I like to think that I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow, but who am I kidding? I haven’t had a decent nights rest since this whole nightmare broke. Still, I take a hot shower, slide between the crisp sheets, flick on the air conditioning, and hope that sleep will come.
Which it doesn’t. An hour later, blue-gray tones of the coming dawn edge around the curtain. I roll over and dig my phone out of my backpack, switch it on, and brace myself for the onslaught. First stop, text messages. Brynn. Mom. Friends, telling me my story hit the evening news. Shit.
I need to take a mental break, so I thumb through my Twitter feed, realizing things are far worse than I could have ever imagined. The online threats are already coming thick and fast. People with way too much time on their hands and a powered up Photoshop program are churning out ‘Dan Womanbeater’ memes faster than I can comprehend.
What is wrong with these people exactly? And how do they find the time? They’re like super-powered robots, spewing their vitriol as fast as lightning strikes. There must be a swilling undercurrent of people that either hates men or feels they have dealt them a wrong hand. I don’t know exactly, but they are vindictive, motivated, organized, and they drag around their hashtags like human-sized crosses: #deathtodan, #destroydan, #danthedemon.
I close out my browser and check my voicemails. ‘Dan Womanbeater’ is a popular guy, likes to shop. There’s a message from a clerk at a sex shop confirming my dick enhancement order, followed by a message from Quick Print unfortunately declining my order to print up one hundred t-shirts because the ‘nature of the graphic’ was against their company policy.
The girl who left the message sounded disgusted and slightly vindicated that she got to personally deliver the news, even if it was through voicemail.
My mom calls. I’m so glad for the interruption. We exchange some pleasantries; I catch her up on the hows, wheres, and whys.
“Are you okay?" she asks.
"Yeah, Mom," I assure her, but I don’t think she believes me.
"Brynn told me about the police incident report . . . and the Erin situation."
Of course she did. I want to be angry with Brynn, but in the place of emotions I feel a yawning crevasse opening up, where feelings should be found, but nothing is there.
"Dan, you know you can tell me anything." My mom can take a curve ball. She’s about as hardy and objective as my drill sergeant. I admire that about her, but the flat tone of her voice tells me that she’s already made up her mind. She doesn’t understand how I could have done something like this, beat up a girl, but it doesn’t matter right now. Now, she just wants to figure out how best to move forward and what kind of attorney we should hire.
"Don’t tell Brynn I’m home," I say and get off the phone, promising to update her after I check into base.
Erin had moved like quicksilver, turning me into a desperate man as I watch my freedom swirl down the drain. And if I lash out in anger or frustration? Well, that’s just another arrow in her quiver. Proof positive that I’m a violent man.
Brynn doesn’t understand. Why would she? Just thinking about her asking if I hit Erin makes my blood pressure rise. How could she believe for a second that I would do something like that?
Even if I am proven innocent in a court of law, the evening news will cover every ‘breaking development.’ My story will be old news by the time the rusty wheels of justice deliver my verdict. People will ask, "Weren’t the charges dropped or something?" And I’ll have to explain boring legal dealings, while their minds glaze over. They will already be convinced that I walked free based on a technicality, not on the verifiable fact that I am an innocent man.
Erin will be free to move on to the next innocent person whose life will be ruined by an unscrupulous pathological liar.
My phone rings again. Good, another distraction.
"Hi, is that Dan Womanbeater?"
"What?"
"Mr. Dan Womanbeater? I got your email, asking to buy a timeshare in Casa Questa Resort? It’s one of our best—"
Disgusted, I hang up, climb out of bed, and hit up the shower. After Brynn’s email, I feel like maybe I should pass on her phone number to these timeshare people. But that would make me a terrible person, wouldn’t it? Just another nail in the coffin of Mr. Guilty As Hell.
I finish up, dry off, and wrap a white towel around my waist. Then I check my phone and see that I have two missed calls. What the fuck? Well, I’m not going to check any more voicemails, that’s for sure. I’m whisking my electronic shaver around my face, trying not to cut myself because I am furious with Erin. How dare she. How dare she.
