Justice For Belle

by Didi Oviatt

  I make a bet to myself on whether he’ll leave a voicemail or just hang up and text me instead. My lime green pack is heaved over my back, supported perfectly by both shoulders. Then I shove the phone into my back pocket and make my way to the counter to steal one more donut from what’s supposed to be a display on my way out.

  Lucy is borderline obsessive-compulsive, so I’m sure she’ll replace the treat and have everything back to its rightful order within minutes. It’s too bad I’m not in a more playful mood. It’s tempting to make a quick run into the bathroom to flip the toilet paper roll over. She hates it when the roll is upside down. I decide against it, at least for today, and leave.

  The ping of a text grabs my attention before I fully step outside into the sweltering summer heat. It’s from Douglas, of course, and it reads:

  D—Ahnia, you can’t avoid me forever. Please meet up with me. The sooner the better, I really don’t want to do this by voice message or text.

  Do this? What the hell does he mean? He’s probably going to quit. That’s really the logical thing. I wouldn’t blame him. The money is nearly gone; he has no reason to stick around. I let out a sigh before texting him back. I’m going to have to adult up and deal with this sometime, right? Why not two shitty encounters all in one day? The big whammy. Knock out the two most mortifying events of my foreseeable future all at once to get them over with. And on a morning that I have to set an alarm. That seems fitting. I text him back.

  A—I’ll be at the eatery at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow.

  I don’t wait for another text back, and if he sends one, I won’t acknowledge it anyway. If he does want to talk in person, then he’ll make it work. It’s the best I can do given my rocky emotional state. Plus, he’s always early. Always. So it’ll give me an excuse to get away from Mac, if need be. The rest of the day ahead will surely be full of stress and obsession.

  I might as well get home so that I can wallow properly with the twenty pack of beer in my fridge that I’d snuck past Tim. Maybe later I’ll even call in a pizza. Splurge on cheap alcohol and carbs to help bury my nerves and self-pity. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and force my feet to move forward.

  Chapter Four

  I’d hit snooze a few times, and now I’m running late. I should have known this would happen. Of course I’d struggle to wake up merely to the sound of the high-pitched beeping tone of an alarm clock I’ve never used. Tim used to tease me as kids that I needed a freight train running through my room to wake me. Being such a hard sleeper is just one of my many curses.

  I’m impossible to wake, which is why I made it eight whole blocks on a sleepwalk that night, as well as the few others before it. It was a miracle that Tim heard me pass his room. I’m convinced that if my nightmares and sleepwalking wouldn’t have stopped after that night, then he surely would’ve followed me through the years. I could picture him renting an apartment right next to mine to this day.

  My brother is my savior in every way. He’s the only reason I wasn’t caught red-handed that night, and the only person who’s managed to keep me sane since, instilling me with words of wisdom on a regular basis.

  Even when my drinking problem spiraled to an uncontrolled low, he showed up one day to dump every last drop of liquor down the metal drain of my tiny kitchen sink. Then, he refused to leave my side for weeks. We played more board games than I’d ever admit out loud. He won’t put up with another downward drinking spiral, no way.

  Tim knew which way I’d go that night. It was the same direction I went every time I walked. Directly to Belle’s house. He’d picked me up three other times before. Each time, I’d been standing outside Belle’s window when he found me. And each time, he was able to get me back home, undetected. Dad never knew his car went missing. Breakfast in the morning was always as usual. God, how I wish it would have been the same that night too.

  A thick, square brush is forced through my wild hair before I tie it all in a giant knot on the top of my head. I scrub my teeth much harder than usual, in a hurry to get out. With a slam, the door shuts behind me. I don’t even turn to lock the deadbolt with my key. The itty, bitty twister lock on the inside handle will just have to do. Besides, what kind of criminal would possibly be out at 6:50 in the morning? Only a killer worthy of my notes, no doubt, and I wouldn’t even be here to observe it. Not only that, but what would they take? My couch? They can have it.

