Keep Me In Sight

by Rachel Blackledge

That leaves my phone. I really don’t know anything about tracking people down via cellphones. I’ve never even googled ‘how to be a creepy stalker and use nefarious ways to track someone.’ Well, clearly Erin figured it out. Is she tracking me now? Listening to my thoughts? I fumble for my phone, stashed in my back pocket, and power it off. There. That should cut the umbilical cord. I think. But what about Mom? How will she get in touch with me?

  Shivering uncontrollably, I reach for a thin blanket and drape it over my body as best as I can, trying to warm up and stop the shaking.

  "Over here?" I hear Mom’s voice. And the curtain snaps open.

  My eyes instantly well up with tears. My throat tightens with emotion. Mom. The only person I want to see right now. The only person who will make this all better.

  "Oh, honey," she says. Her dark hair is pulled back, her bangs ruffled, mascara smudged a little. I suspect she’s wearing pajamas under her tan trench coat, cinched up tight around her waist, but I don’t ask. I’m just happy she’s here. "Are you okay? Have the nurses checked you out and everything?" Her pretty almond shaped eyes are wide with alarm. She hovers overhead, looking at my nose. "Ouch."

  "Ouch is right," I say, reaching for her hand.

  She sits down next to me and takes both of my hands in hers. "As soon as the police called, I rushed here as fast as I could." She frowns. "What are you doing all the way down here anyway?"

  I groan and look away, gazing at the gouge marks in the wall, wondering where to begin. It’s such a long story. I don’t even know where to begin. Mom’s a worrier. But the bigger problem is that she’ll get in my way. She’ll stop me, when I’m so close to stopping Erin. But maybe I should stop. Maybe I’m not thinking so clearly, after all.

  "What’s going on, Gia?"

  I look into her honey-colored eyes, bloodshot and tired, and want to tell her everything, but I can’t seem to find the words. "I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry."

  She squeezes my hand. "I wouldn’t worry," she says. I look at her and try to laugh but it hurts too much. "Okay, maybe I would worry a little, but you know you can tell me anything. Are you in some kind of trouble?" she asks, all calm and casual, but I know she’s desperate for the details. "Is it about Jack? Because I do think it’s strange that you brought him over. I mean—"

  "Is he okay? You didn’t leave him alone, did you?" My skin tingles with goosebumps just thinking about Erin getting her creepy claws on my Jacky-baby again.

  "No!" she cries. "Jon came over. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, so he offered to pet sit for me." He’s the neighbor, who’s quite smitten with my mom. I’m not sure she’s noticed yet.

  "Oh, that’s good. He’s such a nice guy . . ."

  "Don’t change the subject, Gia." She’s onto me, snuffling out my problems like a bloodhound. "I want to know what’s going on. I want to know why you’re here."

  Silence.

  "Well? What is it?" she asks.

  We lock eyes for a moment, and then I look away. "Two weeks ago this girl, Erin, came into my work, trying to drum up business for her nail salon. I could see that she was in trouble. I thought it had to do with money, so I went to her salon to get my nails done, hoping that I’d see something because I think you’re right. I think my psychic ability came back for a reason."

  "Uh huh."

  "Well, the mani-pedi turned out to be . . . not what I expected." Chills race down my back just thinking about it.

  "What happened?"

  "I saw that someone is going to die."

  "What?"

  "And I’ll tell you what really freaked me out."

  "Okay . . ."

  "Mom." I lower my voice to a whisper. "I found out that she killed her ex-boyfriend and made it look like self-defense."

  Mom sits there, stunned. "But why," she asks. "Why would someone do that?"

  "I don’t know."

  Mom looks away.

  "But I believe she’s going to do it again," I say, leaving out the part about calling Mandy at the psych ward and poking around outside of Erin’s house. Mom would lecture me to high heaven if she found out. "And—and I tried to get the message to her new victim—to the person I think is about to have a bad life, or at least a short one. But Erin found out that I’m onto her, and she stole Jack and left a message on his collar. She said he’ll die if I don’t stop snooping. And—"

  "And that’s why you brought him to my house."

  I nod. "And that’s why I’m down here. Trying to get to her victim before she does. Trying to use this gift for good, trying to make sure I listen this time."

