36
BRYNN
Monday morning dawned with depressing overcast skies and drizzle, apropos to how I felt inside. I drove to the local police precinct so that I could give them my statement. Tell them what I remembered. I felt that was the right thing to do. Tell them my truth.
I sat in a soulless room with no windows across the table from an older cop, who looked like he hadn’t seen a day of physical activity since Christ walked the dry hills of Jerusalem.
I expected fast-acting police detectives, ready to whisk me into a shiny interrogation room with mirrored windows and listen to my testimony with sharp interest. Yes? And then what happened? For some reason, I thought my case would be escalated to the top brass. But it was surprisingly anti-climatic. A bit dull. Filled with lots of paper pushing. I wondered why I had bothered.
The cop asked me impersonal questions, taking notes on a yellow legal pad, while my mind drifted to Erin. She had taken the high road by not pressing charges. Instead, she came to me and told me what had happened because she’s a good person and wanted to warn me. She was thinking about me.
I had thanked her by treating her with contempt, at first, followed by suspicion and an arm’s length friendship. In the middle of the questioning, I glanced down at the delicate bracelet she had given me, feeling a twinge of guilt.
He asked me more questions that raised my hackles. How do you know it was her? How much did you say you had to drink again . . . ?
As I sat there regurgitating my memories from That Night, I felt myself slipping into an existential crisis. How could I "know in my bones" that Dan is innocent? Know thyself. Well, it’s clear that I don’t know the first flaming thing about myself! And if I can’t trust my own instincts, who or what can I trust?
It’s so bewildering to know that I have nobody to lean on, not even myself, that my own intuition about Dan’s innocence completely failed me.
Was I so blinded by love that I couldn’t see Dan’s true character? I don’t know. All I know is that I loved him desperately. Now, I hate him desperately. And I hate myself, too, for blithely ignoring his black box of a past. And I’m angry with Dan for dumping this on me right before his deployment.
The old cop with breath smelling of stale coffee and breath mints finished up his case study written in long hand and stapled it to a form. He promised to type up his report and hand it over to the "right department." He said they’d be in touch if they have any follow up questions. So I drove home in a fog, nursing an aching heart and a numb feeling of utter disbelief. I can’t believe I believed Dan.
I need to talk to him now and tell him that I know the terrible truth, but all I have is email. It’s not ideal, but it will have to do. I sit down on the couch and open my laptop. It’s a clunky old Dell that I bought second hand at a local computer shop.
There’s the spinning ball, doing its little wiggle dance as the computer slowly boots up. I head to the kitchen for some water, and by the time I’ve returned, the welcome screen flashes.
I fire up my email program, but my fingers pause over the keyboard. What if he reads my email right before a mission and gets distracted and then hurt? But the United States isn’t at war officially, I remind myself. They probably trot the boys off to "missions" to keep them active.
Besides, he’s a big guy. He beats up women, small innocent ones at that. He can take a little email.
First stop, the subject line: Liar.
Then I get right to the point.
I know what you did that night. I know you beat up Erin. You’re a sad excuse of a man. You’re not even a man. You’re a walking dick with four appendages. Yeah, I found out. I remembered. How about them apples?
Little drunky-pants Brynn heard the audio that Erin had recorded and it all came rushing back to me like a terrible tsunami. Clarifying remembrances about how you shook Erin in that parking lot.
And you know what I’ve been thinking? I’ve been thinking that Erin was kind enough not to tell the police. But I’m not that kind. Do you know why? Because I had a friend in college, who got beat to hell, probably by one of your fraternity brothers. And it ruined her life. You see, women, we blame ourselves.
So I went to the police, you pathetic mealworm. I gave them my statement. You’re not going to ruin another woman’s life. Not on my watch.
My shaking finger hovers over the send button, while my heart beats high and fast in my throat. Mom’s wise words rise to the forefront of my mind. Write that terrible letter, but don’t send it.
