Keep Me In Sight

by Rachel Blackledge

  I grip the phone, afraid I’ll drop it.

  "That’s the set up . . ." I say, thinking of Dan. "Party with the victim. Get him hammered. Get him alone. Push him to the brink, and when he pushes back—collect the evidence."

  "Oh yeah. That’s the stitch up. But it’s not ‘get him hammered.’ It’s get him drugged."

  "Wow."

  He breathes out heavily. "She lorded it over him, said she’d ruin his life, blow it to smithereens, press charges, you name it. She wanted his inheritance. It’s payback, she told him, for beating her up. Of course she knew about that—the money. She seemed to know everything about Chris before he ever laid eyes on her. And what was he supposed to do? Call her bluff? She had photographic evidence and her phone was recording the whole time, so . . . yeah. You bet she used that against him."

  His words send shivers down my arms.

  "Denise was nine miles ahead of everyone else. Chris never saw it coming. He was screwed from the word go. She took his money, of course. She said she’d drop the charges when he paid. So Chris wired it over because he wanted it all to go away."

  Money. Of course it’s about money. So that’s how Erin bought her business and luxury town house. How many victims are there? Does she shed her identity each time like a molting snake?

  "But that’s extortion," I say. "That’s illegal."

  "You try fighting that in a court of law, her arsenal against your pea-shooter. Maybe he would have won the extortion part, but he’d lose the domestic battery case hands down. So it wasn’t worth it. He just wanted the whole nightmare to end."

  "But it should have ended. He gave her the money. Why didn’t she walk away? She got what she wanted."

  "Because a walking person is a talking person. She caught wind that Chris was building an extortion case against her. So she called him over to her house. And I suspect she stuck to her playbook. Like you said: push him to the brink, and when he pushes back—collect the evidence. All I know is that she had everything she needed to frame him for attacking her. Then she went in for the kill. Literally."

  "Wow. She makes gold diggers look like saints. I can’t believe she targets her ex-boyfriends like that."

  "What?"

  "Ex-boyfriends. She goes after them for money. Doesn’t she?"

  Jacob scoffs. "That chick wasn’t his girlfriend. He made the mistake of sleeping with her in the beginning. Big mistake. But it was casual, you know? After that, she targeted him. Stalked him. And showed up at the club . . ."

  So Erin must have lied to Mandy about her relationship with Chris. Why? To garner sympathy? And what else has she lied about?

  "Jacob, I mentioned this before, but Denise has a new victim. She’s going to do it again. Setting someone up. It’s not going to end well. I think someone is going to die. I need your help to stop her. To finally put her in jail."

  "I wish I could help you somehow," he says, at last. "Save some other family the devastation."

  "You can help," I say. "And I know exactly how."

  38

  DAN

  Numbly, I close out my email program, make my way over to my quarters, and start packing. News is slowly filtering through the ranks, but nobody dares talk about it. I can tell by the quick sideways glances that people are strategically avoiding me as if I have Ebola, and they’re afraid of catching the contagion.

  Getting sent home early from deployment is the stuff of nightmares. But the reason behind my early departure is even worse than a nightmare. Is there even a word for that? Something worse than a nightmare?

  Something worse than a nightmare was standing in my Commanding Officer’s makeshift office yesterday, listening to him read out the official accusation that Erin made against me, all the while feeling like hellfire was raining down on my head. The sickening words swirled around in my head, making me feel light-headed with disbelief and despair.

  Head bashed against a retainer wall . . . Forced to open a condom packet . . .

  "Officer Evans, what the fuck is this?" my CO demanded, his face red, holding up a dossier of paperwork.

  I struggled to put two words together, pulse thundering in my temples, stunned out of my mind by her accusation. Brynn told me about the photo and the recording, so I knew I had a fake claim about assault dangling over my head.

  But—this? Bashing Erin’s head against a retainer wall? Forcing her to open a condom packet? I feel like I’ve slipped down a dark dank hole that leads to the land of Utter Hopelessness.

  "Sir, that is a false accusation, sir," I managed to say.

