Sight Lines

by Michelle DiCeglio

  Once inside the parking garage, I could feel my body start to tremble, and I had to steady myself against my car. Resting my head on the top of the driver’s side door, I took a deep breath to try to calm myself down. But as I exhaled, all that came out was tearful sputtering. I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could, but it was to no avail.

  I set my keys on the roof of my car and brought my hands to the top of the door, resting my forehead on my fists. With each breath I took, I cried harder and harder, until my face was so soaked with tears that I could see them fall onto the driver’s side window, streaking the glass like drops of rain. I took a step away from the car. I could see my reflection in the window but barely recognized the person looking back.

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, grabbed my keys from the roof of the car, and opened the driver’s side door. I slid into the seat and slammed the door behind me. I opened the glove box and pulled out a travel-sized package of tissues. But these tissues were meant for victims—not for me.

  After ten minutes of uncontrollable crying in my car, I was all out of tissues, and my head was pounding. With what little strength I had left, I started the car, pausing before putting it in reverse. I had to make sure I was all cried out. Once I got to the hospital to talk to Ali, I had to be sure I could keep my composure. At the hospital, I barely had to wait to be seen by the emergency room physician. I guess that’s one of the perks of being with law enforcement. The physician checked my vitals and ordered an immediate CAT scan.

  Within an hour of the scan, I was given the all-clear by the doctor. Showing no signs of concussion, I was released with the promise I would take it easy for the next few days.

  As I walked down the hallway, I saw two doctors standing in front of a private room with glass window panes on either side of the door. I looked inside and saw Ali lying in the bed.

  “I’m Detective—” I started to say before one of the doctors cut me off.

  “She isn’t available for questioning,” the younger of the two doctors said. “She’s been sedated, so she’ll be out for most of the night.” Before I had a chance to ask more questions, both doctors walked away.

  I sank into the chair across from Ali’s room—and I sat there for more than an hour, replaying what had happened over and over in my head. I envisioned what I might’ve done if Keegan hadn’t come in when he did. And I really had to ask myself whether I would have shot her. I knew my entire body was filled with rage, but I also knew that I wasn’t capable of cold-blooded murder. And that’s what it would have been had I pulled the trigger.

  But I didn’t understand why she had those newspaper articles in her garage.

  The more I thought about what happened, the more that sickening, familiar taste of losing everything I loved filled my mouth. It’s the taste I got when I’d heard about Tara’s body being discovered. It’s a taste so awful that having to swallow it made my insides start to rot.

  “How is she?” a voice behind me asked. I turned around and saw Bishop. His eyes were red and puffy, but he was no longer crying.

  “She’s sedated. The doctors said she’ll be out for most the night. What are you doing here?”

  “I came down to check on you,” he replied. “And I saw you sitting here. Are you going in?”

  “I don’t think I can,” I said, staring through the window—but not at Ali. I just stared at the space between us.

  “Her family isn’t coming.” Bishop shook his head. “It’s just you,” he said. But I didn’t want to hear it. Maybe if he’d seen my breakdown in the parking garage, he would understand why I couldn’t go in there.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” I said, ignoring his comment. “Why did she have all those articles about the murders?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask her when she wakes up,” Bishop said. He stood close behind me and looked into Ali’s room.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “How did I know to go to Ali’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to catch Keegan there,” he replied. “We were coming for you.” He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “And Keegan? You knew it was him?” I finally looked up at Bishop.

  “We received an anonymous tip this afternoon to check out Keegan Asher. So Braxton went to the gas station where he works, but he wasn’t there. The owner, not a very cooperative guy, gave Braxton the surveillance tapes—after Brax threatened him with a subpoena.” Bishop paused and cleared his throat. “Keegan was on camera, taking a bottle of bleach from the shelf. Then he left the store. He must’ve fabricated the story about the kid with the Jeep and lied about the time to throw us off.”

  “Keegan told me the surveillance cameras didn’t work,” I muttered to myself. It was loud enough for Bishop to hear but he didn’t comment. “And the bleach?” I asked.

  “The victim bit his hand while he was restraining her. Once he had her subdued, he went back into gas station for the bleach. He used it to wash his DNA out of her mouth,” Bishop answered.

  I could feel my stomach start to churn as the guilt of not being more observant sank in. I should have looked more closely at Keegan—and at everyone else who was somehow involved in the murders. If Ali hadn’t been at the gas station that day, things might have gone differently. But it was unfair of me to pin my negligence on her.

  Although I knew Bishop didn’t feel comfortable talking about the details of the case with me, it didn’t matter. I had questions that I needed answered. I needed closure. I felt entitled to it.

  “I know you’re not supposed to tell me this…” I paused, trying to find the strength to prepare myself for his answer, “but I need to know about Tara.” I looked up at Bishop again, waiting for him to find the strength to tell me.

  “We didn’t know it at the time, but Tara was his first. She was in the Villa the night she didn’t come home. Based on what Keegan told Braxton, she was looking for a ride home. He picked her up and brought her back to his…” He trailed off, then started again. “He brought her back to the junkyard behind the gas station where he works. That’s where he held the women. We found out after the owner finally agreed to let us take a look around. Braxton said they would have charged the guy with conspiracy—if he hadn’t fainted when he saw the blood on the cars.”