Send or not send. I re-read my missive, and the word beat leaps out at me followed by: not on my watch.
"Yep," I say to myself, resolved about it. "Not on my watch." And I hit send.
I pull in a long calming breath, even though I feel sick to my stomach, and close my eyes. A hint of peace washes over me as I envision my electronic letter traveling under the great depths of the ocean, scurrying along thick fiber optic cables, and rushing straight up to the military servers, where it will sit for who knows how long before Dan logs in and retrieves it.
I pull in some deep breaths, trying to relax and make me feel better.
Except, I don’t feel better. A deep gnawing pit of anxiety opens up in my belly, while I think about my black dove letter, fluttering over to its target.
Maybe I was a tad too harsh. Regret washes over me. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent it. I should have waited until he got home so that I could tell him to his face. In the meantime, I could help Erin by supporting her. What’s the big rush anyway?
Now, I’m definitely sick with regret. I shouldn’t have sent the email. I grab my laptop and sit down at the dining table. Maybe the email is sitting in my outbox. Maybe I can cancel it.
I open up my email program. First stop: the outbox. Nothing. I look at my sent folder. And there it is. My stomach drops.
It’s gone. My black dove is flying off to greet him like a punch to the gut. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Is there? I google ‘delete sent email’ and read the offerings.
There are a lot of technical people, describing the ins and outs of email configuration. There are YouTube videos on how to retract emails, but none of the known methods apply to me. I’m reading an article that looks somewhat helpful, when a little notification bubble pops up on the upper right hand corner of my screen.
I have mail. I double-click on the bubble as tingles of dread race over my skin.
Re: Liar.
What remembrances?? What did you fucking remember? Because it had nothing to do with me! Hey don’t you worry about going to the police. Erin beat you to it. They’re in the process of pulling me out. I’ll be on the first comm flight home so I can face the music. Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll find my own way home.
He didn’t even bother to sign off.
Slowly, I close my laptop. Comm flight. They’re sending him home on a commercial airline. I breathe out. This is bad. Real bad. Face the music? Is he getting discharged from the military?
No, I don’t think it happens that quickly. He’ll have to go through a military tribunal, maybe spend some quality time in military prison, while they assemble a case against him.
Well, one thing is for certain. We’ll need a criminal attorney now, won’t we? We? I think to myself, pacing the front room.
"Who is we," I mutter to myself. This is Dan’s problem. He did this all by himself. Except, I’m involved too. I’m a witness to the crime. Or rather, part of the crime.
My mind flashes to the coming courtroom scene, to the bank of jurors, looking at me dubiously as the prosecution tears my testimony to shreds.
"And how many drinks would you say you had that night, Miss Masters?"
Too many. Too many to count . . .
So Erin went to the police. She must have pressed charges because Dan’s on his way home. I’m stunned. And I’m angry. I thought she took the high road by telling me about what had happened. Did I read her wrong all along? Seems like she
should have at least told me, since I’m dating the accused. This is like climbing a set of stairs and one rung gives underfoot. Is just a one-off? Or is every stair rotten?
I need to get to the bottom of this. Why did she go to the police, and when was she planning on telling me? It feels like a betrayal, even though I went to the police too. It’s just that—what is it?
I feel like she’s playing a double game. That’s what it is. I don’t know what she’s doing, but her secret salvo has left me feeling that she working for her own interests—not mine like I was lead to believe.
Because if he did this to me, he’ll do it to you . . .
I believed her. Now, with her motives called into question, I’m not so sure. I have to talk to her. I have to confront her. Prickles of dread race over my skin just thinking about it.
I don’t have a steel-lined stomach. I tend to avoid confrontations at all costs, and I hate myself for it. I hate feeling weak. Why can’t I just be strong and combative? Because I’m too nice. Well, that’s about to change.
I’m going to call her up. Invite her over. Because I want to see her expression when I tell her that I know. So I can see for myself—what kind of game is she playing?
And whose side is she on?