  "Do you have a fucking hermetically sealed alibi that stood there with their nose shoved up your ass at the exact time and date that is event allegedly occurred? Because if you cannot prove you did not, in fact, force this young lady to kindly open a condom packet for you, then we have a real big fucking problem here!"

  Of course, I’m innocent until proven guilty. But that’s the problem. All the ‘proof’ points to my guilt. Plus, Erin has an unfair advantage. She’s a female.

  "Well?" he barked.

  "No sir. I do not, sir."

  Stone cold silence ensued, followed by some hurried signing of documents and curt mutterings about a flight that will be arranged to send my "pathetic ass" home so that I can handle this civilian matter without the added headache of burdening the United States government with the disposal of my "carcass" should I suffer a catastrophic loss of concentration and lose my life during an operative mission.

  So I pack up my bags, feeling like a dead person walking. Because I am a dead person if I don’t find a way to defend myself against Erin’s thick fiery wave of absolute lies.

  And I am going to find a way.

  One that stops Erin dead in her tracks.

  39

  GIA

  I shouldn’t be driving, but I think I’m okay. The bandage on my nose came off, and the doctor was satisfied that I hadn’t suffered any permanent brain damage. But as I drive back down to Dan’s house, I begin to wonder if I have. I should give myself more time to rest and relax, and all the recovery stuff that the doctor talked about. But I don’t have time.

  My car rental is a bland gray sedan that looks like millions of other cars on the road, my second one since the accident, just to keep Erin on her toes if she’s still tracking me somehow. I keep checking my rear view mirror for signs of her hungry red SUV, barreling down the road toward me.

  In my mind, I’m going over the many logical ways that she can’t find me. I’ve changed my cell phone and ditched my car. I’m still on sick leave from work, so Erin can’t scope me out from the comfort of her nail salon. And I’ve hardly left my mom’s apartment.

  But I suppose where there’s a will; there’s a way. I’m hoping this is like dealing with would-be home intruder. You can’t eliminate the threat entirely, but if you put up enough barriers of resistance, they’ll move on to easier prey. And clearly, she has other prey in mind. She might also be banking on her warnings (two now) registering loud and clear. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’m a little hard of hearing.

  Most importantly, I have to make absolutely sure she doesn’t know that I’m back in action. An hour or so later, I arrive at Dan’s house, walk up to the front door and bang on it, loud and clear. I don’t want to leave anything open to speculation. Someone is definitely at the door. Open up.

  To my surprise, the door opens. A girl with honey brown hair, sun-lightened locks framing her round face, a small upturned nose, and pretty feline shaped teal eyes stands there. She’s tall and lithe, her arms toned, but her shoulders slope as if she’s carrying a heavy burden.

  "Yes?" she asks.

  "Yes, hi. Is this Dan Evans’s house?"

  "Maybe," she says, eyes shrouded. "Who wants to know?"

  I glance behind her shoulder at the front room. It’s decorated with seashell bric-a-brac, framed pictures of a couple, and the word "love" carved in large block lettering sits on her mantel.

  "Do you know Dan personally?" I a
sk.

  "Yes," she says with a lift of her chin. "I’m his girlfriend, Brynn."

  My knees weaken with relief. Finally.

  "Oh, I’m so glad I found you. I’m trying to get a message to Dan . . . to you both, actually. Do you mind if I come in?"

  She seems edgy and reluctant, but she lets me in. I take a seat on her tidy gray couch, more of a perch really, and clamp my hands between my knees. At the other end of the couch, she sits down and looks at me expectantly, knee bouncing.

  "Brynn, this is probably going to sound a little strange, but I want to give you a message—a warning, actually, about Dan’s ex-girlfriend, Erin."

  Brynn’s eyes narrow. "Erin Lazarus?"

  "You know her?" I ask, while tingles of dread race over my skin.

  She shrugs. "Yeah, I’ve gotten to know her a little bit. How do you know her?"

  I feel like I’ve stepped into quicksand. Erin got to Brynn first. She’s one step ahead of me. Of course, she is. I can only hope that Brynn doesn’t know Erin well enough to fill her in about my house call.

