Monster in His Eyes

by J. M. Darhower

  "Since I was your age," he says as he shakes his head. "Younger, actually. I was sixteen."

  "How'd you meet him?"

  He's quiet, and I think he's about to shut down, to change the subject, when he lets out a deep sigh and closes his laptop, sitting back in his chair. "I stole from him."

  That was not the answer I expected. "You stole from him?"

  "I did," he admits. "He owned this store back then… this little corner store, but it was a front for this gambling ring. I used to walk by it on my way home from school. I went in one day, grabbed a soda, and paid for it with a five-dollar bill. As soon as the guy opened the register, someone from the back called for him. When he wasn't looking, I reached over the counter, swiped the money from the register, and walked out."

  "Did you get caught?"

  "Of course," he says, laughing to himself. "Barely made it a block. I was about to cross the street when a car cut me off. Ray stepped out, said he wanted his money back. I gave it to him, of course. I knew who he was. He counted it out as I stood there, asked me why I did it. I gave some smart-ass response about how it was his fault for employing idiots who leave money out like that. Figured if he was going to hurt me, I may as well get my digs in while I could."

  "Did he hurt you?" I ask hesitantly.

  "Yes, but not as bad as he could've," he says. "I took the beating like a man, licked my wounds and went home. My pride was hurt more than anything. I wasn't mad he caught me, or that he beat me… I was mad he robbed me. You see, before he left, he took my five dollars."

  I can see where this is going. "I'm guessing you did something about that."

  He smiles. "I went to the store and demanded my money back."

  "Did he give it to you?"

  "No," he says. "He gave me something else instead."

  "What?"

  "A job."

  I hesitate as those words sink in. "And you've worked for him ever since?"

  He stares at me, and I can see the door closing, shutting me out. He doesn't answer, but his lack of denial is all I really need. His silence rings as confirmation. He looks away after a moment, standing up. "If you're worried about your mother, Karissa, go check on her."

  "I can't really afford—"

  He cuts me off with a sharp laugh of disbelief. "You're mistaken, sweetheart. What's mine is yours."

  He always makes everything sound so easy, so cut and dry, black and white, when the world is too messy to be categorized so simply.

  "Besides, you don't need any money to go check on your mother," he says. "I'll drive you."

  My eyes widen. "You will?"

  "Yes," he says. "Put on some clothes and we'll go."

  Night has fallen by the time we make it to Watertown. I'm half asleep in the passenger seat after the five-and-a-half hour ride, the only thing keeping me awake my worry.

  And the fact that Naz really has no idea where we're going.

  I didn't realize it, until he set out on the road north, that all I ever told him was that it was an hour outside of Syracuse.

  Watertown seems dead at even such an early hour, only a few cars out and about, most places closed for the night. I give Naz directions to the flower shop, not surprised when we pull up in front of it and the place is dark. I know she's not there, her car nowhere around. It's too dark for me to see anything, to tell if she's even been here recently.

  I sigh, fidgeting with my seatbelt. "The house is in Dexter. It's a few miles outside of town."

  I give him directions, and he sets out on the road with no complaint, quiet as he follows the road out of town. We navigate the back roads in the darkness, my stomach dropping when we pull down the path leading to the house.

  Her car isn't here, either.

  The house is dark.

  He parks the Mercedes out front near the shabby porch and cuts the engine. I make no move to get out. She isn't anywhere around. I'm no closer to answers than I was hours ago in Brooklyn. "She's not here."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Come on," Naz says. "Let's have a look anyway."

  I don't argue, getting out of the car and following him onto the porch. He pauses and knocks on the door, and although it's silly, because I've already told him she wasn't here, I'm touched by the respect that shows.

  He waits, knocking until I grow impatient, pushing past him and reaching for the knob. I think it's senseless, considering she keeps a dozen locks on her door, so I'm astonished when the knob turns smoothly.

