As Sick as Our Secrets

by A B Whelan

  An ancient feeling erupts in me, urging me to protect this woman. “Take it easy, buddy, okay!” I tell him, approaching them with raised hands. My intervention has no effect on the situation. He keeps pushing and shoving the nervous woman toward the main door. She struggles, pressing her butt against his crotch.

  He flings the door open with one hand while holding the woman tightly in the other. I recognize his facial expression. If killing wasn’t a crime, he’d whack this woman right here and now.

  She suddenly gives up the struggle and faces him. “Please, just give me some money, and I’ll leave,” she begs with her hands pressed together.

  He shows no interest in her pleading and continues shoving her out of the house. When the door slams behind them, Ashley and I exchange a wild look. “We should look for a back door to escape,” she says, but neither of us move.

  An intense arguing penetrates the walls. “I can go to the police, you know,” the woman threatens. “We have witnesses who saw you grabbing me.”

  “You need to relax and go home.”

  “I’m Skyler’s friend. You need to respect me.”

  “She doesn’t want you here anymore.”

  The bickering goes on, and I motion Ashley to come and look at the pictures.

  “Could this be the guy who did those things to her?” A fuzzy wave of relief washes over me at the possibility that we may have found a suitable suspect, a possible perpetrator, who fits the image.

  “I don’t know. It’s possible she lied to me about being kidnapped, that she’s created an entire fantasy about what really happened to her.”

  There are some weird noises oozing from the front door, like a flower pot being knocked over and smashing onto the sidewalk. I unzip my bag to access to my pepper spray. “I think it’s time we leave. I don’t want to be alone with this guy.”

  It’s too late. He’s already pushing his way back inside.

  “What do you want?” he barks at us, dabbing at a bloody scratch on his face with the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

  Ashley freezes, so I step between them. “Do you know where Skyler is?”

  He rolls his eyes, but he no longer looks threatening. “I don’t know. She came home a couple of days ago, took a shower, got dressed, and left. I haven’t seen her since. She doesn’t answer her cell either.”

  I’m close enough to him to smell weed on his clothes.

  “If you see her, have her call me,” Ashley manages to say. She hands her card to the guy. “What was your name?”

  “Why do you care?”

  This guy has a temper. I’d hate to be subjected to his rage. He’s our guy. He fits the profile. That’s why Skyler didn’t come home. She’s afraid of him.

  Coming here was not a dead end after all, and I step out of the house with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Richard isn’t responsible for Skyler’s disappearance. This guy is.

  My smile vanishes when I notice a person coming toward us, wrapped in a gray sweater, hood covering her head and face. When she peeks at us, I see that it’s a young woman with a blotched, scared face.

  “That’s her,” says Ashley. “Skyler.” I’m only somewhat relieved because my theory of her staying away from this place because of her psycho roommate just vaporized.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” Ashley says, looping an arm around the fragile frame of the girl.

  She quickly tucks her hands into her pockets, eyeing me with suspicion and surprise.

  “Remember me? You came to my office Friday,” Ashley clarifies.

  Skyler shrugs Ashley’s arm off her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  “You missed your appointment today, and I was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s cool, all right?”

  “Is it okay if we talk?” Ashley steps on loose gravel, and as she tries to keep up with the girl, she slips and makes a comical ballerina move.

  The girl turns back. “About what?”

  The guy in the house must have heard Skyler’s voice because the door opens, and he materializes in the doorframe like an overjoyed father of a prodigal daughter who has returned. If this guy is the perpetrator, this will be the moment of truth. I watch the abused girl with my blood suspended in my veins. I brace myself for a horror movie scream or a silent and panicky retreat, but I’m left disappointed when she offers Dumbo Ears a genuine smile.

  My stomach sinks as the last shred of my theory goes out the window.

  “Where have you been? I was looking all over for you,” Dumbo Ears asks, holding the door open.

  Skyler raises her shoulders. “I needed some time to think, you know.”

  The worried boyfriend notices us standing there like persistent Jehovah’s Witnesses and calls out, “What are you two still doing here?”

  “Skyler?” Ashley pleads, rolling her car keys around her finger. “Can we come in and talk a bit?”

  “Whatever,” Skyler says, rolling her eyes. The guy looks at us as if we are some sorts of plague. He’s still eyeballing Ashley and me like an irritated bulldog as we pass by him on our way back to the living room.

  Skyler’s boyfriend and landlord—whose name we learn is Holder—sets a pitcher of water on the table by the sofa, which smells of wet dog and spoiled milk, and dumps in a packet of Crystal Light lemonade powder. He taps on the top of Skyler’s head before returning to the kitchen—to bring us cups, I assume. I scoot to the furthest end of the sofa, where I can keep an eye on Holder and Skyler at the same time.

  As I pick dog hair from my skirt, I tune out most of the conversation between Ashley and her patient. I focus on an image of Richard forcing this young girl on her knees in front of his unzipped pants. The image couldn’t be more surreal. Anybody who remotely knows my husband and his mother would be outraged by the notion of Richard preying on innocent girls.