  “That’s where he held the women? In the junkyard?” I could feel all of my organs start to tie themselves in knots.

  “He abducted women when they went into the station to pay for gas. He admitted to keeping them overnight, and then, early in the morning, he would drive them into the woods and tell them that they were free to go. Once the victims ran far enough away, he shot them. Like it was deer season.” Bishop paused, shaking his head. “Then he collected the shell casing, wiped down the victim’s car, and walked back to the gas station.”

  I couldn’t look at Bishop. I didn’t want him to see the disappointment on my face—the disappointment in myself for not suspecting Keegan.

  “Had I done my job—” I started, but Bishop cut me off.

  “Keegan gave you no probable cause,” he said, defending me. “You’re very trusting of people. That’s who you are. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Look where that left us,” I said, turning my attention back to Ali.

  “She had dinner at your dead girlfriend’s father’s house,” he said, his choice of words startling me. “That isn’t something you do if you aren’t in it for the long haul,” he added. “You’re a good detective, Mills. This wasn’t your fault.”

  “She saved me, you know?” I cleared my throat. “Ali did, in her garage. Keegan and I were wrestling for the gun, and he had me. If she hadn’t hit him with the shovel, I don’t think I would be here right now.” I paused, expecting Bishop to interrupt me, but he didn’t. “I had a dream the other night,” I continued and started to tear up. “It’s the first time I’ve ever dreamt of Tara. I was the responding officer. But w
hen I looked through the brush, through all the dead leaves and decaying branches, it wasn’t Tara lying there. It was Ali.” I looked up at Bishop then away again. The grief across his face was too much for me to bear.

  “I have that dream too,” he finally said. “Not exactly the same, but close. No matter how hard I try, I can’t revive Tara. She turns to ash right in front me.” He paused, his face streaked with tears again. “Maybe Ali will wake up soon. You should talk to her, give her a chance to explain herself.”

  “I can’t,” I sighed. “I have to get going before the store closes.” Bishop gave me a puzzled look. Before he could ask, I answered. “I have to buy dog food.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The knowledge that Tara’s murder wasn’t entirely drug related didn’t ease the pain of losing her. For two whole years, I’d blamed Tara for her own demise. It was a way for me to cope with my feelings of being powerless to prevent her death. But now I had to remind myself that the only person who could have prevented Tara’s murder was her murderer—and that person was Keegan.

  I just didn’t understand how Ali was connected.

  In the week or so that followed Keegan’s arrest, not a day went by without darkness surrounding me. The sun may have been shining brightly, but to me, all was grim. Thankfully, I still had Viggo. If it wasn’t for him, I would have had nothing to keep the darkness from consuming me.

  It was a familiar feeling. It was how I felt when Tara first went missing. At least then, I had my job to keep me occupied. This time, I had nothing.

  At night, the darkness was all I could see and feel. It hurt too much to hope for anything good. Hope was just another hole in an already sinking ship.

  Knowing it was time, I scheduled another appointment with Dr. Winston. I hadn’t seen her since my first visit at the end of June—the same day I met Ali. What a fool I’d been that day, and all the days leading up to now. I was so blinded by the thought of actually being happy in a relationship again that I couldn’t see what was truly in front of me: a pathological liar at best, or an accessory to murder at worst.

  Dr. Winston opened her office door and invited me to come in. Nothing had changed since the first time I was there.

  “I’m glad you decided to see me again,” she said as I sat in the brown leather chair across from her. She had her notepad sitting on her lap. “What brings you in?”

  “I’m sure you’ve read the news…”

  “I have,” she said and adjusted herself in her seat. She pushed her glasses back from the tip of her nose. “But why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

  With my head hung low, I began searching for the words that could sum up the disaster my life had become. I sat in the chair with my hands folded across my lap, keeping my attention rapt on the designs in the carpet: brown squares of varying sizes, encased in teal circles. To me, the circles looked like prison cells in which the squares had become complacent residing. I could relate to the squares’ confinement.

  “The last time I was here, you gave me a homework assignment,” I finally said. Dr. Winston leafed through her notes and nodded her head.

  “Yes,” she said. “To ask yourself what you wanted to do—and to do it, if you felt that you could.”

  “Well, I did it. I asked myself what I wanted to do, and I did it. I went out that night, and I met someone.” I waited for her to follow up with more questions, but she remained silent, letting me tell the story at my own pace. “We began dating. And I let myself fall in love with her.” I paused, remembering just how much I had enjoyed Ali’s company. “These past few months have been the happiest I’ve ever been.”

  “Does she feel the same?” Dr. Winston asked.

  I had to really think about my answer. I was torn between Ali’s actions and her words.

  “I believe she does,” I said and turned my focus back toward the carpet. “Last week, I was involved with the arrest of Keegan Asher—”

  “The man who murdered all those women in Vantage Woods?”

