by Harlow Stone
I paid him cash and he was quickly on his way.
I haven’t done any decorating here, just demolition. Most walls are all still white and the linoleum floors are clean enough that I didn't replace them. I bought a giant area rug, cheap furniture for the living room, and a bedroom set.
That's it.
There is one small hallway that has two doors off the living room. On one side is the master bedroom, which holds my small double bed, nightstand and a dresser. The closet is useless but enough to hang a few items.
The other bedroom is my makeshift closet. No furniture, just a few clothing racks, and my safe bolted through the old dingy carpet inside the closet there.
Off the kitchen is a small bathroom. Tub/shower combo, pedestal sink, and a toilet. It has the essentials but holds none of the flare my old home did. I know deep down I haven't made this place my home because it is not that, a home. I have no intention of living here forever. It’s merely middle ground to get my shit together and have somewhere to sleep at night.
It’s plain and it’s ugly. It will also be a whole lot easier to leave behind.
I head into the kitchen for a glass of wine and some cheese. I never replaced anything in here either. The older yellow appliances still remain, and the melamine countertops that pull it all together. I grab what I need from the fridge and head towards the bedroom.
I have a small flat screen on the dresser and I fire it up as I change into my sleepwear. A hefty glass of wine and some mindless television should put me to sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
I’m in the middle of flipping eggs when there's a light knock at the door. Norma barks and heads in that direction before plopping her hefty ass on the floor.
Neighbors.
I’ve gotten a lot better with this. A few old birds once a week or so, out for a walk and wanting to talk about their lovely grandsons that would be pleased to meet me. I’ve softened to their tactics but firmly state that I am not interested at the moment.
‘Bad divorce and all’ is my story.
I peek out the curtained window and see Greta on my front stoop. She’s pushing seventy and doesn't leave the house much, other than for her bridge club on Wednesday and church on Sunday. She’s invited me a few times but I think she took the hint that I too don't like to leave the house much. I also don’t play bridge, nor am I religious.
“Hi Greta, what can I do for you?”
I ask the old bird. It’s nine in the morning and she’s dressed in her usual attire of a silk blouse with shoulder pads, which are always lopsided, and a long skirt with nude stockings and open toed shoes.
It’s the old bitty getup around here.
I don't judge.
“Hello Miss Elle. Hope I didn't disturb you?”
She says. Unwanted knocking without a calling card would make Greta say a few extra Hail Mary’s at church if she thought she inconvenienced me.
“No worries Greta, just making breakfast. Everything okay?”
I’m not usually so attentive with people, but this little lane filled with senior citizens makes me feel responsible for them somehow.
Last month I called an ambulance for old Mrs. Butler’s husband, who had fallen from his walker and busted up his hip getting the mail. These people are not threatening, and I do what I can to help them.
“Oh yes dear, we’re all okay. I was just wondering if you had a friend in town? I saw a man here yesterday but he seemed to be right at home. You know my grandson-” I blank out at that point.
A man.
At my house.
I need details.
“Greta! I’m sorry; your grandson is a fine young man. But could you please tell me who it was you saw yesterday? What did he look like? Did he have a car?”
She’s taken back for a moment before she seems to gather herself and respond.
“Oh Miss Elle, I don't want to cause any trouble. This not being the marital home yet and all, but he seemed to know the place and your puppy, so I assumed he was someone special like, you know?” the kind old bird replies.
No, I don't know but I can’t startle her any more than I have.
“It’s okay Greta, I just haven't had many visitors yet and I was out late last night. Can you tell me anything else?”
I kindly try to coax the details out of her.
“Well dear he was a big man. That puppy of yours was sure happy to see him. But I don't know what kind of man he is dear; he had those tattoos all over his arms that everyone seems to get now. I hear most people get those in the prisons so I hope he’s not a bad man.”
She’s shaking her head at the disbelief that people mar their bodies with art but I know the minute she mentioned them who she's talking about.
There's only one man that Norma loves who is covered in tattoos on his arms. Well, two men. She’s met Brock and loved him from the get go. Another sign to me that he’s a good man. Any other man and she would have ripped the fence apart.
It can only be him though.
Ryder’s found me.
It’s the only option since I was with Brock last night. However, I went to dinner and did some shopping before the gym so it could have been him. His wife has made him stop by a few times with her baked goods from the cafe she owns. Brock has also been around, or close enough to wave when he’s out jogging sometimes.
“I don't think it’s a bad man Greta, it’s most likely the trainer from my gym. Did you see what he was driving?” I ask.
