The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘What’s this?’ Oliver asks, stopping his cheerful whistle. He pulls me in closer, and I want to vomit at the smell of his cologne so close to my nose. I’m too concerned, however, to complain.

  I find a familiar face, Mrs Wilson, a woman my mother used to invite over for tea and biscuits occasionally. Her daughter is a few years younger than me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, yanking Oliver towards Mrs Wilson, who stands near the back of the crowd. He doesn’t protest, and I feel safer with the presence of other witnesses.

  ‘Another body. Patrick was working in his garden and went out to his shed to retrieve some tools. He found a body in there. Whispers are saying it’s Caroline Young.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Did he do it? Was it Patrick?’ I ask, the unthinkable question leaping from my tongue.

  ‘I don’t know. The constables are questioning him now. It’s hard to say what’s going on around here anymore. What is happening to our little neighbourhood? It’s not safe anymore for anyone. This maniac is picking us off left, right and centre, and no one can figure out a thing. How can he be getting away with this?’

  ‘Must be a smart bloke, that’s all I have to say,’ Oliver says. I turn and look at him, studying his face. He shrugs. ‘I’m just saying, the constables and detectives are brilliant here. This guy must be quite the pro to be getting away with all of this.’

  I manage to free my hand from his clutches. He doesn’t fight, not with the crowd around us. I wrap my arms around myself, thinking about how serious the problem is. Another woman gone, another woman murdered. Suddenly, I’m freezing cold even though the sun is hot.

  I stand for a moment, staring with the people I’ve known for the past few years, all of us suspicious and worried. When will this nightmare be over? Who else will lose their life in the process? I begin to walk back from the crowd, still studying the scene but Oliver pulls me back and leans in, close enough that his breath makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

  ‘Better be careful, Addy. Wouldn’t want you to end up in a shed like poor, sweet Caroline, would we? You better watch your step, or you could be next.’

  Tears well again as he touches the bare skin on my neck, brushing my hair aside to kiss my skin with his chapped lips. ‘Wouldn’t do for your sweet, soft skin to be decimated, for your lifeless body to be found like a discarded rag. We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?’

  I bite my lip to choke back the whimpers that are forming. Oliver yanks my arm roughly.

  ‘Time to go, Addy. A scene like this isn’t for delicate women like you.’

  I want to argue, but I also want to get home. I want to get away from Oliver, from this horrifying event. I leave the crowd of police and crying neighbours behind me, thinking about how shadowy the world really is.

  When we’re almost home, I shiver, a sense that someone is watching me rattling through my body. I glance around, studying the surroundings, but the street is empty. I stop, my heart pounding, as I look to the left. A flutter in a bush, a commotion – I take a step back, willing myself not to faint.

  ‘Come on,’ Oliver demands, leading me towards my house. I walk on but turn back, studying the bush. No one emerges. All goes quiet, and we are alone. When we reach my house, Mum rushes out, wiping her hands on a towel.

  ‘Thank God, you two made it. Have you heard the terrible news?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Walker. Awful. But no need to fear. I’ve brought darling Addy home, safe and sound.’

  I break away from him now, rushing towards my mother.

  ‘Thanks, dear. You are such a gentleman. Would you like to come in for something to eat?’ Mum asks.

  I turn around, feeling emboldened by the safety of my mother’s presence and by my house. ‘Oliver needs to get home, Mum.’

  Oliver glares, tilting his head up just a bit. ‘I will be going now, but don’t worry, Mrs Walker. I’m sure I’ll be back. Isn’t that right, Addy?’

  I shudder at the way he stares at me, at the pain in my wrist, at the memory of his hand hitting my cheek. But before I can argue, he tips his hat, pivots on his foot, and strides away. I am left with just my thoughts and fears – and the knowledge that he most certainly will be back. He always, always comes back.

  Now, the only thing left to ponder is what I’m going to do about it.

  Chapter 24

  Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

  2019

  ‘I know Philip’s here. I know it. I do,’ she mutters in the corner, wheeling back and forth in her wheelchair, her eyes wide and glassy.