  "So my name is Gia, and I’m psychic." I pause, gauging her reaction. Brynn seems a little dubious, but interested. "When I met Erin, I saw some things that were very disturbing and unusual, probably because most people aren’t out trying to kill other people. And—"

  "What?"

  "That’s the message I’m trying to get to Dan. Erin killed someone named Chris Mabray. I believe she’s going to do it again. Brynn . . . I believe either you or Dan are in danger."

  Brynn sits there, stunned. I’m thinking this is a good reaction. My news is a lot to take in. She needs time to swallow it all and figure out what she can do protect herself and Dan. Then she speaks, brow furrowed. "Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? Small blonde, right?"

  "Yeah," I say, nodding. "Erin Lazarus. Even though that’s not her real name."

  "I’m sorry, but I think you have this all mixed up." Brynn folds her arms and lifts her chin, her back stiff. "Chris was her ex-boyfriend. He was abusive. He attacked her."

  "Attacked her? No, that’s not what happened at all. She attacked him. She killed him and set him up to make it look like self-defense."

  Brynn waves her hand and scowls. "I don’t mean to be rude, but where did you get your information? Through some psychic premonition?" I sit back. That stung. Then she softens. "Sorry," she says, looking away. "This has been really hard for me. And after what happened with Dan, I just—I don’t know what or who to believe anymore."

  After what happened with Dan . . .

  "What do you mean?" I ask, alert as a bird dog now. "What happened with Dan?"

  I hear tires on the front driveway. A car door slams shut. I hear footsteps on the walkway and up the porch steps. Dan? I can only hope.

  There’s a knock on the door. Brynn gets up and opens it. And in walks Erin.

  Suddenly I’m finding it very hard to breathe. I’m up on my feet, ready to fight or flee, I’m not sure which yet.

  "Thanks for inviting me over," Erin says to Brynn, walking into the front room, holding a bag full of groceries, eyeing me. "Hey," she says, cocking her head quizzically. "Mining for more info?"

  "What?" Brynn asks, glancing at me and back to Erin.

  "It’s our stalker," Erin says. "In the flesh. I told you someone was targeting us. And now we know who."

  Brynn looks at me, eyes huge with alarm.

  I am definitely getting hot under the collar. "I’m not a stalker! I mean I did knock on your door, but nobody answered, so I—"

  "That was you? You spied on me?"

  "Not on purpose! Your lights went out so I—"

  "And she broke into my house," Erin says.

  "Are you joking? Broke into your house? Cut the victim shit, Denise, and try telling the truth for once."

  "Denise?" Brynn asks.

  "Yes, Denise. Her real name is Denise Livingston. Look her up. And while you’re at it, look into her victim, Chris Mabray."

  Brynn wheels on Erin. "Gia says you killed him. Your ex. Did you lie to me, Erin? About him being abusive? And you said he’s out of the picture. Is that because he’s . . ."

  Yes! Except Erin doesn’t miss a beat. "Wow," she says, taking her phone out of her bag. "She told you all that?" A strange temperature gradient envelops me, making me feel both hot and cold at the same time. "Let me help you understand what kind of crazy person we’re dealing with here, Brynn." She puts the grocery bag down and pulls something up on her phone, a black window with a grey circular play button. It’s a recording. She pushes play, and my voice comes flying out, "You—you monster!"

  Brynn rounds on me, her eyes bright with anger. She doesn’t know whom to trust, but the scales are tipping in Erin’s favor.

  "She is a monster! She held my dog hostage! Who does that?"

  "And let me show you something else, Brynn. I looked into Gia. This is what I found." Oh no. Erin swipes through her photos, looking for something.

  Brynn leans closer.

  "Here," Erin says, shoving her phone in front of Brynn’s face, who reaches over and expands the image with two fingers.

  What is it!

  Erin responds, as if hearing my silent plea. "It’s your psych ward papers."