Brock and his wife live two miles away and there's a running trail on the other side of the lane I live on, he definitely could have been jogging through.
“No dear I didn't see a car. I just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay. You don't get many visitors, after all.”
She says in distaste. A woman my age should be married with four children by now in her books.
“It’s okay Greta. Thanks for stopping by.”
I can smell my eggs burning on the stove and now I just want to call Brock so I can verify that it was him.
“No problem dear. I’ll head to town now; need some more flour so I can finish making my biscuits. You take care.”
She ambles down the steps.
“You too Greta, have a good day.”
I all but slam the door and dash for my prepaid.
“Hello”
Brock’s groggy voice greets me from the other end of the line.
“Brock, its Elle.”
I breathily say through the phone. His voice perks up at the mention of my name.
“What's up girl?’
I cut straight to the chase.
“Were you at my place yesterday?”
“No, haven’t been there since last week when your dog chased me down on my run. Talk to me Elle.”
This man is so fucking awesome I could cry.
I know if I tell him someone was here he’ll be over before I hang up the phone. But I can’t do that to him, or me. I need to keep my cool and play it down or he’ll be camped out on my front step for the next three days with a gun tucked in his waistband and his gloves on.
He’s that protective.
“Nothing to talk about Brock, neighbor thought she saw someone here but her Alzheimer’s gets the best of her sometimes, so I thought I’d ask”
I play off with an amusement in my tone, hoping he buys it.
“You need me girl, I’m there. Just say the word.”
It’s moments like this when I take a deep breath and thank the universe for putting such awesome people in my life.
“I know Brock thank you, she’s probably talking about your visit last week. Like I said, Alzheimer’s.”
I play it off again.
“Alright Elle. I’ll swing by tomorrow morning on my run, you need anything before then you call me or Sam at the bakeshop.”
“Will do Brock, thanks.”
I need to settle my mind after that fiasco this morning, so I make a tea and take it to the large dining room table. I’
ve turned the table and the wall adjacent to it into my work station.
One week after moving in I decided to dig out ‘the box’. Well, most of it. I’ve spread all accounts and statements of my attack across the table and pasted the photos on the wall.
Photos from the parking lot where I was taken, photos from the basement, and photos of the man responsible. I drank for three days straight when I brought this all into the light. It made the nightmares worse and the three day bender only did a little to help.
I spent that bender and a few days after embracing the numb feeling I found in the basement that horrid day. I’ve slowly learned with passing time that if I distance myself from the situation, and look at the evidence as an outsider it’s much easier to handle.
I purposely put all photos that include me back into the safe. I know what I looked like, I don't need to see it again and it won’t help me solve anything.
I study everything, the witness account from the parking lot, my statements I barely remember giving in the hospital while I was doped up on morphine. I look over the basement photos with a magnifying glass making sure I haven’t missed anything.
I’m relentless.
I could recite every detail from memory I’ve spent that much time looking at it. I can’t stop. It’s as if this is my life purpose. To catch a potential killer. Not get a job at the local beauty salon, not cure cancer and save the whales. Not get married and start up a family in the ‘burbs.
No.
My purpose is to catch the man that helped evil bastard Andrew. I know he’s out there. I can feel it. Regardless of the DNA, or lack thereof. He’s out there, and I will find him.
Its late evening when I call it quits. I stretch the aches out of my back from sitting so long and head into the kitchen. Soup and sandwich it will be tonight since I lack the drive to cook a hearty meal.
I curl up on the couch with a tray of vegetable soup and a ham sandwich and tune into the Food Network. It’s enough to keep my mind occupied while I slowly eat my dinner.
My body still aches from last night’s training with Brock, so I grab a half empty bottle of wine and head for the tub. I have a small docking station for my iPod on the shelf in the bathroom so I plug it in while I soak. Same bath tunes as always, mostly the blues.
I think back as I stare at the peach colored wall. I think about the people I’ve lost. Both to death as well as my running away. I think of Jimmy and Laura and her beautiful kids.
I wonder how much their looks have changed since I’ve been gone. I think of the locals from my old watering hole and old acquaintance's from work. Then I think about the people I have met on this journey. Tiny, Doc, Ryder and kind old Greta across the street. Some of these people have drastically changed my life more than others. Some I never would have met if it were not for my past.
As much as I still feel the guilt weighing on me for how things have happened in my life, I try to focus on the small positive things like calling the ambulance for Mr. Butlers that day, and providing Tom with enough money in prepaid rent to continue living life on his fishing boat. Maybe one day the small things will add up to bigger things and the guilt will ease away.
