Keep Me In Sight

by Rachel Blackledge

  GIA

  "Knock, knock." The curtain next my bed in the emergency room opens. A policewoman with frazzled auburn hair steps through, wearing a dark blue uniform and a permascowl. I can tell by her unimpressed demeanor that she’s seen it all.

  "Miss England?"

  "Eastland," I say. "Gia Eastland."

  The policewoman pulls out a notepad from a tooled pouch on her heavy-duty belt and leafs through the first few pages filled, no doubt, with notes about a gruesome unsolved murder. On the back of one page, I see the word "pizza" written in large block lettering circled a few times. Maybe not.

  The police officer looks up, lake blue eyes meeting mine. "My name is Detective Robbins. I’m with the San Diego Police Department, and I’m here to follow up with your recent traffic incident. Let’s start at the top, okay? Can you tell me your full name and where you live?"

  "Sure. My name is Gia Maria Eastland and I live in Newport Beach."

  "And what are you doing all the way down here?"

  "I was looking for someone." Robbins jots down some notes. Something incriminating? Oh dear. "And—and let’s see, what else? This is my mom." Mom waves.

  Robbins nods to her, and addresses me. "Miss Eastland, why were you looking for someone? Did they go missing?"

  "No, nothing like that. I was just trying to deliver a message."

  "What kind of message?" She catches my gaze and narrows her eyes in concentration. She’s trained to read the nuance of the situation, to read between the lines. She’s surely also as sharp as an eagle when it comes to spotting lies. Her impassive gaze is fixed on mine, waiting for the wrong answer so she can pounce.

  I swallow. Under her laser gaze, I know there’s no escape. I must tell her the truth.

  "Detective Robbins, I’m a psychic," I begin. The words come out strangely reassuring. "I believe someone is in trouble, so I wanted to warn them, but I got rear-ended instead."

  Detective Robbins looks dubious. She’s not a believer. That’s okay. I don’t need to show off. I can feel myself opening up, receiving some news. Snippets of her past rise up within me. I want to push them away. Close the opening. Not now. Not anymore . . .

  But they’re here all right, pushing through. And suddenly I know that she wouldn’t be eating pizza alone every night if she hadn’t dumped her husband for that hot young stud.

  Creaking leather. Gun fire. Correction: her partner. Listen, Rookie. So she was his superior. My heartbeat accelerates. I can feel searing pressure on my lips. The affair was hot all right, filled with lots of late night office encounters, lust, and maybe even love. He made her feel young and alive again in her deadened world of investigating death.

  You piece of shit! I see a glimmer of a diamond ring, bouncing off a wall. Not Detective Robbins’. Another woman’s. So the hot stud was cheating too. Bummer.

  A fucking traffic warden? I can hear echoes of Detective Robbin’s incredulous voice during her demotion, which is why she’s here at an emergency care center, investigating my car accident.

  "Miss Eastland? Can you answer the question?"

  "Sorry, what was the question?"

  "Miss Eastland, we’re dealing with a hit and run here. That’s illegal in the State of California. The vehicle in question was observed by a neighbor, but the license plates were removed. Do you have any idea who was driving the other vehicle?"

  "Yes, I saw a red SUV drive away. A red SUV that belongs to someone named Denise Livingston."

  Detective Robbins jots down some notes. "Is there anything you can tell me about this Denise Livingston? Anything that might explain why she drove you into a tree?"

  Mom looks at me, her eyes wide, and she’s jerking her head ever so slightly in the direction of Detective Robbins. I know exactly what she’s saying: Speak!

  Robbins tilts her head to the side. She’s listening. I pull in a big breath, trying to tamp down a rush of adrenaline as I step off the precipice of ‘officially involving law enforcement,’ and glance over at Mom, who’s nodding with encouragement.

  "Officer Robbins, I believe something bad is going to happen to someone."

  "Okay . . ." Robbins glances over at Mom and back to me. "Are we talking about a bad hair day or what?"

  "I’m talking about an untimely end."

  "Homicide or suicide?" Detective Robbins asks, sectioning the information into the right bucket. Her blunt dealing with the matter gives me confidence. She’s taking me seriously. Maybe she can help, without officially helping. Maybe she can stop Erin.