  I take a few shallow breaths to regulate my heartbeat. I can’t have Ashley noticing my twisted mental state. She’s a psychologist. She could ask tricky questions and see right through me. Luckily, she is too busy prying answers out of Skyler to pick up on my distress.

  “Do you think you could describe how he looked to a sketch artist?” she asks the girl.

  “I can’t go to the police,” Skyler whispers. Her hands are intertwined over her lap. Her shoulder blades poke through her sweater.

  “You don’t have to. You could describe him to me, and I could sketch a drawing of him.”

  Skyler shudders. She looks at me and then at Ashley as if she suddenly understands why we are here. “Then what? What are you gonna do with the picture?”

  “I’ll take it to the police.”

  “They don’t care.”

  “I will make them care.” Ashley motions to me. “My friend here and I suspect that the man who hurt you is responsible for the death of other girls. This means he may be a serial killer. Now, I know you don’t want to relive those horrible memories in front of a grand jury, but since you escaped, you may be the only person who can help stop this bastard. You don’t want him to hurt more innocent girls, do you?” I’m not a fan of using the blame game, but Ashley is in her element.

  Skyler leans closer to the table, while her shoulders droop further down. “Every time I close my eyes I see his face.”

  “That’s good. I mean, it means you remember him.” Ashley pulls out an iPad from her bag and turns it on. I crane my neck to watch her launching a sketch-generator app. “We’ll start with the shape of his head,” she says, tilting the screen of the iPad toward the girl.

  Skyler picks an oval-shaped face.

  “Now, can you tell me anything about his eyes? Were they almond shaped? Round?”

  The girl touches her own eyes. “He had the most amazing dark eyes. Kind of sad and downward, sad puppy-dog eyes.”

  “That’s good,” Ashley encourages her in a stifled voice. “How about his eyelashes?”

  “They were long and thick.”

  “What do you remember about his lips? His
nose?” Ashley continues, creating a face on the iPad.

  “His nose was straight,” Skyler offers, running her fingers along the bridge of her own nose. “The tip was a little bit wider and tilted slightly to the right. Yeah, that one.” She points at an image of a nose.

  “Okay. You’re doing great, Skyler. The more detail, the better.”

  The girl touches her lips, which must have triggered a nerve because her eyes well up with tears. She looks away—away from the sketch and from us.

  “Skyler?” Ashley touches her arm. “Can you describe the shape of his lips? Where they full? Curved? Thin?”

  “Both his lips were about the same thickness. His upper lip was curved like the top of a heart. The skin of his lips was kind of light, a pale peach color, or something like that. At times, his lips were so pale they blended in with his face color, mostly when he was upset with me.” She paused while Ashley, following instructions, selected the right shape and shades for the lips. When she was done, she held up the screen. “How am I doing so far?”

  “His forehead was bonier, you know what I mean? I also could see two protruding veins underneath his skin. May I?” She takes the iPad and stares at the image.

  Ashley lowers her head. “He was going to kill you, Skyler. Once he was done with you. He is not a nice man.”

  Skyler drops the iPad on the couch and stands up. “You don’t understand. He didn’t hurt me. He cared for me.”

  “Then why did you escape?’

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “You escaped because you knew what he was doing to you was wrong. That man doesn’t love you. He used you. He abused you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I don’t think he was going to kill me.”

  Ashley’s approach may be a little too aggressive, but it is working. “Let me show you a few crime scene photos I found online.”

  This is where I draw the line in the conversation. “Ashley, do you think that’s necessary?”

  “She needs to see this.”

  She picks up the iPad and initiates a Google search. A series of heinous images load onto the screen. “We believe that the same man who took you killed this girl. He tortured her first, too,” Ashley adds.

  “He didn’t torture me.”

  Ashley leans closer to her. “He raped you. He sodomized you. He forced objects inside of you. He cut you. He did all these things without your consent.”

  Skyler picks up a ragged pillow as she sits back down and holds it against her chest. She looks more innocent now, childish even. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear this.”

  Skyler’s reaction makes me feel uneasy. Old memories surface in my mind. My fingers roll into a ball as Ashley continues. “I know you don’t. I can’t imagine how painful this must be for you, but you need to hear the truth because we need your help to identify this man before he kills again.”

  Skyler puts her hands over her ears. Ashley is pushing too hard.

  I get up and walk over to Skyler. I crouch down in front of her and gently peel her hands from her ears. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Skyler. None of this is your fault. I went through some pretty serious stuff in my life, too. I know how easy it is to blame yourself. But you now have the power to take your life back. You have the power to put this bastard behind bars.”

  She wipes the tears from her eyes and swallows hard. There is a moment between us, and we connect.

  “May I?” She reaches for the iPad. I remain by her side until she finishes the sketch of her rapist. When she drops the iPad onto Ashley’s lap, I rise to hug her.

  “You did great,” Ashley compliments, holding up the tablet with the screen toward me.

  As my mind takes in the image, the world slowly ceases to exist around me. I no longer hear the rustling of the bread bag in the kitchen, the suppressed wheezing of Skyler, the sigh from Ashley. All my senses focus on one thing: the black-and-white sketch of my husband in front of me.

  “Do you recognize him?” Ashley’s voice penetrates the buzzing in my head.