My phone buzzes again. Christ. What is going on?
I check my email and see that it’s a direct message from my Twitter account.
Hey, bro. I think this the right ‘Dan Evans’ based on the images I’m seeing on your feed. Contact me. It’s about your ex.
Is this some other jerk looking for Dan Womanbeater? Don’t these people have any working brain cells? Clearly, ‘womanbeater’ is a joke. Well, the joke’s on them. I’ll make sure of it. I dial up the number that the guy gave me and when he picks up, I bark, "You looking for Dan Womanbeater, too? Huh? It’s a fake name, you numb nut!”
"What? No. No—I, I’m just looking for Dan Evans."
"Who’s this?" I demand. "And what do you want?"
"Bro, my name is Trevor Whitmore, and this is going to sound a little weird, but I saw that TV segment of you on the evening news. I mean, my girlfriend saw the vid on YouTube and passed it over to me."
"Uh huh," I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head down, squeezing the bridge of my nose between my eyes. What does this Chatty Cathy want?
"And I called because your ex—the girl that says you beat her up? I know her."
I drop my hand and sit up rod-straight. "You know her?"
"Bro, we used to date. But she wasn’t a fuckin’ blonde when I knew her. She was a brunette. And her name was Michelle Larkins." My stomach sours because I have inkling of what he’s going to say next. "She fleeced me out of a hundred grand, man. Used some fuckin’ story that I beat her up, threatened to take it to the cops, so I coughed up the money and ran as fast as I could. I hate to say it, but I prayed she’d forget about me and move on. Latch onto some other dumb fuck. And when I saw that vid . . . I realized that she did move on. And that dumb fuck is you."
I cannot get any words to come out of my mouth.
"And you know what? We’re not the only ones, bro. I know of one other. She told some dude that she had cancer and got fifty grand out of him for her treatment . . ."
I lurch over to the nightstand, groping for the hotel pen and notepad. "Can you give me any names? Anything concrete?"
"Yeah, bro. I can give you what I have. But I hope you got your seat belt done up tight cuz you’re in the middle of a shit storm. And that girl can really bring it."
"I think I have an idea . . ."
"Yep. I’m sure you do. But don’t think for a minute that you’re innocent until proven guilty. Not after her prosecution gets a hold of you. Sounds like you’re already in knee deep, but you better find a way to cut her off at the pass because the minute she gets more evidence on you, dude, you’re done."
43
GIA
I’m spooked. I delivered my message, but I think it fell on Brynn’s deaf ears. I promised myself that I would try one last time, and I fulfilled that promise, for all the good it will do. The timing couldn’t have been any worse. It was like a bad joke watching Erin walk in the front door, one of those things that you couldn’t make up if you tried.
I’m getting back to my life now, trying to lay low, trying to salvage the shop from Erin’s flurry of one-star reviews, trying to save my job, and I’m watching my back, too. She drove me up a tree after I approached Brynn’s house last time. What will she do now that I actually talked to her?
It’s excruciating to sit on the sidelines, but I need to catch my breat
h. Fall off of Erin’s radar.
I’m living in a state of suspended animation, waiting for Erin to unleash her fury. And I’m in the back office of Furry Baby on the phone with Yelp, trying to get those bombs removed from the shop account, when the other line rings.
I look down at the LED screen and think about letting it ring out, but I don’t want to give my boss any more ammunition to fire me. I need this job. I need the paycheck. He said he’s "had it up to here," bringing his flattened hand up to his receding hairline, but I think he was referencing shop troubles.
I put Yelp on hold and pick up the other call, thinking that it might be him, checking in on my progress from the comfort of his home. So I rattle off the entire script that my boss wrote, careful not to flub or shorten the cheesy greeting like I usually do. "Thank you for calling Furry Baby, where we love your pet almost as much as you do. Gia speaking. How may I help you?"
"Yeah, hi Gia. This is Foxy Vixen from Babes for Hire."
Foxy Vixen? Babes for Hire? Is this chick for real? I smother a laugh. Crank call for sure. This’ll be fun. "Uh huh."