  "I think someone is planning the perfect murder. And I’m trying to stop it from happening again."

  "Again?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

  "She got off the first time. Walked free because she made it look like self-defense."

  Detective Robbins narrows her eyes and glances away, evaluating. Then she meets my gaze. "How do you know she made the murder look like self-defense?"

  I pause, hoping that Detective Robbins doesn’t try to arrest me for the crime of reading her mind. "I know . . . kind of like I just know that you were demoted down to a ‘traffic warden’." I do the finger brackets around ‘traffic warden’—her words, not mine.

  I look straight into her eyes, gauging her reaction, waiting to see if she wants me to announce the details. But she blinks a few times, astonished, registering the information, and looks away. No, she’s saying, don’t say it.

  "Can you look into Denise somehow?" I ask. "Or her pseudonym Erin Lazarus? Or warn her soon-to-be-victim? Dan Evans?"

  "Her soon-to-be victim? Miss Eastland, this isn’t Minority Report. We deal with facts and facts only. That means the crime has to have occurred, before we can get involved."

  I look away, deflated. This is exactly what I thought would happen. I give Mom a look. Told ya so.

  "I’ll be in touch regarding the traffic accident investigation." Detective Robbins pulls a business card out from the back flap of her notebook and hands it to me. "And if you happen to come across some verifiable facts about this crime yet to occur, please do contact me."

  "Okay, thank you," I say, handing the card to mom. What a waste of time.

  Detective Robbins turns to go, sweeping the curtain aside, but then she pauses, hand on the curtain edge. Mom and I exchange glances. Robbins returns to my bedside, fixing her impassive blue eyes on mine.

  "I can’t promise anything," she says in a low voice, "and my clearance isn’t what it used to be . . ." She glances over her shoulder and back to me, leaning in close. "But I’ll look into Denise Livingston. And see what I can find."

  32

  BRYNN

  Erin arrives far sooner than I had hoped. There’s the usual flurry of text messages, directing her to the right spot, advising her about where to park, letting me know that she’s ‘close’ and then ‘right outside’ as my heartbeat rises with sickening dread.

  All the while, I’m trying to soften the hard edge of regret that I allowed the Clouseaus dictate my evening. Why did I let them invite Erin over?

  Because I’m nice. Well, I’m getting really tired of being nice.

  I also don’t want to hear about her burglary, mostly because I’ll have to provide a sympathetic shoulder on which to cry. I’m not feeling very sympathetic. I’m feeling angry because she possibly spied on me and uneasy as if the ground is moving in a slow motion circular pattern under my feet. I can’t shake the horrible flashback of that night we all partied and Dan supposedly rearranged her facial features.

  But she seemed so rattled on the phone, and clearly she’s all alone. Somehow she promoted me to the best friend position in her life. I’m wondering why she called me, when she really should have called someone else. Then I see her walk through the entrance doors, searching for me.

  I wave my arm over my head, and she walks over, smiling and looking relieved to see me.

  As she makes her way over, I see that she’s wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and some white sneakers. Her hair is pulled back in homely looking
ponytail. Her cheeks are ruddy, her eyes glassy. I can tell she’s been crying.

  I feel a twinge of regret for pegging her as a boyfriend-stealing vixen. She doesn’t seem to have the confidence needed to carry out such a devious deed, but that doesn’t change the fact that she peeped through my windows like a creep, I think, and accused my boyfriend of beating her up.

  I elbow Tiffany, who elbows Jaime, and there we stand, ready to receive the new addition.

  When I introduce Erin, I carefully avoid adding on the amendment to her name—Dan’s ex—and wait on pins and needles for Tiffany to make a foot-in-mouth comment, but she gives Erin a welcoming hug instead.

  Dan would kill me if he found out that I went out with his ex again. I look around, trying to spot anyone that I know. Thankfully, I see only strangers.

  "Wow," I say. "You got here fast."

  Jaime slyly steps on my toes. I keep my smile fastened on tight.

  "Yeah, I tend to drive too fast." Erin looks a little rattled. "So, what is everyone drinking? Can I buy us a bottle of wine?"