  "What!" I cry, striding to her phone and looking at the image for myself. It’s the same document that Nikki and I dug up. Except Erin changed the name. And it looks one thousand percent authentic. "Brynn, those are fake. Erin doctored her own psych ward papers and put my name on them!"

  "Really?" Erin asks Brynn. "Do you really believe that?"

  It’s clear from the bewildered look in Brynn’s eyes that she’s back to not knowing who to trust. More importantly, my window of opportunity is about to close. This is my last chance.

  "Brynn, we don’t have much time left. You said something happened to Dan. What did you mean? What happened?"

  "Time? What do you mean?"

  "She means we don’t have much time until I call the police," Erin says.

  Heart pounding, I turn to Brynn. "Tell me what happened to Dan!"

  Brynn battles her internal conflict (should she believe me, a psychic who supposedly stayed at a psych ward, or Erin, who supposedly killed someone), while the latter stares with me, eyes hard with venom.

  But I focus hard on Brynn, pushing my psychic warp drive nozzle to the maximum. You can do this, I tell myself, focusing entirely on Brynn, on pulling in a breath, on finally taking control of my ability. You can do this . . .

  As I step into Brynn’s viewpoint, I feel disoriented. In my ears, I hear the deep bass of club music, so loud you can’t talk. But people are talking anyway, drinking and dancing and yelling over the deafening music. I see strobe lights and overlays of dry ice fog, spreading over the crowd. She’s stumbling somewhere, stumbling after Dan . . .

  "Something happened at a club," I say to Brynn quickly. Her eyes lock with mine. "You were drunk. You saw Dan going somewhere . . ." I pause, focusing on the ghostly impressions.

  "What a psycho stalker you are!" Erin cries. "Did you follow her that night too?"

  "Tell me what you saw, Brynn. Tell me what happened."

  Her eyes narrow into slits, becoming hard and brittle with anger as she recalls her memories. "I saw Dan shaking Erin."

  Erin folds her arms, supremely satisfied. "See?"

  But Jacob’s story is front and center in my mind. That’s the set up. And I’m thinking about Detective Robbins, too, telling me to: look for the patterns.

  And suddenly it all comes together. The method. Party with the victim. Get him alone. Push him to the brink, and when he pushes back—collect the evidence. Except in this case, Brynn must have stumbled outside and saw the ‘pushing back’ part of the program, completely missing the context of the entire incident.

  "But that’s all you saw," I say to Brynn. "You never saw Dan hit her. You never saw him beat her up."

  Brynn’s eyes flood with tears, her hands bunched into fists. "That’s
all I wanted to see!"

  "You didn’t see Dan hit her, did you? But Erin showed up with her evidence anyway."

  "I think you better leave," Erin says.

  I turn to Brynn, heart pounding in my chest. "Let me guess. Did she show you a photo of her face smashed to smithereens? Maybe an audio recording, too, just for good measure?"

  "How did you know?" Brynn asks softly, stunned, the anger bled from her voice, but tears remain glimmering on her eyelashes.

  "Because Gia is an amazing psychic, I mean stalker," Erin sneers.

  I don’t even acknowledge her. I look into Brynn’s glittering eyes. "Because that’s exactly what Erin did to her last victim." I pull my business card out of my bag with Jacob’s number written on the back and press it into her hand. "Call his brother and find out for yourself."

  40

  BRYNN

  It’s official. I’m falling apart. Gia’s gone, but I’m shaking so bad that I need to sit down. Erin is by my side in a flash, rubbing my back, asking if I’m okay. I want to scream. I want to tell her to get out of my house, Dan’s house, technically. I want her to stay and save me from myself.

  I’m thinking about what Gia said, my mind running over her words like a record player stuck in a bad groove. You didn’t see Dan hit her, did you?

  That line of reasoning takes me back to the old joke about a tree falling in the forest. If nobody heard anything, did the tree make a sound? Did I need to actually witness Dan beating up Erin in order for it to be true?

  Common sense says no, of course not. But, there’s something about Gia’s persistence that gives me pause. Why would she put so much effort into finding me just to make such incredible claims? And that story about Erin killing someone? Geez.