“I am paying attention. Finally,” I whisper. “I’m listening…”
And I am listening, but the silence hasn’t distilled the rage.
March 20, 2017
On Monday morning, I arrive on campus early, knowing that I have several hours of reading and grading papers ahead of me. But as I sit at my desk, my mind spins with both the exhilaration of my skydiving experience yesterday and the horror of it. I struggle to process the contrasts. I also struggle to focus on the assignments that filled my email inbox over the weekend.
Anger, like a river, rushes still—its thundering drowns everything else.
Rather than tackling the assignments, I open my calendar app and go to the month of June. I stare at the first of the month and the note I’ve read so many times:
Eligible for parole.
If I needed a reminder that I can’t control what happens, this is it. He isn’t even eligible for parole, but he’s out. What happened? I close my eyes and see him again as he was yesterday. The same shadow of beard beneath his fair skin and the way he leaned against the building, his shoulder and hip pressed against the metal siding of the hangar. He was leaner perhaps, and his hair a little longer, but I have no doubt that it was him.
If only he’d received a life sentence, but there wasn’t enough proof to convict him of attempted murder. Not even the scar on my head proved he’d tried to kill me. The final charm was never linked to him. The charm that constituted a threat.
While he was placed at my mother’s house the night of the attack, he swore he hadn’t hit me, that someone else had been in the garage. He claimed he’d seen the shadow of a man, a baseball bat raised above my head, but it was dark and he couldn’t offer any identifying evidence. He told authorities the man hit me, dropped the bat, then turned and ran out the open garage door. A convenient explanation. There were no identifiable prints on the bat.
He was the only one there. He’d stalked me, threatened me with the charms, whether the last charm was linked to him or not, and then attacked me in my mother’s garage. I raise my hand to my neck as though his arm is still wrapped tightly around me, cutting off my airway.
Neighbors testified that they’d seen a car, later identified as Mathison’s, parked a few houses down from my mother’s that night. But they’d noticed no one else, no other unknown vehicles or people in the neighborhood.
It was Mathison. And Mathison alone.
Thoughts of that night, the memories, both of the attack and the aftermath, assault me with overpowering force.
I woke sometime in the predawn hours the morning following the attack with a bright light shining in my eyes. I jerked back and screamed, but like a nightmare, when I opened my mouth, the alarm succumbed to fear and refused to sound. I was powerless. Sure he was still shining that flashlight in my eyes and I could do nothing to help myself.
“Shh… It’s okay. You’re okay.” An unfamiliar voice soothed.
I tried to open my eyes, but my lids were too heavy. And my head… I reached my hand up—
“Denilyn…” Someone gently pushed my hand back down. “You’ve been injured. You’re in the hospital. Keep your arm down—you have an IV. Can you hear me?”
I couldn’t nod—it hurt too much. I opened my eyes, then closed them abruptly against the light in the room. My head throbbed, the pain blinding.
“We’re going to give you something for the pain. Just rest now.” Then, as if she was speaking to someone else, she quietly asked, “Allergies to medications?”
“No.” My mother’s voice.
I wanted to reach for her, call her to come to me, but the effort was too much. My head pounded. “Head… hurts,” I mumbled.
A hand rested on my shoulder. My mother’s hand?
“Any chance she’s pregnant?”
“I don’t think so. I… don’t know.” I heard the question in my mom’s tone. “Maybe…”
“We’ll need to catheterize her. I’ll take a urine sample to test for pregnancy—faster than a blood test…” Her voice, the doctor or nurse, whoever she was, faded or cut out. My memories after that, for days after, play like an old black-and-white movie—the film broken and spliced so that entire scenes are lost.
Due to swelling of my brain, I was told later, I was put into a medically induced state of coma—that deep sleep that left me unaware of both my surroundings and all that took place, yet at times oddly present.
My cell phone, sitting on my desk, rings, and I jump, startled from my reverie. It rings a second time before I pick it up. “This is Denilyn Rossi.”
“Denilyn, this Sonia Alejandro. Is there a time today we can meet? I’d like to share some information with you and ask you a few questions. I can come to you.”
“Oh… Well, I have a break this afternoon. If you don’t mind coming here, that would be helpful. You could come to my office if that works.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
We set a time to meet, and I give her directions to find my office. But before she hangs up, I have to ask, “Did you find him? Why wasn’t I notified?”
“We’ll talk when I see you. I’ll have more information then.”
I’m tempted to press her but sense it won’t do any good. I’ll have to wait, though each minute feels like an eternity—as if the finish line is close but just beyond my reach.
Sonia, as she’s asked me to call her, sits across from me, my desk between us. She sets a leather folio on my desk, opens it, and reveals a pad with scribbled notes. She glances at the notes, then looks at me. “If you voted in November, you may recall that Proposition 47 provided for the early release of prisoners whose felonies would be reduced to misdemeanors in order to address the overcrowding of California’s prisons. The proposition passed, and they’ve released close to three thousand prisoners since January.”