  The door creeks as it opens, the sound running through me, turning my worry into fear. She wouldn't leave her door unlocked like this, not intentionally, not unless she had no other choice. My heart is pounding hard, thumping painfully in my chest, and blurring my vision. Bile burns my throat that I swallow back as I whisper, "Something's not right."

  In fact, it's terribly, terribly wrong.

  Naz says nothing, stepping past me into the house. He strolls down the hallway in front of me, his footsteps heavy against the old wood. I follow him, flicking on lights as I go to get a better look. Everything seems in place, exactly as I recall it last time I was here. There's no sign of a struggle, no sign of any sort of foul play, and although that should ease my concern, it does little to help me.

  It's like she vanished into thin air.

  "Killer?" I call out, wondering if he's around anywhere. "Killer!"

  Naz's footsteps stop abruptly as he turns to me. "Kill who?"

  "It's our dog… Killer."

  "Ah." He glances around. "Looks like the dog's gone, too."

  I check the other rooms, eventually making it to my mother's bedroom, tensing when I open the door and finding the first sign of disarray. Things are strewn around, drawers left open and clothing torn from hangers. Her suitcases—suitcases I've seen stuffed with belongings over a dozen times in my life—aren't on the bottom of her closet, where she always kept them stored.

  She's gone.

  And she left in a hurry.

  "She ran."

  I turn to Naz in the doorway when he speaks. "What?"

  "It looks like she ran out of here," he says. "Like she was running from something."

  "Or someone," I say, shaking my head.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "She's been running my entire life, from someone, or to someone… I don't know. It's like she's chasing a ghost."

  "Or a ghost is chasing her."

  "Yeah," I whisper. "Guess it caught up to her again."

  I stroll through the room, looking through drawers, rifling through the things she left behind as Naz walks out. Down the hallway, I hear the answering machine click on as Naz presses the button to listen to the messages. My voice echoes through the house, message after message, growing more worried with each one.

  I pull open the top drawer of her dresser. It's mostly empty, but some stray things remain. I sort through it, finding a Polaroid picture, and pick it up. It's old and faded, a much younger version of my mother that looks startlingly like the woman I see when I look in a mirror.

  It's strange, seeing her look this way, so used to the stressed woman who raised me, age showing on her face, hair prematurely gray. I clearly got my looks from her, though. She's with another woman in the picture, a stunning brunette with olive skin. The words 'best friends forever' are scribbled on the bottom in a foreign handwriting.

  I don't know the woman, never saw her picture before. It surprises me, seeing my mother so normal. She had a best friend.

  "Did you find something?"

  Naz is back in the doorway, startling me when he speaks. I shake my head, tossing the Polaroid down on the dresser. "Just an old picture."

  I plop down on her cold unmade bed. I wonder how long it has been since it was slept in. Days? Weeks? Since the last time I was here?

  Naz strolls over, pausing in front of the dresser, as he looks down at the picture. He gazes at it for a minute in silence.

  "I'm sorry," I say quietly.

&nb
sp; He doesn't turn around, his shoulders tensing at my apology. "For what?"

  "For wasting your time," I say. "For having you drive the whole way up here for nothing."

  "It wasn't for nothing," he says, turning around. "At least we know now."

  I leave Naz in there to go to my room, scrounging up some of my belongings. I don't know when, or if, my mother will ever come back here, and I don't want to just abandon everything. Naz surfaces, loading my things into the car. I give one last look around the house, locking the door as I leave, feeling bad for leaving so much behind but I can't take it all with me.

  Naz is quiet on the drive home. It feels so much longer than the drive there. He said at least we know now, but he's wrong. I feel like I understand less than I did hours ago.

  "She'll come for you."

  My brow furrows as I glance at Naz, barely making out his face in the darkness. We're nearing Brooklyn again. Neither of us has said a word in hours. "What?"

  "Your mother," he says. "She'll come for you."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I told you—only a coward leaves their family."