  Mom cups my cheek with her hand. "Honey, you can’t blame yourself for what happened to Melissa. She was not well."

  I grit my teeth and force back the tears. "I did everything I could to help, but I can’t keep going. Erin . . . she’s scary. She stole Jack. Threatened his life. She left online reviews, practically killing the pet shop. And now the accident . . ."

  Mom frowns.

  "But don’t worry. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep putting myself and everyone around me in danger."

  "I’m with you. I absolutely think you should stop with this vigilante justice stuff." She leans in and squeezes my hand. "But this—Erin problem? It’s big. Real big. We need to get the police involved."

  "What are they going to do, Mom? Arrest her based on a psychic’s prediction? The whole world would be incarcerated."

  "But how are you going to save someone’s life based on a premonition?"

  I open my mouth to object, but a nurse pulls the curtain open holding a clipboard. She checks my bandage and my oxygen saturation levels. Then she removes the IV drip and gives us the discharge instructions.

  I leave it to Mom to ask the follow up questions. Should I go on bed rest? Any foods to avoid? Am I okay to sleep alone or should she keep vigil twenty-four seven?

  Finally, the nurse leaves, closing the curtain behind her. Mom turns to me, her mouth turned down, her eyes serious. She leans in close and says in her no-nonsense Mom voice, "You’re going to talk to the police. And if you don’t, I will."

  29

  BRYNN

  Everybody always flocks to the latest new thing. Ocean Palisades, a trendy bar slash restaurant in a sleek oceanfront building, distracts me from my problems as soon as I walk through the wide front doors.

  The restaurant part sits on the mezzanine level, candle-topped tables overlooking the crowded downstairs bar area that faces a wall of windows. In the daytime, the windows look out on the beach and ocean beyond. Tonight, only the outdoor terrace area lined with flaming tiki torches can be seen beyond the darkened windows, where people stand, shivering and smoking.

  I had donned Jaime’s black sheer-paneled dress, a shade above slutty, but still attractive. I have a boyfriend, after all, even if he does beat up women, allegedly. But you can’t show up at these events looking like the help.

  "Hey Tiff!" cries Jaime, making her way through the crowd.

  "Hey Tiffy," I say, walking behind Jaime.

  Tiffy is great fun, but she’s a little flaky. She has been a blonde, brunette, and redheaded—at different times. If her eyebrows are anything to go by, I’d call her a dark blonde. She has a penchant for dramatic winged eyeliner and vintage dresses. She also has a tendency to laugh a little too loud, oftentimes at things that I don’t find particularly funny. Kind of like Jaime. Maybe that’s why they like each other. She’s sharp and quick-witted, and her sexual orientation seems a little dubious. Maybe that’s also why she likes Jaime. No matter. She invited us to a grand soirée, and I’m grateful for the distraction.

  "Brynn has a stalker!" Jaime roars above the music.

  "What!" I yelp. "Jaime, you don’t need to tell everybody. Tiff—really, it’s not—"

  "A stalker?" Tiffany says, eyes wide, leaning over and giving me an air kiss. Then she straightens. "Do tell!"

  More singing for my supper. Except tonight I’ll buy my own drinks,
thank you very much. "Guys, it’s really not that big of a deal."

  "Then why are you sleeping on my couch?"

  No answer.

  "And get this," Jaime says to Tiffany. "We think he is a she."

  "A she stalker?" Tiffany says, totally enchanted. I consider leaving a sign on my door, notifying the stalker of a more willing subject. "Is that even a thing?" she asks.

  "I think they’re called shtalkers," Jaime says with her best Sean Connery impression. "As in sh-talkers. Because when they’re sh-talking, they’re looking—not talking."

  Tiffany finds that hilarious.

  "I don’t know if it’s actually a girl," I say above their laughter. "All I know is that . . ." And here I fumble. I most definitely do not want Tiffany to know about my reckless night out with Dan’s ex and her photo-documented face. I don’t know anything about criminal proceedings (if it gets that far), but I do know that it’s definitely a bad idea to go around town and blab. Besides, at this point, it’s still an unsubstantiated personal matter. But who else could the stalker be?

