As I pulled a mug from an upper cabinet, my phone rang, startling me, and the mug went crashing to the tile floor.
I put my hand over my pounding heart. “Oh no…” The mug was a favorite—hand-painted Italian pottery. We’d purchased two of the mugs in Tuscany while on our honeymoon.
Now there was just one.
I sighed, turned off the range, and set the teapot aside, then stepped over the shards of pottery and grabbed my phone.
Keith and I had spoken little since our discussion on Saturday night. When he’d left for the airport before dawn Monday morning, I was still asleep.
I answered his call, relieved we’d have a chance to talk. “Hi there.”
“Hey. Thought I’d check in. I saw you called earlier.”
Keith was talking so loud over the clamor in the background that I held the phone away from my ear.
“Where are you?”
He laughed. “Yeah, it’s loud. We’re bowling! There’s this great place with music and food, and I just hit two strikes in a row.”
No one appreciated a good time like Keith. If there wasn’t a party, Keith created one. It was part of what drew me to him when we met as I pushed toward completion of my doctorate. My list of priorities hadn’t included fun for far too long, so when Keith unleashed his enthusiasm and ability to make any situation an occasion, I was drawn like a moth to a flame.
But now… I needed his support and I needed him not only to consider my feelings but to take them seriously.
However, feelings, at least those he considered negative or intense, weren’t high on Keith’s list of priorities, I’d learned.
I heard Keith laugh and then let loose a whoop. Someone else had scored, I assumed.
“Keith?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Hey, can we talk later? It’s hard to hear you.”
I needed to tell him about what had gone on tonight at the office. But something about his tone made me want to tuck my emotions away someplace safe while at the same time I wanted to fall apart, secure in my husband’s arms. He felt so far away. Physically and emotionally.
My emotions were like a knotted skein of yarn, one I couldn’t seem to unravel.
I cleared my throat. “Sure. Call me later, okay? I need to talk to you.”
“What?” He laughed again at something I could neither hear nor see.
“Never mind.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll call you tomorrow if I get a break.”
“Wait. Keith…?”
He’d already hung up.
I set my phone back on the island and then looked down at the mug, fractured beyond repair.
What was happening?
The next day passed without a call from Keith. I’d had a tight schedule myself, including seeing clients late into the evening. I assumed he was working long hours too. He managed the sales team for a booming software company, and long hours were part of the job he loved. When I hadn’t heard from him by midday on Thursday, I left him a message.
He returned my call while I was with a client and left a message with a brief apology for not calling. No explanation. No excuse.
I decided I’d wait until I got home that evening to call him back. I hoped I could catch him after he was finished with work and commitments to his team.
When I walked into the house that night, I dropped another pile of mail onto the growing stack on the island. I needed to go through it and decided I might as well get it over with. I pulled a letter opener from a drawer in the island, sat down on one of the barstools, and with my phone cradled between my shoulder and ear, I called Keith and then began slitting open envelopes. My call went straight to his voice mail.
“Hi, it’s me. Give me a call before you go to bed tonight. I want to make sure you’re okay and see how your time is going. Maybe we can catch up and talk through some things.”
I ended the call and then began putting the mail into piles. Bills. Things to respond to. And trash. It was ten minutes or so before I reached the box at the bottom of the pile.
I’d forgotten about it.
I glanced at the front of the box to see who had sent it, but there was no return address. Just a white printed address label affixed to the box. Across the top of the box was a row of stamps haphazardly placed.
The postmark indicated the package was sent from Seattle.
Had Keith mailed something to me?
I slit the packing tape and then pried open the box, anxious to see what was inside. I dug through packing peanuts until my hand landed on something soft. When I pulled it from the packing material and saw what it was, I dropped it as though it had scorched my hand.
On the kitchen counter, almost invisible on the black granite, sat a small, black velvet jewelry bag.
If Keith had sent it, it was a cruel joke.
I walked around the island to the kitchen sink, grabbed a glass out of the cabinet, and filled it with water. I turned, leaned against the sink, and sipped the water while eyeing the bag. I assumed it held a charm—the letter C for my last name. Our last name. Costa.
But I wouldn’t know for sure unless I opened it.
I finally set the glass on the counter with the intent of going back to open the bag. But dread, like shackles around my ankles, immobilized me. Who was sending these gifts? And why? I’d felt sure the bracelet and charms I’d received at the office were from the man I’d seen outside the office. But now… Doubt, a rude intruder, settled within.
“Just get it over with,” I whispered.
Slowly, I made my way back to the island and picked up the bag. I loosened the drawstring and emptied the contents into the palm of my hand, then closed my hand around the cool, smooth metal of the charm.
I held the charm a moment, then took a deep breath and uncurled my fingers, opening my hand. There in my palm was the charm, but it wasn’t the letter I’d expected to see. I stared at it. Then, like the uncoiling of a venomous snake as it strikes, understanding hit my consciousness and I dropped the charm on the island and backed away from it.