  “What?”

  “I said, does this man look familiar to you?”

  Ashley has never met Richard. Pictures of him are all over the Internet and posted on his foundation’s website. If she Googled him, she would know that yes, I know this man.

  “No. I’ve never seen him in my life,” I say. Richard is not a unique-looking man. My brain only draws similarities between the sketch and him because of that stupid journal and Skyler’s purse in his car. Here is my opportunity to ask her if she knows The Good Samaritan Foundation or if she ever met Richard, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words.

  “Are you sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ashley presses.

  “I’m good. I just spaced out a little bit. Are we done here?” I press my hands against my thighs, ready to stand up, but it’s hard to move because my stomach quivers and my fingertips have turned to ice.

  “Just a minute.” Ashley turns back to Skyler, who by now has folded her arms on the armrest of the couch and laid her head upon it. Once we are gone, she will slip into oblivion with her boyfriend with the help of a glass pipe and toxic smoke.

  “You did great, Skyler,” Ashley says. “The police will catch the bastard. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  She looks up with a strange smile on her face. “I walk in the dark, but I sleep with the lights on. I see him in every corner of the house, every alley on the street. I’ll never be free of him.”

  “It will get better. I can help you get through this.”

  “You don’t understand.” Skyler shakes her head. “I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of myself because I want him to come back for me.”

  “You’re confused. It’s normal. It’ll get better. I promise. Especially once you get closure. That’s why it’s so important to catch the guy.” Ashley looks up at me. “Can you get her some water?”

  It’s a cue for me to give them a moment alone. On my way to the kitchen, I cross paths with Skyler’s boyfriend, who’s balancing a tray of triangle-cut sandwiches and three cups. “Want one?” he asks, and I tell him that I’m good, but Skyler needs a glass of water.

  He sets the tray down and leads me to the kitchen, where he looks for bottled water in the empty refrigerator but finds none. He takes a glass from the drip tray by the sink and fills it up with tap water.

  When I hand the glass to Skyler, she ignores me. “I don’t want water. I only want to be alone. Leave now…please.”

  The pain and desperation waters up her eyes.

  Ashley hauls herself to her feet. “All right. But promise me you’ll look out for yourself. Here is my card. Please give me a call if you need to talk to someone tonight, all right?”

  Skyler doesn’t take the card, so Ashley leaves it on the table. From the front door, she calls back, “I’ll be here tomorrow at ten. Please make sure you’re clear headed. You must look credible.”

  Skyler is already sprawling out on the couch, eagerly waiting for us to leave.

  “Do you think I was too hard on her?” Ashley asks as we head back to her car. I know she expects a coherent answer from me, but all English words are gone from my head, and a flood of Swedish sentences take their place. That image. Her description. It doesn’t make any sense.

  “Olivia?”

  “Yeah…I mean, no. I don’t think so. You needed to get her talking, right?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have shown her those crime scene photos.”

  “You did what you had to do. Without Skyler’s support, you can’t even take this sketch to the police. They will ask you where it came from. Then you’ll have to give them Skyler.”

  “I can’t violate her confidentiality. She is my patient.”

  “Then you better hope she’s here tomorrow.”

  “Ah, I feel so helpless. I want this bastard caught. We have evidence that could help the police, but if she doesn’t cooperate, then there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Maybe we should
stop playing police.”

  The engine is on, but Ashley doesn’t start driving. “What are you saying?”

  She frowns at me, making me feel like an enemy of the state, but I keep going anyway. “All I’m saying is that if this girl doesn’t cooperate and refuses to go to the police, and if you won’t report what happened to her because of doctor-patient confidentiality, then maybe you should leave her alone.”

  “You can’t be serious. What if the killer grabs me next? Or you?”

  I have no rational response to that, so I stare at her until she looks away.

  “What if her story is fabricated? Maybe she read something in the papers and made up her own kidnapping story?” I say quietly. In admitting that this girl had been attacked, the sketch Ashley created would become more real to me.

  Ashley slaps at the dashboard. “Oh, come on! Look at her!” She points toward the house. Then after a moment of silence she says, “I believe her story, and I’m not going to sit back and do nothing.” Putting the car into gear, she concludes heatedly, “One way or another, that girl needs my help.”

  “I understand why you feel responsible for her, but at least promise me you’ll sleep on it. I don’t want you to get involved too deeply and too quickly and be left disappointed.”

  I wait for Ashley to say, “I promise,” but she turns up the volume on the radio instead, marking the end of our conversation with a rather rude gesture.

  Ashley

  Tuesday

  “What are you doing going out for groceries on a beautiful night like this? It’s pathetic,” Peter laughs, stepping down from the stairs in front of my apartment building, where he’s been sitting.

  I run my hand over my messy hair and zip up my jacket to cover the coffee stain on my blouse. But there’s nothing to cover up the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener from Skyler’s house. I should have changed when I was home earlier, but I didn’t, as I wasn’t expecting company. Now I’m standing here, embarrassed by my appearance. “Unless it was a grocery store run by male strippers,” I say, trying to salvage the situation. I shift my weight onto one foot and pretend to check the buttons on my blouse.