’s an email notification bubble in the corner of my monitor.

  It’s from Yelp, letting me know that the shop has a new review. I click on the bubble before it slides away. A nice review will help cheer me up.

  From: E.

  My mind races. E—as in Erin?

  Oh dear.

  The very first thing I see is a great big fat one star review, complete with a detailed description of how I verbally assaulted her. Assault. I’m having a hard time processing that word. Then this supposed customer states that she’s considering pressing charges. The best part? She posted an audio clip as evidence.

  But the audio clip . . . it’s like a car crash, and I’m the rubbernecker. My cursor hovers over the big white play button. I can’t stop myself from looking. Click! Suddenly my own voice roars back at me. "You—you monster!"

  My mind races over criminal procedures. Can she press charges with a single sound bite as evidence? Of course the case will be dismissed, right? Isn’t calling someone names covered under the First Amendment? What did I say exactly? I can’t even think about what my boss is going to do. Not now.

  My eyes scan the rest of the page, and I see a sea of shining one star reviews. My chin puckers. My eyes sting with tears. Jack is gone. And now the shop’s reputation is in tatters. What about my job? What will Jeff, the owner, say?

  My cell phone rings. I pick it up, my voice weak and desolate. "Hello?"