  I don’t even know why I deadbolt the door on a regular day anyway. It may be a small, outdated place with old, crimson carpet, and mustard-yellow countertops, but at least it’s in a decent neighborhood. Not a high-class suburb like I grew up in, by no means, but not exactly dicey either.

  Aside from Henry, the tax processor and his extremely friendly partner across the hall, everyone else in the building is old enough for retirement. They likely spend their days kicked back in a recliner glued to the TLC channel. I’ve tried several times to picture them, Henry and Jason the deadly duo, each pulling the trigger to a pistol behind the back of a kneeling victim, or something equally as tedious. The image never has stuck, so I’m quite sure there’s nothing to worry about.

  Just my luck, I hit every single red light on the way to Airington’s. By the time I park my car and hop out, it’s ten minutes after seven. It could’ve been worse. Ten minutes late really isn’t so bad. Plus, it’s not like this is a date. It’s more like my cornering a guy that I’ve had one awkward conversation with, based on an assumption that he’ll even be here at all.

  I twirl between my fingers a strand of hair that’s somehow managed to loosen itself from the knot on my head before tucking it back into its rightful place. Wanting to sprint across the street as not to give Lucy means for a scolding about my tardiness, I have to force my feet to slow.

  As I swing open the door to Airington’s, I’m greeted instantly by a face only inches from my own. I jump and gasp, startled not only by his closeness but by the scent of him. The same delicious smell that assaulted my very being at the Amtrak station makes a second strike. Like a brick wall, it stops me dead in my tracks.

  There is no fumbling around with words or even catching of breath on his part. He stands his ground, an inch inside the door, his toes practically touching the metal frame it fits in. He has a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a small white paper bag with his goodie of choice in the other. Mac grins, eyes lighting up, as if he’s face to face with a fully lit Christmas tree rather than a wild-haired, pajama-wearing failure of an adult.

  “Hey,” he breaks the silence, voice as deep and smooth as ever.

  “Hi,” I crack in response.

  “I was starting to wonder if you ever come here.”

  “It’s seven in the morning. No one comes here this early.”

  This is already going opposite of my expectations. He appears cool and collected in his stance with an underlining excitement in the lift of his cheekbones. It feels almost like he was expecting me.

  “I think the couple of regulars inside, as well as myself, beg to differ.”

  We’re still blocking the entrance. The door is wide open. It’s propped with my stiffened arm and held in place by my shaking hand. The banter is weird but engrossing. I don’t think I’ve blinked, and I’m positive he hasn’t. So many questions are forming in my mind, yet the first one I incoherently blurt out is:

  “How do you know they’re regulars?”

  “How did you know I’d be here?” he fires back, grin widening.

  “Answer my question.”

  “Answer mine first.”

  “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I never lie.”

  I cringe at my own words, feeling the color change in my face. I even suck in the meaty middle of my bottom lip and give it a sharp bite. Punishment for being so crass. Practically everything about my life is a lie. Yet, here I am, staring into one of the most handsome faces I’ve ever seen, lying about lying. His squared shoulders, deepening dimples, and mess
y hair are causing my stomach to knot. I can only hope the weakening of my knees isn’t showing on the outside.

  “You are lying, because why else would you be here at seven in the morning? You wanted to see me, huh?”

  I have no idea how this intense, doorway, stare-down conversation has transformed into this. I choke a little on the spit that’s stuck in the back of my throat. Finally, I roll my eyes and slam my free hand on my hip.

  “Are you going to move so I can get in or not?”

  “You hungry?” He chuckles.

  “Yes. Hence the reason I’m here.” I continue to stare.

  Mac finally steps aside and sweeps a welcoming arm through the air. He’s clearly careful not to spill his coffee with the motion.

  “I’ll join you,” he says.

  There’s an upbeat and excited twang in his words—irritating.