  Jaime and Tiffany look at me expectantly.

  "Okay, I think it’s a girl," I say.

  Jaime and Tiffany lock hands, eyes bright with—glee? They remind me of couple of Inspector Clouseaus, anxious to make a disaster of things in their haste to solve the mystery.

  "We can set a trap," says Tiffany.

  Exactly.

  "Absolutely," agrees Jaime.

  "No," I say. "No traps."

  They blink at me, positively ruining their fun. "I’m going to get a drink," I say. "Anybody else want one?"

  We three troop over to the bar, where Tiffany stumps for our first round. A tall, frosty glass of white wine arrives in my hand. I feel better, as if life has instantly become more manageable.

  "So, how are we going catch the peeper?" Tiffany asks. As if we were all on the same page here, as if this is a big load of fun. Well, it’s not fun. It’s dangerous and scary.

  "We’re not," I say.

  "First, I think we should come up with a catchy operational name," Jaime says.

  "Oh great." I take a big gulp of my wine. I need it. There will be no derailing these Keystone Kops now.

  "Great idea," says Tiffany, taking a thoughtful sip.

  "How about ‘Catch the Creeper’," Jaime says, smirking, trying not to laugh.

  Tiffany nods her head. "Oh yeah. That’s good. Real good."

  And down goes the rest of my drink.

  "See?" Jaime says, lifting her glass for a toast. "I’m a genius."

  "Definitely an asset to the team," I say, rolling my eyes.

  "Huge asset," Tiffany agrees, missing my sarcasm entirely and clinking glasses with Jaime. "Okay, so it’s all decided?" She nods and looks at Jaime, then me. I’m supposed to nod back in agreement preferably with some enthusiasm. But I just stand there feeling like a stunned mullet.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a long buzz, which means someone is trying to call me. Dan? I hurry to unearth my phone from my clutch. It keeps buzzing. Good news, that means he’s still on the line. But when I pull it out, I see a U.S. based number that I don’t recognize with a 213 area code. Los Angeles. So not Dan.

  I put my phone back in my bag. Probably a telemarketer, poor guy, sitting in a dreary phone call factory, dialing number after number only to be abused when someone finally picks up, his salary hanging on a thread. Convert or die!

  Then I feel a short buzz. A text message. Jaime and Tiffany launch into their Catch The Creeper plan, while I play what the heck with my cell phone.

  I punch in my security code and read the message. Then my knees go weak.

  Hey, it’s me, Erin. I was wondering if I could talk to you really quick? Sorry to bother you.

  "Who is it?" Jaime asks, peering at my phone. "Is it Dan the Man?"

  I so regret telling her Dan’s nickname.

  "No," I say, holding up my phone. "It’s the Creeper."

  30

  BRYNN

  We moved to a quieter area, the outside patio of Ocean Palisades, tiki torch flames blowing in the wind, flanked by Jaime and Tiffany, telling me to: "Call her back! Call her back!"

  They can’t believe their luck. The Creeper calling me direct? This deserves their one hundred percent focus.

  Jaime hiccups. I glare at her.

  "Sorry," she says, pulling in her lips.

  "I can’t call the Creeper back with you two breathing down my neck. You hiccuping and,"—I turn to Tiffany, who’s peering down at my phone—"and who knows what the heck you’re going to say."

  Tiffany tries to look offended, but she knows she’s guilty. She has a mouth that knows no bounds, and she never, repeat never, thinks to put a muzzle on it.

  "I won’t say a thing," Tiff says, pressing her plump hand against her mouth, eyes dancing merrily.

  "Yeah right," I mutter, turning my attention back to my phone.

  I don’t want to mess around with Erin. She has photographic evidence that could completely blow up Dan’s life. Even if she had somehow Photoshopped the image and Dan is as innocent as a lamb, a false accusation is as good as a real one in today’s climate. Besides this girl is really off her rocker if she faked the appalling attack.

  What will she do if I call her back and the Keystone Kops start giggling in the background? She’ll probably hang up in a fury and commence Operation Destroy Dan, or me, or both.

  I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t mess around with her. It’s one thing to tell Jaime my filtered version of events. It’s quite another to unleash Tiffany and Jaime on Erin, without any backstops.