  The cafe is quiet with school out, the students that frequent the area day after day all gone for the summer. I sit in the usual seat I planted myself in weekly for studying, sipping my warm chocolate mint tea. It tastes like a liquid peppermint patty, rich and creamy, something that always made Melody cringe.

  At the thought of my friend, I glance at the nearby clock and sigh. She's late, unsurprisingly. I'm not even sure if she's still coming. I haven't heard from her all day. Naz is working, so I came into the city on my own, making plans to spend some time with my friend. He left me some cash, a whole lot of cash, and my own house keys so I can come and go.

  I guess that officially makes it my place now, too. Weird.

  I take another drink, savoring it, when I hear Melody's voice behind me. "Well, I guess some things never change."

  I turn around, eyes widening as I look at her. Her usual blonde hair is now bright platinum, stark red and black streaks running through it.

  "Do you like?" she asks, fluffing up her hair. "Switching up on you ordinary bitches."

  I laugh, shaking my head. "It's very you."

  "Right? I thought so, too." She orders a coffee and plops down across from me, sipping on it before she launches into her usual rambling, going on and on about what she's done already this summer (way too much) and how things with Paul are (better than she hoped but man, he needs to get a job), before she flips the script right back to me. "So how's engaged life?"

  "Fine," I say, shrugging.

  "Fine," she echoes. "That's it? Fine?"

  I shrug. "Yeah, fine."

  She rolls her eyes at my response, launching into a dozen questions: When's the wedding? Where? Do you have a dress? Who's all invited? Can I see the ring again? I humor her, although I haven't given much of it any thought.

  "So what are you going to do next year?" she asks. "You know, since your GPA wasn't high enough to keep your scholarship."

  I think I preferred wedding talk to this. I let out a sigh, shrugging. I've tried not to think about it, but it's been lingering there, in the back of my mind. I've got a tuition bill coming that I could never pay. I know Naz says what's his is mine, but how can I ask for thousands to pay for my classes? "I'll figure it out."

  "You better," she says. "We totally need to take this class together—Ethics & Society."

  "Hell no," I say. "Fuck no. Shit no. No more philosophy classes."

  She laughs. "Come on, it'll be easy."

  I ball up a napkin and throw it at her. "Negative."

  She shrugs, finishing off her coffee. "Your loss."

  She can't stay long, having to meet her parents for lunch across town. I bid her goodbye, making plans to meet here again next week, and she starts to walk away but pauses after a few steps. "Oh, I almost forgot! This came for you the other day… it was sent to the dorm room."

  She tosses an envelope down on the table. I glance at it, seeing no return address, but the handwriting strikes me as familiar… my mother's.

  I finish off my drink and throw it away before heading for the door. I tear open the envelope, yanking out the single sheet of notebook paper, and unfold it. It was scribbled hastily, no sweet greeting or small talk, straight to the point.

  Sorry if I've worried you. I can be reached at the number below. Call me as soon as you can. I love you.

  I stare at the number, the area code 201 striking me.

  She's in New Jersey?

  I reread the words a few times, going over the numbers in my mind. I push my confusion aside, grateful to have something. I don't have any answers, but at least she's okay. She's out there, and I have a way to reach her.

  I fold the letter up and stick it back in the envelope, shoving it in my pocket. I make the trip back to Brooklyn and am approaching the front door of the house when someone speaks. "Karissa Reed?"

  I stall and turn around, eyes widening at the sound of my name on this stranger's lips. He's nobody I've ever seen before, an older man with graying hair, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. Another younger man lingers on the sidewalk, trying to act casual, his hands on his hips, pushing his coat out of the way and exposing a shiny gold badge clipped to his belt.

  Police.

  "Uh, yes," I say hesitantly, staring at the badge for a moment before turning to the one who addressed me. "Can I help you?"

  "We're hoping so," he says. "We wanted to ask you a few questions."

  "About?"

  "About Daniel Santino."

  My brow furrows. Professor Santino? "What about him?"