“Yes, I remember. But what does that have to do with Mathison? My understanding of the proposition was that it provided the reduced offense for those who’d committed property and drug crimes—not violent crimes.”
“Right. But due to an error, Mathison was released as well. Something to do with the software used by the Department of Corrections. You weren’t notified of his release because according to their records, he was still incarcerated. In fact, had you not seen him, you’d have likely never received any sort of notification. When I contacted them, insisting he was out, they did a little digging.”
With jaw clenched, I lean forward. “When? When was he released?”
“March 13th.”
“But”—I shake my head—“the accident, the texts, Max… That all occurred before the 13th. Are you sure of the date?”
“That’s the date I was given, and I have to believe it’s accurate.”
“Okay, but he was at the airport. He’s responsible for what happened there. He had to be the one who—”
“Hold on. I believe you saw him. But after a lengthy conversation with the owner of the skydiving operation, I’m convinced, as is he, that there was no way Mathison could have impacted your dive—the parachute you used. The instructors pack their own chutes, and then they pack one another’s reserve chutes. They never have the same person pack both the primary and reserve chute. Even if Bradley Mathison knew how to pack a parachute, he’d have had no way of accessing the parachutes or of knowing which pack your instructor was going to use. It just isn’t possible. What happened was an accident. I was told that approximately one in one thousand chutes fail. It happens. Will we pick up Mathison for questioning? Of course. But…” She shrugs.
“No. No, that doesn’t make sense. If he was released by error, why aren’t they looking for him? Why won’t he be returned to custody?”
“He’d earned enough credit for good behavior that his actual release date fell just a few weeks before the date he’d have been eligible for release. It’s done, Denilyn. Now”—she refers to her notes—“per Penal Code section 3003(f), as a direct victim you can request he not be allowed to live within thi
rty-five miles—”
“No! That doesn’t help me. He was out less than a week and already found me, followed me. What good does thirty-five miles do? He’s doing what he did before. Why can’t you charge him?”
“If I can place him at the airport—”
“I placed him there. I saw him.”
“As I said, as soon as we find him, we’ll bring him in. I just don’t know that I have anything that’ll stick at this point. But I’m working on it. Okay? I’m working on it. I’m on your side.”
I drop my gaze to my lap, unable to believe what I’ve heard.
“Denilyn, look at me.”
I lift my head and stare at her. “What?”
She leans forward, her gaze intent. “I spent much of yesterday and most of last night reviewing your case. I went over reports, interviews, looked at evidence…” The shake of her head is imperceptible. Almost. “There are things that don’t add up. Not for me. The equation doesn’t quite work.”
As I listen, something long submerged bobs to the surface of my consciousness, where it settles uncomfortably. I hesitate before asking, “Such as?”
“Well, for starters, that third charm. It was sent from Seattle. The other two were hand-delivered. There was nothing found to place Mathison in Seattle, nor did they link him to anyone there. I’m not saying he didn’t have someone send it. It’s just a loose end—one I’d like to see sewn up. As far as I can tell, information about the bracelet and charms was never released publicly. So the charm came either from Mathison or from someone who knew about the bracelet and the first two charms.”
“It had to be Mathison. There were less than a handful of people who knew about the charms—all of them very close to me. It had to have come from him.”
“Well, I’d like proof of that.”
“What else?”
“The accident, the texts, your dog, the note, for starters. If it wasn’t Mathison, who was it?”
“It had to be him. There is no one else. He… somehow, he hired someone or he… I don’t know. It had to be him.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, but we need proof.”
She looks down at her notes. Then she stares at me for a moment before continuing. “Does the name Adelia Sanchez mean anything to you?”
“Adelia?”
She nods.
“Yes, she… Why?”
“Did you know she’d filed a restraining order against Bradley Mathison?”
I stare at Sonia, then shake my head. “No… I didn’t…” I look away from her as I attempt to make sense of what she’s said. “Before she…” I take a deep breath. “Before she died, he… hung around, but… She would have told us. That doesn’t… That doesn’t make sense. She would have told me.”
“Her death was deemed accidental, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But her body was never found?”
“No,” I whisper. “The river… She fell…”
“Were you there? When she fell?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“Another loose end.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Denilyn
March 26, 2017
I pull the mail from the box, including a padded manila envelope. I flip through the pile of bills and advertisements as I walk back down the long drive to the house. When I come to the manila envelope with my name and address handwritten across the front and the familiar return address in the corner, I slow. Whatever is inside is from Adelia’s mother. I continue my walk to the house, carrying both the mail and memories of the friend I lost.
But it’s more than the envelope and whatever it holds—the memories began following my last meeting with Sonia Alejandro.
It’s almost as if Adelia herself is whispering to my mind and soul.
When I reach the house, I go inside and drop the mail on my desk. Then I sit down, reach into the drawer for the letter opener, and slit the top of the manila envelope.
Inside is an array of items, but a small pink envelope stands out, so I pull it out first and open it, taking out the notecard inside.