37
GIA
It’s been three days since the accident. I’m still sore and stiff, but my power Advils are taking the edge off. My nose is still tender, but I’m on the move.
I ditched my cell phone, cutting off any route for Erin to track me, and bought a new one. Then I called my cell phone company, changed my number, and gave out the new number only to Nikki, my mom, and I sent a text message to Detective Robbins.
I made sure to remove my contact details from the Furry Baby website staff section and my LinkedIn account. I told Mom that it’s possible her address may have been compromised, so we upgraded the locks on the doors and windows.
It helps that my mom’s place is located on the second floor of the apartment complex, so a break-in would be harder to pull off. But I’m not too worried about a break-in. Erin is much smoother than that. And deadlier. I’m worried about devastating online attacks. I’m worried about a second run-in with a tree trunk or dognapping. I’m worried about my job.
After the accident, I decided to my Palomino back in the stable and give it a rest. Stop with the vigilante justice stuff like Mom said. Except I’m wracked with guilt knowing that I’m not doing anything to stop her. Doing nothing feels safe. It also feels cowardly.
I know that Erin is moving all the pieces into place. I know she’s busy entangling her prey in her web. I know she’s waiting to strike. And I’m doing nothing to stop her. Wisps of regret roll in like fog.
But what can I do? I can drive back down to Dan’s house. But what will I say? And why would someone believe me and my psychic premonitions?
I have only cold, hard facts that are easily justifiable. Denise killed her ex in self-defense—he was going to kill me! Denise is Erin—I had to change my name! And "Erin" has no record whatsoever—See? I’m such a good, upstanding citizen. Yeah, right.
So my hands are tied, and that’s probably a good thing. I try to find solace knowing I tried my very best to stop her, but it’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing that she’s moving forward and I’m laying on the couch, nursing my bruises.
It’s Monday afternoon. It’s only been three minutes in bureaucracy land, so I’m not expecting a follow up call from Detective Robbins for another few weeks, if at all. By then, it will be too late.
But my phone does ring. A number I don’t recognize. It’s Detective Robbins, standing outside somewhere, judging by the breeze blowing across her microphone.
"Listen, I just called to let you know that I looked into the Denise Livingston murder. I can’t send you any privileged information because, you know, I’m just a traffic warden now. But I found out the name of the victim. His name was Chris Mabray. I’ll email you an article that I found."
"Wow. Thanks so much. And her new victim? Is there anything you can do?"
"Like I said, this isn’t Minority Report, so law enforcement won’t make any moves to apprehend her or investigate her."
My heart sinks.
Wind blows across her microphone, sounding like hollow static. "But if I were you," she says in a voice so low that I strain to hear, "I’d contact the victim’s family . . . and look for parallel motives. Look for patterns."
The article is a photo of an op-ed, a journalist’s opinion, clipped out of a newspaper, originally published in the Rocky Tribune. The journalist included all the basic facts that Nikki and I had already discovered as well as a few that we hadn’t. Denise was emotional on the witness stand and cried when the jury read their verdict.
She’d served time in jail, waiting for the court case to be processed through the legal system, a point that her lawyer had brought up, garnering even more sympathy from the jury. And luckily, finally, the poor downtrodden victim, Denise Livingston, was vindicated. Justice had played its noble role in her exoneration.
Right. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen again. For once, it’s easy to find someone’s phone number. Nikki got the home phone number of Chris Mabray’s parents in the short matter of a few hours, followed by some words of warning.
"Are you still involved in this thing? G, I’ll dig up one more phone number for you, but that’s it, okay?"
"Absolutely," I tell her. "This is my last shot."
Before I cold-call this number, I want to make sure I have all my facts straight so I look over the notes that I’d jotted down the day that I had called the psych ward and spoken to Mandy, putting them together with what I learned from the article Detective Robbins sent me.
Chris Mabray was Denise’s last victim. She stabbed him seven times, and somehow made it look like self-defense.