  I’ve just returned to my room from lunch when I see the Philip Lady – what is her real name? I can’t even remember – rolling in my old roommate’s former side of the room. I glance around, noticing that the religious statue is still there, its wayward eyes staring at me. However, scattered about the side of the room are other belongings. A fake plant that is coated in dust. Photographs are tacked on the noticeboard, and a faded quilt rests on the bed. What is this? A nurse rushes past me, bringing Philip Lady a glass of the murky, polluted water on tap at Smith Manor. She is too far gone to notice that the water is disturbingly tainted.

  I grumble, my new roommate still waffling about Philip between sips. So much for peace and quiet. Just what I need right now.

  I take a deep breath, the depression of the past few days only heightening with the idea that now I’ll be sharing my room with a stranger. With my only true ally gone, murdered, in this place, I don’t want to be around anyone at all.

  Of course, murdered isn’t the correct term, not according to the staff. Accident is the word being tossed around with Dorothy’s death. A tragedy that she was wandering alone after dinner – she must have fallen – tripped and hurt her neck. These are the lies Smith Creek has fed to everyone. These are the lies so many choose to believe. But I know the truth. Dorothy’s death was no accident. Someone was out to silence her – and silence her, they did.

  I shudder to think she’s gone because of the secret she harboured and because I was too late for our meeting. I am racked with guilt, and my soul, already laden with secrets from the past, is just getting darker and darker. What was the secret Dorothy died for? What did she need to tell me? My head has been swirling with questions for the past few days. What did you need to tell me, Dorothy? I ask her over and over, silently staring out my window, wondering who killed – and who will be coming for me.

  But the dead don’t answer questions, and the living are too good at hiding their secrets. I know that no one here at Smith Creek is going to be able to help. So I watch, I wait, and I tremble at the thought that my cold, lifeless body will be the next ‘accident’ to happen. What lies will they tell to cover for my death?

  The Philip Woman keeps chanting, and I roll my eyes. I loathe her already, perhaps in fairness because I’m so exhausted. I glare at her from my side of the room, wondering if this is part of the anguish I’ll endure in my final days – listening to her nonsensical chanting, my head already pounding from everything that’s been happening.

  Perhaps, though, I’m looking at this all wrong. Watching her, it dawns on me. Maybe Dorothy was right. With another witness, perhaps he won’t be so brazen – whoever he is. Maybe Philip Lady will be just what I need to make it all stop.

  ‘You two enjoy getting to know each other,’ the nurse says in a monotone voice, traipsing out of the room. I stare at my new roommate. Unlike my last roommate, Philip Lady can speak. But I don’t know if that’s a good thing, I decide as I march out of the room to escape the insanity of her blubbering and the migraine she’s already given me. Could things get any worse? I almost hate to ask as I head to the community room, thinking about all that’s transpired and what to do next.

  ***

  ‘Come on, dear. Why don’t you come and see Henry?’ a nurse asks in an overly chipper voice. I look up from my chair, averting my eyes from the window. How long have I been in this chair, shielded from everyone? So many emotions have whirled about si
nce Dorothy’s death – guilt, fear, sorrow. But above all, the loneliness is getting to me. For the first time since I moved in – what? A month ago? Two? I think it’s been a month, but I don’t even know what month it is – I’m all alone here now. I have no ally and several enemies. It’s enough to drive anyone into a hermit-like life.

  ‘What?’ I croak, my voice crackling from not being used.

  ‘Henry, our visiting therapy dog. He’s a mastiff, and the residents here just love him. He’s here today. I know you’ve been through a lot lately. I think it would do you some good to meet him,’ the brown-haired nurse offers, smiling.

  I sigh. I don’t feel like getting up. I don’t want to go out there into the corridor. I don’t want to have to watch my back. But she is insistent, even reaching for my arm to help me up.

  ‘Fine,’ I mumble, my legs stiff from not being used. I let her lead me out of the room, the Philip Woman chanting again on her side of the room. I’ve almost got used to it. Almost.

  ‘Henry visits once a month, and it’s always everyone’s favourite day. I’m sure you’ll love him,’ the nurse reassures me as we walk down the corridor.