Dear Denilyn,
As we approach the anniversary of Adelia’s death, you’ve come to mind often. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone almost ten years. I still grieve her loss every day, though I now more often recall the joy she brought me rather than the agony of her loss.
I hope you also are remembering all that you enjoyed as friends.
Recently I came across the envelope of items you’d gathered from the cottage the two of you shared—items I’d missed when I moved her things. There was nothing of value, but I’ve included what you sent to me at the time. I thought you might appreciate the reminders of Adelia and the friendship you shared.
Love,
Maria Sanchez
I set the card aside and then dump the contents of the larger envelope onto my desktop. I pick up a photo and gaze at the four of us, younger, leaner. We all wear shorts, and either a tank top or T-shirt. Ryan, Adelia and myself are burnished by the sun—our skin tanned. Jay wears a straw cowboy hat, her face nearly hidden in the shadow of its rim. Ryan’s arm is draped around Adelia’s shoulders, but he’s looking around her to me. We’re all smiling, laughing at something. The photo was taken on the Ride the Kaweah lot, yellow rafts piled behind us. I don’t recall who took the photo or what made us laugh. It was unusual for Jay to be at Mick’s, and I can’t recall the occasion.
I pick up another photo, this one of myself and Adelia sitting at a table on the deck at Annie’s Emporium, sandwiches and bags of chips in front of us. We’d just finished a run down the river. We both have our hair pulled back and are looking at the camera. Ryan took the photo, I remember.
I look at a few more photos, and then I pick up Adelia’s driver’s license, which had expired while we were in Three Rivers. Her mother had mailed Adelia her new license when it had been delivered to their home address. I’d found her expired license in the junk drawer in our kitchen, along with an expired credit card, which I pick up next. Memories rush in as I run my index finger over the raised letters of her name.
The day she’d fallen, Adelia and Ryan had taken the day off and gone into the park to hike. We were all supposed to meet for dinner at The Gateway later that evening, but neither Ryan or Adelia showed up. Jaylan and I waited for twenty minutes or so before getting a table. After another half hour, we went ahead and ordered. We didn’t think too much about their absence. Sometimes traffic out of the park moved at a crawl. Or maybe they’d changed their plans. Cell service in Three Rivers was spotty, so they likely couldn’t reach us.
It was later that night—around ten thirty or so, when there was a knock on the door of the cottage Adelia and I shared. Jay had come back with me after dinner, and we were watching a movie. I got up from the sofa, thinking Adelia must have forgotten her key. I went to the door, looked through the peephole, and saw that it was Ryan. Even in that brief glance, I knew something was wrong. I opened the door, and he walked past me into the living room, where he paced the small space.
I trailed behind him. “What’s wrong? Where’s Adelia?”
He said nothing, just paced back and forth.
“You gonna talk to us or not?” Jay’s patience with Ryan was short, as usual.
He stopped and looked at Jay. “She fell.” Then he looked at me. “She just”—he ran his hand through his hair—“fell. Slipped, or stumbled. I don’t know. One minute she was there, the next she was… gone.”
“Gone where?” I whispered, afraid to hear his response.
“The river. We were just going to sit on a rock, hang our feet over into the spray from the rapids. We’d taken our shoes off and were just going to sit. I turned my back for a second to set my shoes down. I heard her scream, and when I turned back, she was… gone.”
“Gone?” I said again. I couldn’t take in what he was telling us. Couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it was true
.
“Where on the river?” Jay asked.
“Just below Hospital Rock. We were heading out of the park. We were hot, and there’s that trail just off the road, at the scenic overlook. We pulled off there and hiked down. I… I tried to find her after… But you know what the water’s like there. I couldn’t see anything. So I climbed back up and flagged down a ranger…” He dropped onto the sofa next to Jay. “He called Search and Rescue. They searched until dark, but…” Elbows on his knees, he put his head in his hands.
“Oh God, no. Lord, no, no, no.” Not seeming to know what to do with herself, Jay stood, looking down at Ryan. “No, this did not happen. Tell us this did not happen. That trail isn’t a trail. That warning sign posted there is there for a purpose. Tell me you did not go down that trail.”
He glanced up at her, then closed his eyes and shook his head. The anguish on his face said it all. “At this point, she’s presumed… dead.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “They’ll continue to look for her body.”
“Dead?” I said. “No… she can’t be. She can’t be.” I still couldn’t process what he’d said. I couldn’t process the possibility that she wasn’t going to walk through the door at any moment. Adelia was a strong swimmer trained in white-water rescue. All three of us were. Jay was the only one who wasn’t a guide, who didn’t share our love of challenging the white water. How could someone as young, as strong, as well-trained as Adelia… “It… it doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“What doesn’t make sense?” Ryan shot up from the sofa, the vein in his neck pulsing. “How does it not make sense? The number one cause of death in the park is drowning. You’re the last person I have to tell that to—you tell rafters that stat every day.” His face was red now, and he loomed over me as he spoke. “It makes perfect sense!”
I stepped back from him. I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me, but it was still disconcerting. Startling in its intensity.
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