  I put my phone away. "No, I can’t risk it, guys. If she is the stalker, and I don’t know, but if she is, then that would mean that she’s completely crazy, and the last thing I need is you two clowns giggling in the background. This is serious. She has—" But I stop myself right there. Don’t say another word.

  My phone buzzes again. I look down at the glowing screen.

  "It’s another text," I say.

  "What does it say?" asks Jaime.

  I read aloud, "I need to talk to you. Can you call me back?"

  My stomach churns. I am well and truly out of my depth here, but fortunately or unfortunately I have two friends standing on either side of me, offering up their version of moral support.

  "Well?" Jaime asks. "Talking doesn’t hurt anyone."

  My thumb hovers over the call button.

  "Go on," says Tiffany.

  "It’s just a phone call," says Jaime.

  So I brace myself and push ‘call.’

  "Hello?" comes Erin’s voice, a little breathless.

  "Hey . . . Erin, it’s me, Brynn." Did I just introduce myself?

  "Oh hey, Brynn. Thanks for calling me back."

  "Um—how did you get my number?"

  "Oh, you gave it to me that night we all went out." That night. The gift that keeps on giving. "You don’t remember?"

  "I guess not . . ."

  Her voice sounds weird, a little quivery and nervous. Inexplicably, I feel sorry for her. "Are you okay?" I ask.

  There’s a long pause. "No," she says. "I’m just—I’m a little rattled."

  Rattled because you’re a stalker? I want to ask. And I caught you red-handed? But common courtesy dictates my next statement: "Did something happen?"

  And here she breaks down a little. I can hear snuffles, and my resistance toward her melts.

  "Sorry," she says, at last.

  Jaime and Tiffany are both leaning toward me, trying to hear. I have her on max volume so they can catch snippets. They’re riveted, not moving, like twin stone statues.

  "It’s just that . . . someone just broke into my house."

  Karma.

  But wait. If she just got burgled that means she’s not my shtalker. Right? I’m trying to work this out in my head, matching up the timelines, but everything is a blur. Jaime and Tiffany are staring at me, waiting for an update.

  "Someone broke into your ho
use?" I repeat for the benefit of my audience.

  Erin starts crying. "Yeah, and I’m just—I’m having a really hard time coping, you know?"

  Tiffany tilts my phone toward her face. "Hi, hi—this is Tiffany, Brynn’s friend. Do you want to drive over here? We’re at—"

  I rip the phone away from her, wishing so badly I could set Tiffany’s hair on fire with my searing evil eye. I cover the mouthpiece with the palm of my hand. "Don’t invite her over here!" I whisper fiercely. "That’s the last thing I need!"

  "But she’s crying," whispers Jaime.

  "This is Dan’s. Freaking. Ex-girlfriend we’re talking about here," I say to them both, and then to Erin waiting on the phone, "Sorry just a sec." And I put the call on mute.

  "Everyone is someone’s ex-girlfriend," Tiffany reasons. "Does that mean we’re all lepers?"

  No, just this one.

  "She’s really scared," says Jaime. "I mean, put yourself in her shoes."

  I really, really do not want to do that.

  "I don’t want to get involved with her, okay? She needs to go to the police, not me. I can’t do anything for her."

  "You can be a friend," says Tiffany, her voice cold and accusatory. Ugh. That old bone of contention. We have a little history in the ‘being there for each other’ department, specifically me not being there for her. Circumstances out of my control. Forgiven. Not forgotten, clearly.

  "Fine," I say. "Just fine. Invite her out. Whatever. This can be the merry drinking tour of the four effed up women."

  Jaime and Tiffany exchange glances. Had they somehow coordinated this new development by exchanging subliminal signals or something? All I know is that they are mightily pleased about it.

  "Think about it," Jaime says, her eyes glimmering with excitement. "We can get her a little tipsy. And we can pump her for information."

  "No. Pumping." I look at Jaime, while Tiffany suggests, "Corroborate?"

  "No nothing. Okay? I’m serious." They both nod solemnly. "Okay." I switch off the mute button. "Hey Erin, sorry about that. So, do you want to meet us out for a drink?"

  31