  “Yes,” I said, still looking down. “My girlfriend was also involved.”

  With my face pointed at the ground, I allowed my eyes to travel upward for a moment. I saw Dr. Winston sitting on the edge of her seat, waiting to find out how my love life and Keegan’s arrest were connected. But they were more than connected. They had collided—like a massive freight train and a car stalled on the tracks.

  My body started to shake, and I knew the tremors would soon travel to my voice. I could feel all the air leave my lungs, and I didn’t know if I could finish explaining. I looked up at Dr. Winston again, and I saw a look of pure shock across her face. It was almost too funny not to laugh at.

  “Was she one of the victims?” she managed to ask.

  “No,” I said quickly, my voice unsteady. “She was keeping tabs on the murders, almost studying them in a way. She had every newspaper article ever written about the murders. Tara’s murder too.” I paused, waiting for Dr. Winston to flip through her notes, but she didn’t. She must’ve read through my file before I came in and made it a point to know who Tara was.

  “Did she explain why?” Dr. Winston asked. She began searching for a pen to write with, but she was so engrossed by my story that she couldn’t see the pen was already in her hand.

  “I was taken off the case—and I haven’t spoken to her since Keegan’s arrest.”

  “I think it’s best if you start at the beginning,” she said.

  So I told her everything. I told her how I met Ali and how Ali had dated one of the victims right before the woman’s murder. I told her about Ali being questioned but not arrested, and how I continued to see her afterward. I told her how kind and patient Ali was with me—and how I had never felt more alive than when I was with her. I told her about having dinner with Bishop and about Ali asking us to leave Lyons after my hit-and-run. I told her I didn’t understand how Ali could be so worried about me yet also be involved enough in the murders that she would collect every single newspaper clipping.

  Dr. Winston made a few notes here and there, but mostly she just listened.

  As I told her about the afternoon when I found Ali’s garage, Dr. Winston sat in her chair without moving an inch. I told her in detail about the confrontation and struggle with Keegan—and about how Ali had hit him with a shovel. I told her that I’d probably be dead if Ali hadn’t intervened.

  “I guess I became one of his targets,” I said, “but not in his usual way.” I wouldn’t have even known about Keegan’s obsession with me if Braxton hadn’t told Bishop, who later told me. “He took his time with me,” I said. “He taunted me. He slashed my tire, he tracked my whereabouts, he broke into my house, he ran me off the road.” Reliving all of those incidents—and actually saying them aloud—made me feel so foolish. “Bishop said Keegan seemed proud he was able to outmaneuver us for so long. And that he had developed…a taste for me.”

  “Like a crush?” Dr. Winston asked.

  “No. More like a craving. During his interrogation, he admitted he wanted to kill me. But tormenting me made the thrill ‘taste so good’. His words.” I swallowed hard and looked away from her. Although Dr. Winston had probably studied psychopaths, I didn’t get the impression that she truly understood just how twisted Keegan was.

  When I finished the entire story, Dr. Winston slowly sat back in her chair and looked at me in utter amazement. After several moments of silence, she asked, “What is it about this situation that made you want to come see me?”

  “I need someone to make sense of this for me,” I replied.

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” she said and politely smiled. “I can’t give you the answers—because I don’t have them to give. You’re the one with the answers. It’s my job to help you find them.” She paused as I looked away from her again. “When was the last time you saw your girlfriend?”

  The way she kept referring to Ali as my “girlfriend” made it seem like things weren’t over between us. But they had
to be. How could any relationship survive something like this?

  “Six days ago,” I said. “I haven’t seen her since she was in the hospital. I don’t know where she is, and she hasn’t tried to contact me.”

  “Do you want her to?”

  “Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “I still have her dog,” I added.

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “No…” I sighed. “I don’t know why I want her to contact me. I just do.” Admitting that, even just to one person, made me feel a little more at ease.

  “What would you say to her?”

  “I’m so angry I don’t think I could get any words out.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  Her question took me by surprise. How could it not have been obvious to her? “Because she betrayed me. I trusted her to be honest, and—” I cut myself off. I didn’t know how to finish the sentence because I didn’t know exactly why I was so hurt by her betrayal.

  “When was the last time you felt betrayed?” Dr. Winston probed.

  “I don’t know,” I looked down. “With Tara, I guess.” I looked back up at Dr. Winston. “She lied all the time while she was using.” I paused as I thought about how utterly stupid Tara made me feel when I would catch her in a lie. It was more than just being lied to by a girlfriend—I was trained to catch liars. So knowing she got past me time and time again made me question my ability to do my job. Ali’s betrayal had made me feel the same way. “I’m angry because I feel like a fool. And I—I can’t talk to her. Not yet.”

  Dr. Winston nodded and scribbled in her notepad.

  “Maybe you don’t need to be the person who talks. Would you listen to her?” she asked.

  “Only out of curiosity. I can’t imagine what she could possibly say to make me forgive her.” I looked down at the carpet again.

  “Our time’s almost up,” Dr. Winston said as she looked at the clock above her desk. “I want to see you again. But I can’t force you to come in, so I’ll leave it up to you.”