  I look about to see quite a few of the Floor Three residents making their way to the Community Room. As we pass the nurse’s desk and approach the room, I look down the corridor towards the room that Dorothy used to live in. At the end, the man in 300 stands, leaning on the wall outside his room, staring at me as he rubs his scar. I quickly avert my eyes, squeezing the nurse’s arm a little tighter.

  Twenty minutes later, I see Henry first-hand, and all I know is when he walks into the room, my stomach sinks at the size of him. He could maul someone to death in seconds.

  Henry’s handler gives a presentation about the benefits of therapy dogs, but I’m barely listening. Instead, I diligently peruse the people in the room. Oliver strolls into the room a few minutes late, causing my heart to race. Where was he just now? What could he have done? Did he do something? Eventually, we all get in the queue to pet Henry, and even though I’m hesitant, the handler convinces me to join the others.

  ‘He’s harmless, truly. The worst that will happen is you’ll get a bit of slobber on your top,’ she assures me.

  I nervously stand behind Barbara. Someone stands very close behind me, so close that I can feel moist breath on my neck. I turn and almost smack into him – the man from 300. With a smile that is more of a sneer, he nods curtly at me. His breath is foul and hot in my face. He stands slumped to the side. When did he come in?

  When we get close enough, I pat Henry on the head to appease the handler. I’m just getting ready to tell her that she’s right, Henry’s a sweet dog, when suddenly, Henry emits a low growl. I pull my hand back, my stomach dropping. I scamper back, tripping on a chair and falling to the ground. There’s a commotion as the dog’s handler tries to calm him, as residents shriek, and as nurses rush to my assistance.

  The monstrous dog bucks and jumps, teeth bared as his hackles stand on end. I shield my face with my arms, shaking as I struggle to get to my feet. Screams and yells surround me, and a tumult ensues. The dog barks and snaps wildly, yanking the handler forward. I peer up from behind my shielding arms and realise the dog is lunging at someone behind me but not actually at me. Henry’s frothing slobber flies about as he pulls his handler closer and closer to the target. The noise echoes through the room, and the nurses scream as they try to help me up. The handler shouts Henry’s name, but the dog doesn’t calm.

  ‘Henry, stop,’ the handler demands, but the dog is on the end of its leash, its sheer size proving to be a force that overpowers everyone. I watch as the dog lunges with its powerful jaws – but, as nurses attempt to get me up and safely away from the goliath dog’s body, I turn to see the man from 300 backing up towards the wall. The dog follows him, teeth bared. Another staff member helps the handler yank Henry back, and the man from 300 edges along the wall, slinking out of the room. Only then does the dog ease up.

  I gasp for breath as the handler apologises over and over to me, to the nurses, to everyone. Sitting in the corner of the room, shielded from everyone, the dog’s eyes dart about the room, looking for its target. We all breathe a sigh of relief as the chaotic scene softens into something bearable.

  ‘He never does this. He’s never done this. I don’t know what to say. Apologies,’ the handler says, visibly distraught. It’s unclear if she’s talking to the nurses or to herself.

  I shake my head as I hold my chest, my heart racing like it’s going to explode. Arms tug me up, a wheelchair placed under my bottom as I’m rushed out. I catch my breath, thinking about the insane scene. Henry’s eyes were lasered on the man behind me, the man from room 300. At the thought, a chill ruptures my resolve to stay calm.

  Chapter 25

  It just makes no sense, I think over and over as I sit in front of the canvas that is supposed to become a jolly beach scene. The girl attempting to instruct the class can’t be more than twenty, and she just seems utterly out of place. She giggles way too much, making jokes out of our struggles. Half of the residents in the class can’t even move their hands properly or drink a glass of juice on a good day, let alone paint a masterpiece. Whoever designs the activity timetable has some misguided expectations.

  I sit in the second to last row in the class, alone. There’s an empty seat beside me where Dorothy should be sitting. I try to shove the thought aside, but I can’t. What happened to Dorothy? What really happened? And what did she need to tell me? I slap the paint brush onto the canvas, not really caring where the sand or the sky is. Instead, I mentally trace my steps that day and think about what Dorothy said. She left no clues. She left no hints. All I know is that whatever she found out, whatever she needed to tell me, it was serious.