  Well, that’s nice of her, even if she was looking in my window. Buying drinks is always regulated. My turn, your turn, my turn, your turn, mostly because everyone is marginally broke, yoga teachers especially.

  But Erin doesn’t seem to have the same monetary restrictions as us regular folk. I had no idea painting nails could be so lucrative. Maybe I’m in the wrong business.

  Jaime and Tiffany talk to each other, while Erin orders an expensive bottle.

  "Oh hey," Erin says, ordering complete, and reaches into her purse. "I have something for you."

  "Me?" I ask, taken aback. She hands me a cream jewelry box topped with a pretty red bow.

  "Oh wow. You didn’t have to bring me anything!" And suddenly I feel like a shoe heel for not wanting to invite her out. Tiffany catches my eye, looking at the box and then back at me as if to say: see what being a friend will get you?

  "Oh, it’s nothing," Erin says, waving her hand. "I just saw it and thought you’d like it."

  I open the box and find a chain bracelet with a crystal dangling from the clasp. It’s delicate and expensive looking, and I really like it. Erin helps me put it on.

  "Aw. How thoughtful," says Jaime.

  "Thank you," I say to Erin with a warm smile.

  The wine bottle arrives, nestled in a bucket of ice. I busy myself with pouring out four glasses, just a splash for me—I need to stay stone cold sober for another night out with Erin just in case there’s some more funny business—and an extra full glass for her. She needs it. Maybe Tiffany is right. What’s the matter with me? Maybe I inherited the gene allele SCRGE, Scrooge not scourge. Though lately, I’m not so sure.

  Jaime pipes up. "So Brynn says someone broke into your house?"

  "Here you go, hon," I say, handing Erin a very full glass. And dole out the rest of the glasses to Jaime, myself, and Tiffany, who has her eyes locked on Erin, listening oh so intently.

  "Yeah, so I got home," Erin says, "and it was really weird because I walked inside and kind of felt like something was wrong, but I didn’t even think that someone was actually in my house, you know? I mean, that sort of stuff happens in movies, not real life."

  Jaime shares a similar tale of ‘stuff that happens in movies,’ which she never tires of talking about: a car accident—nothing major, just a newsworthy event worth dissecting.

  "No way! The same thing happened to me," cries Erin. They bond over that for a while, but good ole Tiffany, hot on the heels of my would-be shtalker, starts pinning down times. "So what time did you say you got home?"

  "It wasn’t that late, that’s why it was so weird. Probably around eight or eight thirty?"

  I look at Jaime, who looks right back at me. That’s when I found my stalker, who is clearly not Erin, standing outside my window.

  While they all bond over movie matters (Tiffany shares a story that I’d never heard before about catching her boyfriend in bed with another guy). "Oh, I suspected," Tiff says. "I just didn’t want to believe it."

  I look at Erin, Jaime, and Tiffany talking, sharing their incredible, unbelievable stories and bonding over things that actually happened. Is Dan’s crazy ex-girlfriend really a part of my friend circle now?

  "So I heard someone rummaging around upstairs in the back bedroom," Erin continues. "Little creaks here and there. Footsteps, you know?"

  Jaime and Tiffany are riveted. They remind me of an old couple sitting in a movie theater, clutching onto one another, eating popcorn, watching the horrible scene unfold, waiting for the baddie to pop out as the hapless main character creeps around an empty house, calling out: hello? hello?

  "Then what happened?" Tiffany asks.

  Jaime’s hand travels up to her mouth in anticipation.

  "So I hid in the closet and waited for him to leave. It was horrifying."

  "That’s crazy," says Jaime.

  "Unbelievable," murmurs Tiffany.

  Then Jaime reaches for Erin’s hand, her face a picture of compassion, and cries. "Oh, you poor thing!"

  "Aw, thank you," Erin says, tilting her head slightly.

  I want to hate her so bad. I haven’t felt so torn in my life. I don’t want anything to do with Erin. But the thing is, I feel sorry for her. And the hell of it is—I honestly don’t know if Dan beat her senseless or not.

  "Someone was looking in Brynn’s window tonight," Jaime volunteers.