“I wish it didn't have to go that way Jayne. But you left me no choice. You waited too long and I had to make a quick decision.”
The psycho sits on a chair at the side of the room with his hands pulling at his hair. I’m guessing it’s been about three days now since I’ve been down here.
I’ve been given water, and a few granola bars since I’ve been here. Much of my time is spent trying to read this man. To understand what makes him tick and what makes him cool down. I haven't spoken since the first day I’ve been here other than to say ‘bathroom’. I refuse to piss myself even though I’ve been wearing the same underwear since I got here and haven't showered in that time; I know that I smell bad.
I’m absolutely certain he planned on killing me sooner. I haven't spent much more time being hung and stabbed at with the knife and he seems to be slowing down. He needs sleep, I can tell. I’ve gotten a few hours, randomly each day on the floor in the corner. He’s still afraid to take his eyes off of me to get any shut eye himself.
If I was not tied to the floor I would consider some heroic escape plan where I take him out at the same time I flee. Sadly, there is nothing in this corner I lay in to use as a weapon, and the five feet of slack on the rope I’m given only takes me over to the bucket to piss in.
“If you had of just paid attention, better attention Jayne more attention! I wouldn’t have had to do it. I didn't want to see you hurting, and then you wouldn't leave the house so I couldn't see you as much anymore. I needed to see you, so I had to take you. You were supposed to come to me after they died, that was the plan. Then you would need me.”
The accident.
The lazy detective’s words ring though my head.
“The brake line was torn MS O’Connor. Most likely something caught it and pulled it loose from the wheel. These things happen ma’am. Could have been a tree branch for all we know and it slowly leaked out over a short time. Not something you realize until it’s too late.”
It clicks, and instantly the fog is cleared from my brain.
I settle my eyes on the sick fuck across the room. If I had no fight in me before I have it now. I will scream, I will fight, and I won’t stop until this heartless fuck takes his last breath. I feel the angry tears building in my eyes and the increased beating of my heart.
He killed my fucking family.
I buried my little girl.
Now, I’m going to bury him.
* * *
I’m hefting the garbage out to the end of the driveway when Norma takes off across the street barking and tail wagging.
Brock.
“Goddamit Elle I think your dog’s blind.”
He’s chuckling at the fact that she still barks like a rabid animal whenever he comes running towards the house.
“Nah, she’s just protective.”
I set the bag of trash down and face him.
Brock is looking around the property and surveying the street. He’s perceptive, and not so subtle about it. He knows I have demons, and he makes a habit to check the surroundings whenever he’s close by.
“All good around here Elle?”
I know what he’s asking, and I’m still going to play it off. Even if Ryder has found me I know he poses no immediate threat. He hasn’t approached me, so either Greta’s Alzheimer really is in full effect or he’s just checking in. It’s been two days; surely if he was going to make a move he would have done so by now.
“Yes, all good. Just getting ready to head into town. Maybe stop by Sam's for some sugar.”
I say with a small smile. He’s studying me intently and I know I’m not going to like what comes out of his mouth.
“Your mind has been elsewhere for almost a week. You’ve got bags under your eyes and you never call me, for anything. So what's up with the phone call yesterday? Bullshit somebody else babe, but not me.”
The genuine look of concern on his face is enough to make me crack, a little. He’ll lose sleep over something like this, worrying about me. His wife is one lucky woman and I’m thankful to have someone like him in my life.
“Got a little freaked out Brock, that's all. I have good neighbors who spend all day looking out their windows at what's going on. Unfortunately they get their days mixed up sometimes. If something is wrong, I’ll let you know.”
Brock shakes his head and puts his hands on my shoulders. He rarely touches me, and I’m thankful for that. The way he’s looking into my eyes softens my heart a little.
“Babe, you’re not stupid. I know that. But your stubborn as hell, so I give you space. If you’re in any kind of trouble Elle, I will get in your space quicker than you can fucking say help. I know your hiding from something and you don't want to talk about it. But I need you to take me seriously when I say if you need help, in any way, you call me.”
&nb
sp; I’m at a loss for words and my throat is dry, so all I manage is a jerky nod. Before I can blink he pulls me into a hug. It’s the first one I’ve had since my days with Ryder and I feel the tears start build. I give him a quick squeeze on his sides before pulling back.
“Gotta run Brock, I’ll see you tonight.”
I don't look back as I walk towards the house. So I don't see him wait until I’m safely tucked inside before continuing on his jog.