  So serious that someone murdered her for it.

  I’ve thought over the past few days about ringing the police – but what would I say? What proof do I have? This place has death scenes down to a science. They cover their tracks. Who will believe a dementia patient with heart trouble?

  And can I believe it all myself?

  I’ve spent the past few days in and out of doubt. Maybe the doctors are right. Maybe my mind is playing tricks. Maybe I’m seeing things from a warped sense of perspective.

  But no. It can’t just be my fading mind playing tricks. I know what I’ve seen. I know the notes are real, the mice in the bed. I’ve been keeping the notes in my Bible. I’ve been scrawling down reminders of what’s happened and leafing through them over and over.

  It’s real. It’s happening. I can’t be just imagining it all. Can I?

  I know for sure that Dorothy is gone. Her things are gone.

  And I’m pretty certain the secret she was keeping is gone.

  I should be afraid, terrified actually. I should be trying harder to figure out what she discovered. But her death, well, it’s hit me hard. I didn’t realise how at least with Dorothy here, I had someone to trust. Now, I have no one, nothing. I’m alone, absolutely alone. Maybe I always have been.

  I stare at the sky on my canvas. The instructor’s is a bright blue, the kind that offers hopes and promises for a peaceful, joyous day. My own sky is tinged grey, the kind of day when one stays inside instead of venturing out. I keep painting, the darkness swirling on the canvas, the questions spinning in my head.

  I paint a bird in the corner of my canvas, its gnarled feathers adding a level of eeriness to my scene.

  ‘What are you doing up there? You do know we’re painting a beach scene, right?’ A voice caws behind me. I turn around to see Vivienne, perched on a chair like she’s sitting on a throne, her bejewelled black dress looking even more out of place than usual.

  ‘Suppose it is true,’ she continues while I turn back to my painting. ‘Suppose you have completely lost your marbles after all. With that horrid woman you called a friend dead now, it’s just a matter of time until you lose it for real.’

  I spin around. ‘How dare you talk about her,’ I repl
y, nostrils flaring.

  ‘Oh, apologies. Did I bring something up uncomfortable? You ask me, I find it very suspicious. You just happened to find her in the room, dead. This place was fine until you showed up. Just fine. And now, trouble. You’re trouble, Adeline. Plain and simple.’

  I open my mouth to argue, but what’s the point? In some ways, Vivienne’s right. If it weren’t for me, Dorothy could still be alive. If it weren’t for me, so many things would be different here.

  I spin around in my seat, returning to my canvas, and the instructor continues rambling about brush strokes. I keep painting, bird after bird in the sky, with a ferocity and swiftness that is unmatched as I mumble noncommittedly. I hate what’s happened to Dorothy. I hate that I don’t know the secret she was keeping. Above all else, I hate that she wasn’t the only one hiding something. I hate that she never fully understood who Oliver was and about our past. It just never occurred to me to tell her, a woman from my present, about a man from my past, even with everything happening. But now, I second-guess myself. Could it have changed things if she’d have known how Oliver and I were connected? Would it have somehow fit together with the information she wanted to tell me? It’s too late to change things now, and I know why I kept the secret from her. Still, as the day goes on, I become more and more convinced that the secret I’d hoped to take to my grave is about to be exposed – and that the grave is closer than I could ever imagine.

  Chapter 26

  I leave the community room, my melancholic painting sitting on the easel to dry. I walk alone, head in the wrong direction, and end up in a corner of the home I don’t recognise. I take a deep breath and tell myself to think. I know my way around. It’s okay. I look at the bouquet of dried roses covered in a layer of dust, their cheap-looking vase cracked in the front. I don’t remember seeing this table, these flowers. Is this the way to my room? I look left and then right.

  I’m so confused. This hasn’t happened for a while. I grab my head, my brain pulsating as I try to will myself to think. Tears threaten to fall as my emotions rage. I’m lost. Where’s my room? Where’s Dorothy? It’s all too much.