  Erin gasps, puts her hand over her mouth, and looks at me, eyes huge with alarm. "Do you think someone is targeting us both?"

  "That’s ridiculous," Jaime barks.

  Tiffany agrees. "Totally ridiculous."

  While the conversational train chugs on to other topics, I can’t shake the buzz of low-level anxiety.

  Is someone out to get us both?

  33

  BRYNN

  Do you think someone is targeting us both? Erin’s words from last night echo in my mind. Try as I might, I cannot escape the scary undercurrent that someone is out to get us.

  Is someone after me? And why, exactly? There’s a modicum of logic in there somewhere. I think. If both her burglary and my Peeping Tom were random crimes, what are the odds that the two events happened at the same time to two people who roughly know each other?

  It would take some sort of criminal organization to "target" us both at the same time, wouldn’t it? Who are we dealing with here—the mafia? KGB? And why? Why would someone do that?

  Suddenly my nervousness about this ‘targeting’ business comes crashing down like a house of cards. Both crimes were random. It doesn’t make any sense that someone would target us both. The only thing I know for certain is that Erin wasn’t peeping in my windows. Somehow, this seems to be the only thing that matters.

  The sun breaks through Jaime’s thin front room curtains, but I’m glad to see the light of day. I sling my arm over my eyes, trying to solve one of the original riddles. Who was looking in my window? And why? Bear shuffles around down by my feet. I roll over and bury my face in the soft cushions of Jaime’s couch. I’m not feeling one hundred percent, but at least I’m functioning.

  Stress is taking a toll. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, my feet propped up on Bear’s rump, thinking over last night. I remember Erin and Tiffany bonded over something unbearably funny to them; I had no idea what. At some point, I found myself sitting on the outer circle of hilarity, wondering if Erin was stealing my friends from under my nose.

  But then she reached out and draped her arm around my shoulders, smiling over at me, making me feel petty and shallow for thinking such thoughts. She’s beguiling, that one. And sweet. I feel a pang of sympathy for her.

  Snippets from last night float up to the forefront of my mind. I remember Erin telling us she had an abusive ex-boyfriend. Dan? Did she mean Dan? No, his name was Steve or Chris or something. So not Dan.

  Finally she managed to leave him, but then he started stalking her, showing up at her work and home. I remember Ti
ffany’s sad face as she reached out and squeezed Erin’s hand.

  I remember thinking that Erin has had an awful lot of trauma in her life. She must be so brave. She’s a picture of survival itself, someone who really does deserve sympathy. I’m happy that we could help her out in her moment of need. Now, I hope she’ll go away.

  "Hey," Jaime says, wandering into the living room in her cat pajamas. She yawns and sits down by my feet, ruffling the fur on Bear’s head. "How are you feeling?"

  "I’m okay," I say, rubbing my eyes. "I could use a coffee though."

  "I could use a Bloody Mary."

  "Ouf. Not me."

  Jaime shrugs. "Hair of dog? Best yoga pose ever." And we both chuckle.

  "Get showered. Tiffany and Erin are going to meet us at Surfside Cafe."

  "Tiffany and Erin?" I ask, a little surprised.

  "Yeah. She stayed at Tiffany’s house last night. Because Chez Jaime is all full up."

  Tiffany doesn’t normally do couch-overs.

  "What are we—best friends forever? We hardly know her."

  "What are we—twelve? C’mon. It’s just breakfast."

  Surfside is a manky establishment that boasts a convenient beachside location, old upholstered banquet chairs, and chipped tables. The glasses are mostly clean, but the groggy clientele don’t seem to notice. Our dearly beloved Surfside has been running on financial fumes for some time now.

  I’m a little reluctant to hang out with Erin under the bright, glaring light of day. The last time that happened, she produced a picture of her smashed face.

  It’s a topic that I don’t want to talk about ever again because it tinges the water around us with a faint hue of blood. To stem the flow would mean talking about it, and I want to pretend it never happened.

  Erin and Tiffany both sport crumpled clothes and messy buns. They almost look like an old couple, if I didn’t know the details. Tiffany spent the night riveted by Erin, oohing and awwing over the poor thing, and isn’t she so strong? You’re the strongest person I know.