"So, we got your application for our escort services. I was wondering—"
"What?"
"Your escort application?"
She sounds very authentic. She has a raspy smokers voice, and I find myself wondering if she’s an old unscrupulous madam, pimping out young ladies and stealing their hard-won cash, no pun intended. Maybe this isn’t a crank call. Maybe she just dialed the wrong Gia. Except Gia is kind of an unusual name . . .
"Okay . . ." I venture.
"So I just wanted to talk you briefly about your previous experience and get a feel for your level of comfort with things like threesomes, two guys and one girl type of stuff. And about your name, Gia Fuckmelater? That’s another thing I wanted to discuss."
Suddenly I’m not smiling anymore.
"I think we should talk about your stage name, so to speak. ‘Fuckmelater’ is kind of a mouthful if you know what I mean." She laughs coarsely. "Not that there’s anything wrong with mouthfuls . . ."
And I hang up, pulse pounding in my temples. This isn’t a joke. This is payback. Gia Fuckmelater is screwed.
I fumble through the rest of my day, helping out customers, ringing them up and upselling like my job depends on it, because my job does depend on it. And in my down time, I’m on the computer, typing up the ‘nature of the dispute’ that Yelp asked for so I can get the reviews removed, trying to push that phone call into the dark depths of my mind.
The day finally, mercifully, draws to a close. Sales were good today. That’s happy news. The shop phone is ringing off the hook, but I don’t dare pick it up. That’s bad news. What on earth is going on?
I don’t know exactly, but if Creepy Vixen or whatever is anything to go by, the calls foretell an onslaught of even more bad news, authored by You Know Who.
Just then the shop door jingles. I look up and two cops step through, two men, eyes trained on me, sending my heart rate ever higher. I ring up the last customer of the day, hands shaking, while the cops stand off to the side, watching me.
I’m finding it impossible to hold myself together. My last customer leaves, but I’m desperate for her to stay and save me from the bearers of bad news. But she rushes out of the door, also unnerved by their presence, leaving me alone with two uniformed police officers.
When the shop door closes, they step toward me, faces stern and imposing. I fight the urge to break down in tears and tell them everything, but maybe they don’t know about my visit to Erin’s house. And is that even illegal? Poking your nose in someone’s garage? Maybe they’re following up on a lost pet.
The taller cop steps forward, his head as bald and shiny as a billiard ball. His brow deepens into a permanent cop scowl. The same scowl that his shorter counterpart wears.
"Miss Eastland?" he says, folding his arms.
"Yes?"
"I’m Officer Ward, and this is my partner, Officer Ortega." Ortega inclines his head toward me. "We’re here following up on a complaint that’s been made against you."
I reach out and grab hold of the countertop, steadying myself.
Ortega steps forward. "Miss Eastland, can you tell me if you know someone by the name of Erin Lazarus?"
44
BRYNN
It’s Friday night. Five days have passed since Dan emailed me with news that he’s coming home. Will he ever get here? I’m pacing the front room, nibbling on a nail, trying to figure out if I should wait for him to arrive or just leave, when I hear a vehicle pull into the driveway, followed by the solid clunk of a door slamming shut.
I rush to the front window and crane my neck to see through the scraggly bush, catching a glimpse of Dan as he grabs his army green rucksack from the bed of his pickup truck and heaves it onto his shoulder. Then he stalks toward the front door. He’s here. Yay! He’s here. Oh no.
I wish I could play it cool and let him find me in the backyard up to my elbows in potted flowers, happily surprised with his arrival. But I’m not happily surprised. I’m nervous. And I’m scared.
The front door opens. Dan walks inside. He looks skinnier, lankier, and worn out with dark smudges under his eyes, his cheeks sunken and drawn. He looks like he hasn’t bathed in recent history. His five o’clock shadow is approaching midnight, and his brow is furrowed into a very deep scowl that instantly sets me on edge.
I’ve seen that scowl before. It’s intimidating. He mostly employs The Look when we’re out and about, getting jostled at a lively bar, or when someone cuts him off on the road.