Find the patterns . . .
I need to figure out what happened with her ex, how she set him up, and warn Dan or the person living in his house, who hopefully knows him, to look for the same method.
With this phone number in hand, I have one more chance to save someone’s life. It’s just a phone call, I tell myself. Just a chat. If it turns out to be nothing, then so be it. Maybe the number is no longer in service. Maybe nobody will pick up. But if someone does . . . and if that someone says one thing that can turn this around, then it’s worth it.
Kill List’s short time horizon is ever present in my mind. MOX. Presently, shortly, soon. So I decide to call this evening instead of waiting. I don’t know what to expect, but the chances are pretty good that whomever answers won’t want to talk to a stranger about their family tragedy. But I have to try.
The call rings out on the first try. A few minutes later I try again, and someone picks up.
"Hello?"
"Oh hi. Hi, my name is Gia Eastland, and—and please don’t hang up on me, but I’m calling about Chris Mabray."
Dead silence, except for my own pulse thumping in my ears.
"Who’s calling?" The man’s tone of voice is curt and officious. He’s about to hang up on me if I don’t get this right.
"You don’t know me, and—"
"Are you a reporter?"
"No, I’m not. I’m calling—"
"Because you guys came nowhere close to reporting the truth. You just picked over the story like carrion crows, trying to satisfy the viewers at home, never once thinking that a real family was suffering and had to watch as that monster—"
"Denise Livingston. I know. Her name is Erin Lazarus now. She’s setting someone else up. She’s doing it again."
I can hear him breathing hard through the phone line. Is he ratcheting up for another rant? Or is he considering my words?
Finally, he speaks. "Who did you say you were again?"
I need to tell him the truth, but I clear my throat because the truth is still a big pill to swallow. I hope he’s up for the task.
"A little while ago, Denise Livingston came to the pet shop where I work.
I’m a psychic, and I saw something very strange and disturbing. And so I looked into the matter. I know she set up Chris. I know he was innocent. I know she killed him, but she managed to walk free, claiming self-defense. I don’t how she set him up exactly. All I know is that she’s doing it again—to someone else."
The line falls silent. I wait, listening to my heart thumping in my chest. Was that too much?
Finally he speaks. "My name is Jacob. Chris was my older brother by three years."
A wave of grief washes over me. "I’m so sorry," I say with feeling. He sounds younger now that he’s dropped some of his defensiveness. "Can you tell me what happened?" I ask softly.
Jacob sighs. "It didn’t make any sense. Chris was a good guy. My mom, she always used to say that she was doing society a favor by raising men, not boys. We were taught from a very young age to respect girls. To open doors for them. Pay for dinner and what not. And to never ever touch them, unless we basically had written consent." He makes a sniffling sound. I think he’s chuckling, but his voice comes out strangled. "We were the guys at parties, watching out for the drunk ones, you know? Making sure they got home okay."
"So Chris, he didn’t have a history of violence at all?"
"Well, I mean there was this one time Chris got into an argument with some chick from school. She was scary, man. Like, I wouldn’t even classify her as a chick. But she hauled off and whacked him. And—and Chris pushed her back. My mom hit the roof and grounded him for a month. It was a defining moment because you better believe that came up in court. Those subhuman pieces of shit prosecutors brought up ancient history, trying to paint Chris as an abuser with a past. But that happened in the tenth grade. It was crazy. I mean, how do those guys live with themselves? Defending the absolute scum of society."
I make a sound of agreement.
"Anyway, he was out at his favorite bar, partying with his friends, and Denise showed up. And about half way through the night, she managed to get him outside, alone, where she proceeded to . . . well. She pushed herself on him. You know what I mean? She wanted to hook up, but Chris didn’t want to. He’s not like that. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She kept pushing and insisting. So he shoved her away. Then he left. Not thinking much more about it. And a few weeks later she showed up with a picture of her demolished face."
Keep Me In Sight Page 17