  “Oh great, because the way you were headed out, I would have assumed you were leaving.”

  His scent follows close behind me. As soon as I’m able to get around him, I can see both Madge and Lucy behind the counter. Madge is ready to take orders and run the register. Lucy is unloading a fresh sheet of apple fritters. Raquelle, Lucy’s usual morning helper must have called in again. Poor Madge is too old and has far more important things to do than to have to fill in for Raquelle.

  At least Madge won’t care to question why I’m here so early, or even who I talk to. She’s private, and shows everyone else the same respect. Lucy, on the other hand, has been watching us like a hawk, within a very clear hearing range. Her jaw is practically sweeping the floor.

  Mac points across the room. “I’ll be waiting, right over there.”

  Of course he assumes I’m going to sit with him; what an egotistical douchebag. But then again, I am here for him, and I will sit with him. So, what does that make me, I wonder? A sucker? A cliché? I shoot Lucy a confused glare, willing her to read my mind. With big facial movements, she mouths the words ‘I know’ and then shrugs while pulling her bottom lip down at one corner to show a few teeth. Dramatic and silently, she shares my confusion. I shake my head slightly.

  “What’ll it be, love?” Madge asks with her regular straight face and in her notoriously scratchy voice.

  “Surprise me.”

  I smile at her. She just nods and gets to slicing up a treat before dishing it onto a square plate.

  I have no idea what to expect out of this peculiar morning, but there is one thing I do know for sure—I’m utterly attracted to Mac. I can’t do anything about it because of that woman who’s strangely my double. Everything about her screams Belle, and everything about Mac reflects my high school boyfriend. Aside from his hair and his smell, he could easily be an aged version of Charles. My first kiss, first love, and the first guy I ever killed for. Even if it was in my sleep, and even if he never actually knew it was me who swung the pipe that crushed Belle’s skull.

  I killed because of Charles and my subconscious obsession over how he looked at her because he wanted her more than he wanted me. Belle and I were so much alike. Same hair, same eyes . . . just like the woman wearing Mac’s ring. Ultimately, Charles wound up dumping me on my ass a month later for a girl in the grade beneath us who had bigger tits and a wider smile. A girl who looked nothing like me, or Belle, or Mac’s girl.

  Mac and his fiancé are a terrible formula for me. One that’s all too familiar. I’m afraid for Mac, afraid for myself, and mostly afraid for her. If I had any sense at all, I’d run, now. I’d make a screaming dash for the door and never look back. Instead, I reach for the free cheesecake Madge hands me over the counter, and I turn on my heels to join him.

  He’s waiting, sipping coffee and nibbling the edges of a bear claw while he watches me. I make a conscious effort to play it cool and casual, despite the extra strong thump of my heart and the tingling of my toes. I take a seat directly across from him in a tall, two-person booth that’s pushed up against the one and only floor-to-ceiling window. It’s the only table that’s in perfect view from the outside passersby. I wish my hair was down so that I could hide behind it. Eating at this table is like being on display. It’s a table I always avoid. I can only imagine that Mac doesn’t care because if anyone were to see him, they’d assume that I was her and just keep on passing by.

  I remain quiet, refusing to look him in the eyes. I know if I do that, then I won’t be able to look back away. Instead, I glide my fork into the creamy white treat smothered with thick raspberry topping and shove it into my mouth.

  Mac leans forward, pressing the weight of his shoulders on the table through his elbows. His strong fingers interlace each other and his palms are pressed together. Like the flash of a camera, I see it. This is different than my usual imaginings of murder. It seems a little more real, more unnerving.

  Mac’s muscular fingers are flexed, restricting the airway of another man. The neck within his grasp leads to a head that’s as limp as a ragdoll. It’s blurry, I can’t make out the victim’s details, but his entire head is flopping back and forth violently. Mac’s face holds the same grin he’s wearing now, except his teeth are clenched tighter, causing the vein in his neck to bulge. His voice interrupts the image, and I snap back to reality.