  "Would you mind coming down to the station with us?" he asks, smiling tersely. It doesn't escape my notice that he avoids answering my question. "It'll only take a few minutes."

  I glance between the two men and the car parked near them—clearly an unmarked police cruiser. "I don't know."

  The second officer struts toward me, his expression hard. I watch enough mindless television to know the good cop/bad cop act, and this one obviously is the latter. "You can come with us now voluntarily or we can pick you up later and take you downtown, whether you like it or not."

  Frowning, I oblige, climbing into the backseat when the older officer opens the door for me. He's kinder, trying to be friendly and chatting as he drives toward the police station. Detective Jameson with the Homicide Unit.

  His partner, Detective Andrews, is clearly naturally an asshole. He sits in the passenger seat, silent, scowling.

  When we arrive, I'm taken to a small drab room with nothing but a table and some chairs, the walls slate gray, a sign on the door that says 'Interrogation'. I nervously sit down in a chair with the men across from me. They offer me something to drink, but I'm too anxious to accept it.

  Their questions seem simple on the surface: When's the last time you spoke to Daniel Santino? What did you talk about? Why were you there? They ask me again and again, the same tedious questions in a loop just worded a little differently each time, as if they expect to trip me up and get another response eventually.

  I was the last person seen with him.

  His estimated time of death coincided with my visit.

  "Wait, you don't think… I mean, you seriously don't think I had something to do with this, right?"

  Both men just stare at me.

  "He was alive when I left him," I say, in utter shock that they're insinuating I could be involved. "I would never hurt someone, much less kill them. I wouldn't... I couldn't. Check the security cameras. You'll see!"

  "The cameras in that building weren't recording," Detective Andrews says. "They recycle on a 24 hour loop. By the time he was discovered, the footage was erased."

  "Well, I swear he was alive. He was! I would never do something like that. I'm not that kind of person!"

  "I believe you," Detective Jameson says. "We're just trying to lock down a timeline of that afternoon."

  He sounds gen
uine, but his words are at odds with Detective Andrews's attitude. He's treating me like a flat out criminal. His expression is hardened, his voice icy when he chimes in. "How long have you been involved with Ignazio Vitale?"

  Naz's name catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"

  "Ignazio Vitale," he says. "How long have the two of you—?"

  "I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, slipping my hands from the table onto my lap when the man's attention shifts to the ring on my finger.

  "You're aware of his reputation, I presume? It's not a far stretch to think—"

  "Naz is a good man," I say defensively, cutting him off. "He has nothing to do with any of this."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Of course," I say. "I don't care what reputation you think he has. He's done nothing wrong, and neither have I… I didn't do anything. I just went to talk to him about my grade, and then I left, and he was still alive."

  "And where was Ignazio at that time?"

  My brow furrows. Before I can respond, the door to the interrogation room opens, another man poking his head in. Clearly their superior, based upon the way both men straighten their backs, giving him their undivided attention. He struts in, eyes skimming me, as he shakes his head. "You're free to go, Miss Reed."

  Detective Andrews shakes his head in disagreement. "We still have a few more questions."

  "Tough," the man says. "She's lawyered up."

  My eyes widen. I did what?

  Detective Andrews is just as surprised, turning to me. "I didn't hear you ask for a lawyer."

  I didn't know I needed one.

  Detective Jameson, on the other hand, stands and gathers his things. He pulls out a business card, slipping it across the table with a smile. "If you ever want to talk, my door is always open."

  He walks out, past his superior. I stand, rubbing my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and slip the business card in my pocket with my mother's letter as I look between the men. "So I can go?"

  "Of course," the man says, nodding tersely. "Thank you for coming in."

  "Sure," I mumble, my head down as I bolt out of the interrogation room. I hear the officers whispering behind me, their conversation heated, as I head into the lobby. Looking up, my footsteps stall when I come face-to-face with the last person I expected to be standing here. "Naz."