I used to reach over and massage his broad shoulders, making cheesy little jokes, while The Look melted away. I liked that I could tame my lion of a man, who yielded to my touch, growling at everyone else.
But I don’t like it anymore.
"How was your flight?" I ask as calmly as possible.
"Shit," he says, dumping his heavy bag on the couch and looking around for Bear, while his bag rolls onto the floor.
Bear, snoozing in the back room, finally senses his master has returned and shuffles into the front room, sheepishly wagging his entire body, a blur of blonde fur, white teeth, and pink slapping tongue.
"Hey, Buddy Bear," Dan mumbles, allowing Bear to lick his face and neck. After Bear settles down, Dan walks into the kitchen still ignoring me. I follow, heart thumping in my chest, feeling a little breathless. "Well, it’s good to see you too."
He doesn’t reply. He opens the fridge and grabs a beer that I had kindly stocked for him. We can still be civil, can’t we? He cracks open the can and pounds the contents in three long swallows. Then he crunches up the can, stomps on the trash can pedal so hard that I jump, and chucks the beer can inside.
"I’m surprised you’re still here, social justice warrior," he says. "Don’t you have a rally to attend?"
I fold my arms and sigh. "So that’s it? We’re going to start calling each other names?"
"I think,"—he scratches his chin and gazes thoughtfully up at the ceiling—"dick with four appendages was a good start, don’t you?" He cocks his head a little to the left. "Or pathetic mealworm? That was a good one. On military comms no less."
My stomach drops. "I didn’t—"
Dan steps toward me, his lips twisting into a snarl. "You didn’t what, Brynn? You didn’t know? Of course you knew. But maybe that was all part of your plan to publicly lynch an innocent man."
"Publicly lynch? You’re the one who rearranged Erin’s face!"
Dan turns and punches the wall; plaster explodes around his fist. My breath catches. It was stupid to provoke him. If I’m not careful, I might find his fist up my nasal cavity.
We both stand there in tense silence.
Finally, Dan looks over at me, eyes bloodshot and weary. "Brynn, I’m on the verge of losing my career," he says in a quiet voice that unnerves me. "I could lose everything over a false accusation." He paces the kitchen like a caged animal. "They’re talking about a dishonorable discharge if
I’m found guilty. Everything I’ve worked for—poof! Gone in a puff of smoke."
"Maybe you should have thought about that before you attacked Erin," I say, but my voice sounds small and frightened. He shoots me a murderous look. I inch closer to the block of knives.
He heaves out a big breath, walks to the sink and leans over, his hands on the edge of the counter. For a long while, he stands as still as a gravestone, staring out of the kitchen window.
"Dan . . ." I move close to him, but he moves away from me.
"I’m going to lose it all, Brynn. Everything. For something I didn’t even do."
Gia’s words echo in my mind. You didn’t see him hit her, did you? And Erin’s are in there too, showing me Gia’s psych ward papers. The words. The accusations. The lies. And one simple truth. They’re all swirling around in my mind like a snowstorm.
All I have is my own truth. All I have is what I saw with my own two eyes. His anguished voice takes me back to the audio recording that Erin had sent me, and the flashes of my memory that it triggered. I remember the mirror black SUV and Dan with his hands wrapped around Erin’s narrow shoulders, shaking her.
I step away from him, squeezing my eyes shut, my throat aching with tightness. I don’t want to speak, but I have to.
"I saw you that night," I hear myself saying. "I saw you with Erin." He stills. "I saw what you did." He doesn’t speak, of course not. What would he say? My throat closes down with pain and regret and anger. How could he have done this to her? And to us? "I can’t defend you, Dan. I can’t stand by your side."
"Brynn, I don’t know what you saw that night, but you never saw me hit her."
Gia’s words rush to me again, her eyes hot with vindication. You didn’t see Dan hit her, did you!
Then I’m back to thinking about that tree falling in the forest. Did it make a sound? But I’m tired of going in circles. If a tree fell in a forest, then it made a damn sound.
Keep Me In Sight Page 20