  “Let’s get to it, shall we?” he says.

  I laugh despite myself, covering my mouth with a hand to ensure my food doesn’t go flying into his face.

  “Get to what?” I ask, forcing my vicious mental intrusion to the back of all the other swarming thoughts in my head.

  I’m finally starting to become at ease with my body’s nerves, but my mind is racing. I wonder how the hell I’m going to get the upper hand on wherever this strange conversation is going. As well as get a handle on how real that vision of him murdering a man actually seemed.

  You’re smarter than this guy, Ahnia, I tell myself. He’s a stranger, and engaged, and you have no right to have feelings for him or take serious your daydreams, and especially no right to play into whatever strange fixation he has for you.

  “Get to why you’re here this early in the morning. No lies this time. You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?”

  “Are you saying you’ve been coming here on purpose . . . as bait for me?” I ask and shovel another bite in my mouth.

  He shrugs and lifts a questionable brow. I swallow the mouthful of cheesecake that’s rolling around on my tongue with a gulp. After which I force myself to match his wit. If he wants to play this game, then so be it.

  “For your information, Mac, I’m meeting my financial advisor.” I take a third bite, eating like the poor, hungry girl I really am and continue with a full mouth, “He’ll be here any minute.”

  Now it’s Mac’s turn to laugh. He even leans back and runs a hand through his wild hair before folding his arms over his chest. I can only hope for Douglas to be his usual, punctual self. I could really go for a rescuing right about now.

  “I’m sure he is.” Mac rolls his eyes before allowing his face to smooth over. “Look Ahnia, I do, in fact, have a busy day, so I’m not going to waste a bunch of time. I have been coming here hoping you’ll eventually show up early one day, and I’m glad you took the bait because I have a proposition for you.”

  I can feel my mouth open a crack, shocked by his honesty. I consciously shut it, and put my best sarcastic face on display.

  “Oh really?” I say with a voice as flat as paper.

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think I want to do anything for you?”

  I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest too, mirroring his posture in every way.

  “Because I know why you write about death in your little notebook.”

  I can feel my face tighten. My eyes lower to a slit and my lips pinch in anger.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask under my breath.

  “I know a lot about you, Ahnia. More than you think, and more than can be found on a simple Google search. The whole reason I’m in Michigan is, in fact, for you.
”

  It feels like my heart is going to break free of my ribcage and bounce out of the huge window we’re sitting by. My toes no longer tingle; they’ve become numb, as have the bottom half of my legs. I’m entirely stiff. What could he possibly know about me? Belle’s face is front and center in my mind. No. No way could he know anything about her.

  Play it cool, Ahnia; you have nothing to hide. Nothing but Belle.

  Although every inch of my body is on red flag alert, logic tells me that it’s my guilt and paranoia that’s making me so nervous. He has nothing, and if anyone is used to having people try to intrude into their psyche, it’s me. Dorothy has been assuming she knows all about my twisted inner workings for years.

  “Okay then, let’s do this your way.” I finally find the strength to speak, trying my damnedest to keep playing it cool. “I’ll play along with whatever weird logic or opinion you have about me, and I’ll even toy with the idea of your proposition . . . on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  He forms that wide, confident grin of his, and again, he leans forward onto his elbows, pressing his chin to his fingers.

  “You have to answer every question I have about the woman I watched you propose to the other night.”

  Mac tilts his head to the side in order to look at me from the corner of his eyes. He’s contemplating and assessing the situation. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

  “I met Lorraine a few years after that writing conference I told you about. I decided to date her because she looked just like you, and I was fascinated by that. I fell in love with her unexpectedly, and now, here we are.” He pauses. “Any other questions?”

  “Wow,” I’m stunned to near speechlessness. “You’re not one for small talk are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out. And yes, there are more questions, but now, I’m kind of afraid to ask.”