“No. Oh Lord, no.” My voice broke with a sob. “Help me…”
Hand trembling, I reached for my phone and searched through my contacts for the number I needed.
He answered after the first ring.
“Deni?”
“G… Gabe… I…”
It wouldn’t occur to me until later that I hadn’t even considered calling Keith.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
The gold charm winked in the light from above the island.
“Deni, talk to me.”
“He… he knows where I live. Gabe, he knows. And”—I gasped then sobbed again—“he’s going to… kill me. Gabe, he’s going to kill me!” I cried.
The first two charms that I assumed were my initials were anything but. The third charm made that clear. The letter E sat on my kitchen island, conveying the sender’s message.
He wanted me to D-I-E.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Denilyn
February 3, 2017
As I merge onto Interstate 80, I join the Friday evening mass of vehicles heading east toward the Sierras. When I made the appointment to check in with my psychiatrist, Dr. Bauer, to see how the medication adjustments he made have impacted the anxiety I’ve dealt with recently, I didn’t consider weekend traffic.
I stay in the slow lane, biding my time until I reach my turnoff a few miles up the road. Just as I approach the exit, a dark swath of clouds lets loose their hold and dots of rain speckle my windshield. I flick on the wipers and then tune the radio to an oldies station. The music sets the tone for the weekend. I look forward to time at home with those I love, only a few papers to grade, and time to relax. Something I’ve done little of the last few weeks.
Dr. Bauer and I agreed that the medication adjustment has been effective. For the first time in weeks, I’m sleeping well, and the nightmares and flashbacks have eased. I’m present, and there’s plenty in the present to deal with.
The music irritates rather than relaxes me, so I turn it off and listen instead to the rhythm of raindrops—the sound once again familiar after such a long absence. There’s something soothing about the patter on the roof and windshield.
By the time I reach the canyon, darkness has descended and the sprinkling has turned to a deluge. I glance at my rearview mirror, where I’m grateful to see headlights, like prisms, through the rain on the back window. The vehicle is several car lengths behind me and somehow reassures me. I prefer not to travel this section of road totally alone. As the road dips into the tight valley, I check my speedometer. I’m ready to be home, but it isn’t worth the risk of speeding, especially in this weather.
When I slow for a curve, the headlights behind me brighten and illuminate a portion of the steep canyon wall ahead. The lights bounce back behind me as the vehicle, much closer now, follows me out of the curve.
Why did the driver turn on his brights? Does he want me to pull over so he can pass?
I have an eerie sense of familiarity as I recall the truck that nearly ran me off the road a few weeks ago. I lean forward and peer out the front windshield. The sheer canyon wall borders the road to my left, and on the right the road hugs the rushing river. There is only a narrow shoulder between the road and the river along this section.
When I glance in the mirror again, the reflection of the bright lights behind me is almost blinding.
Mouth dry, I swallow as I adjust the mirror to keep the lights out of my eyes, then I step on the gas as I come out of another curve.
My heart rate accelerates with the SUV.
As the road straightens, I slow again, giving the driver ample time and space to pass me. My eyes dart from the rearview mirror to the road and back again. Rain pounds now, and my wipers, nearly useless even with new blades, obscure my view. The reflective line on the road to the right of me wavers as I view it through the water the wipers are smearing across the windshield.
When the truck doesn’t pass, I step on the gas and increase my speed again in a vain attempt to put some distance between us. But the driver of the truck does the same, staying with me.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and consider tapping my breaks as a signal to back off, but he’s so close now that even a slight decrease in speed could cause him to hit me.
What is he doing?
Oh Lord…
Knowing there’s a scenic viewpoint ahead, a turnout in the road, I turn on my blinker, indicating my intent to pull over and let the driver pass, but we’re going so fast I fear pulling off the wet road too quickly will cause me to slide through the turnout and into the churning river.
As I consider that possibility, my SUV lunges forward at the same time I hear the crash and crackle of breaking plastic and the screeching of bending metal. My head jerks forward and then whips back. Just as I realize the truck has hit me, the SUV jolts forward again accompanied by the same crunching, screeching sounds.
I look in the rearview mirror again just in time to see the truck rev and come careening toward me.
My scream ricochets inside the car as the truck hits me hard, causing the SUV to jettison across the road toward the sheer rock wall of the canyon. I have no time to consider what to do. Instead, I instinctively brace for the impact as I try to locate the brake with my foot. Shattering glass sounds behind me, and I scream as I slam into the wall. Something seems to explode in front of me, then slams me back in my seat and holds me there as the SUV does a frenzied spin.
The moments are a dizzying blur.
But finally, all movement and sound stop.
All is still.
And I’m… alive. It’s my first thought. I am still alive.
Breathless, I realize what I thought was an explosion was the airbags deploying. It’s too dark to see where on the road I’ve landed, but ahead of me two red taillights glow, accelerating up the road. I track the lights as they ascend up and out of the canyon.
I gasp, too shocked to do anything more. Cold wind and rain blow in through the broken back window, and the driver’s side door is concave and pressed against me. My neck, left shoulder, and arm ache.
The SUV’s engine is still running. It appears only the headlight on the passenger side is working now. It throws just enough light onto the road that I can see the dotted double lines between the lanes. I’m in the middle of the road. The car is still in gear, so I push the now deflated airbag away from the steering wheel as best I can, grip the wheel, and slowly depress the accelerator to see if the SUV’s too damaged to move off the road. The car limps forward, bumping and screeching. It’s clear there’s damage to at least two of the wheels, among other things. I’m able to pull to the side of the road next to the river, where I shift into PARK and turn off the ignition. Then I collapse against the steering wheel, heart pounding, body shuddering.
As my mind grasps what’s just happened, anger bubbles and I pound the steering wheel with my fists. “Haven’t I had enough? Haven’t I?” I scream my question at God. Then I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. “Why?” I whisper. “Why have You abandoned me?” I choke out my question through sobs, voicing the fear that’s plagued me for almost eight years. “Why?”
When my tears are spent, still trembling, I open the middle console and reach inside for my cell phone. Hands shaking, I press 9-1-1.
When nothing happens, I remember where I am.
I search the darkened road ahead of me and behind me. My head throbs. What do I do now? I’ve pulled my battered vehicle as far off the road as possible, but I’m still partially blocking the lane. I check my phone again to see if, by some miracle, I have service. But I know better. I swipe the tears from my cheeks.
Think. I have to think.
What if he comes back?
I know he won’t come from behind—it would take hours to circle back from another route. If he intends to come back for me, he’ll have to turn around up ahead somewhere. I’d see him coming, though that thought offers little comfort. There’s nowhere to go except down the embankment and into the river.
“Help me, please help me.” I cry out through my tears—though I have little, if any, remaining faith that my prayers are heard.
Darkness presses in on me, the seeming weight of it suffocating. Rain pounds on the roof and windshield, wind howls through the broken window, the noise deafening. I take a ragged breath, then another. My thoughts are muddled. “Breathe, just breathe,” I whisper.
If a car comes by, surely the driver would see me and stop. But I’m a sitting duck. With the way I’m sticking out in the lane, it’s more likely another car would hit me. Hazard lights. Where are they? I search the dashboard until I see the dimly lit triangle. I push it and then turn around in my seat to look out the back window—the red lights briefly illuminate the area just behind the car each time they flash.
Is sitting here waiting for a car to pass, and hopefully stop, really the best choice? I consider my options. Either I walk along the almost nonexistent shoulder up and out of the canyon, or I wait here and hope someone else doesn’t hit me from behind.
Walking poses its own risks. If whoever hit me before comes back, I’m exposed and vulnerable walking along the dark road. At least in the car, I can lock the doors, which offers little comfort, but it’s something. And if he hits me again, at least the SUV offers a small measure of protection.
It’s at least a half mile uphill before I’d have phone reception again. I peer out the front windshield again—the rain shows no sign of letting up.
Just as I decide to wait for a few minutes more, headlights crest the top of the canyon. The vehicle makes a slow descent on the canyon road coming
toward me.
Is he coming back for me?
I reach for the door handle, pull it, and then push against the door. It won’t open—it’s too damaged. I unlatch my seat belt and scramble across the console to the passenger side, wrestling the airbags. I’m prepared to jump out of the car if it appears he’s going to hit me again.
Then a question I haven’t considered occurs to me.
Who is he?
PART TWO
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
KHALIL GIBRAN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Denilyn
February 4, 2017
Shattered glass flies through the darkened interior of the SUV as it spins wildly, creating a tornado of the shards. I close my eyes to protect them from the slivers of glinting glass.
“Open your eyes, Denilyn.”
I spin around to check the backseat. Where is he?
“Open your pretty eyes.”
“Where are you?” I cry.
A cackle of laughter sounds, and I cover my ears.
Then the car slams into the wall again and a scream reverberates…
“Denilyn.”
Something scratches my arm, and I try to shove it away.
“Wake up!”
I jerk upright and open my eyes. “Wha…” The room is shrouded in dim light. “Where…”
“You’re okay. You’re home. You’re okay, darling.”
My mother sits on the edge of the bed, and Max paws at my arm. I bury my hand in the thick fur around his neck. “I… was dreaming?”
“I was making coffee and thought I heard you crying. When I came in, Max was trying to wake you. And then you screamed.”
Pain radiates from my neck up the base of my skull. “My head…” I lie down again, my head, left shoulder, and arm throbbing. She reaches over, and like I’m seven years old again, she brushes the hair from my face and concern etches her features. “Whiplash?”
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