Someone Is Watching

by Joy Fielding

  “What about lying to the police?” Paul demands. “What about interfering with a police investigation?”

  Claire wipes away the last of her tears. “What investigation? You were never a suspect in Bailey’s rape. The police were only here at Bailey’s instigation. What are they going to arrest you for? Public mischief? Believe me, it isn’t worth their time.”

  “How about forcible confinement and threatening bodily harm?” Paul glances toward the gun on the bed.

  “With a water pistol?” Claire shakes her head. “What were you going to do with it—squirt them to death?” She sighs. When she speaks again, her voice is flat, depleted of energy, devoid of emotion. “Do I have to spell it out for you? There’s been no real crime committed, no murder, no fraud. Just an elaborate practical joke that got out of hand. Bailey won’t press charges. For one thing, no one would believe anything she says, and for another, no matter how she feels about me, she doesn’t want to get Jade in trouble. And for all her bravado, Jade doesn’t want to go back to Juvenile Hall. Nor does she want her mother to end up in jail. Am I right?” she asks, not waiting for an answer as she turns back to Paul. “So, all you have to do is go home and forget this ever happened. It’s over.”

  “What about the rest of the money you promised me?” Paul asks.

  “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, there won’t be any more money.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “No, I’m most definitely not shitting you.”

  “God, Mom,” Jade says, as the enormity of everything she has just heard begins to sink in. “What have you done?”

  “I did it for us, for you,” Claire says, as she said earlier.

  “The hell you did!” Jade shoots back. “You did this for you! Don’t you dare try to fool yourself that it was ever about anybody else.”

  “You don’t understand.…”

  “Oh, I understand all right. I understand that you’re a liar and a fraud and that I never want to speak to you again.”

  “Jade …” Claire’s gaze shifts from her daughter to me, her shoulders slumping, a fresh gathering of tears in her eyes. “Bailey, please …”

  I stare long and hard at my father’s eldest child, recalling all the things she’s done for me these past weeks: the countless meals she prepared, the many hours we spent together, the myriad acts of kindness, the heartfelt confidences we shared.

  “You have no idea how sorry I am,” she says. “I know I’ve done a terrible thing. I can only hope that some day you’ll be able to forgive me.”

  I think about taking her in my arms and telling her yes, I do understand, and that in spite of everything, all is forgiven. The way I always do with Heath.

  But Heath is merely weak, not greedy. And for all his faults, he has never betrayed me.

  So I don’t take her in my arms and tell her I understand.

  Instead I slap her, hard, across the face.

  Because all is definitely not forgiven. It never will be.

  —

  The police, responding to Finn’s phone call, arrive soon after. Thinking they are interrupting a robbery in progress, they haul us all down to the police station but mercifully hold off on making any arrests until the situation can be thoroughly assessed.

  Detective Castillo and Officer Dube show up almost immediately, as does Detective Marx, newly back from her honeymoon. Suspecting we might need a lawyer, I call Sean. I’m told he’s in the middle of an important meeting and can’t be disturbed. His assistant promises to send one of the firm’s junior associates right over.

  Jade and I take turns explaining the morning’s events to the police. Our stories sound incredible, even to our ears. “Are you crazy?” Detective Castillo asks when we are through, throwing his hands into the air.

  This sentiment is echoed by my brother, Gene, who arrives at the station a short time later. “Are you out of your fucking minds?” he demands repeatedly, after listening to everyone’s story.

  I am many things: impulsive, reckless, even foolhardy. But I am not crazy.

  “You’re sure Paul Giller isn’t the man who raped you?” Detective Marx asks me when we have a few minutes alone.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Too bad. It would have been nice to wrap it all up.”

  “How was your honeymoon?” I ask her.

  She gives me a shy grin. “Great. I really lucked out.”

  There are still some good men out there, I remind myself. Not all men are bad.

  Not all women are good.

  At almost two o’clock in the afternoon, no final decision having been made as to what, if any, charges will be pressed, we are finally granted permission to go home.

  “I’m not going anywhere with her,” Jade says, glaring at her mother, who turns away, refusing to meet her daughter’s eyes.

  “Jade, for God’s sake,” Gene says with an exasperated sigh.

  “I’m sixteen, and I’m not going home with her, and you can’t make me.”

  “You want to spend the night in Juvenile Hall?” Gene asks. “You’re certainly not coming home with me.”

  “You’re fucking right I’m not.”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady. I can still have you charged with breaking and entering.…”

  “She can stay with me,” I say quietly. And then louder, warming to the idea, “She’s staying with me.”

  Gene shrugs and shakes his head. “Suit yourself.” He walks over to Claire and grabs her elbow. “What the hell’s the matter with you? What were you thinking?” He leads her roughly from the room. “You know what this could do to our lawsuit?”

  I almost smile. Maybe I would if I weren’t so utterly exhausted.

  “Thank you,” Jade says, appearing at my side. “I was kind of counting on you offering.”

  This time I do smile.

  Jade slips her arm through mine and together we walk from the room, down the hall, and out the station’s front door.

  — THIRTY-ONE —

  “Looks like somebody is here to stay,” Heath is saying as we peek into my former office, now a second bedroom once again. It’s half past nine on a Saturday night, and three months have passed since Jade came to live with me. Or maybe I’m the one who’s living with her. Evidence of her takeover is everywhere: school books and fashion magazines lie scattered on every available surface throughout the apartment; skinny jeans hang from every doorknob; well-worn, high-heeled boots litter the hallway. My desk and computer have been moved to my bedroom, where they sit in front of my window, mercifully blocking much of my view of the apartment where Paul Giller once pretended to live.

  “Her new bed arrives next week,” I tell my brother, marveling at how happy he appears.

  And why not? Good things are finally starting to happen for him. He landed a series of commercials for a popular chain of Miami gyms, the first one of which was shot last week. While the commercials are local and not more lucrative national spots, they do mean a little bit of money and a lot of exposure, at least here in South Florida. Heath is sure the ads—which take full advantage of his glorious face and trim, muscular physique—will lead to more and better things, and I hope he’s right. At least he’s no longer sleeping on the floor of Travis’s apartment and has rented a furnished place of his own. He’s also sworn off weed. “I need to look not only gorgeous,” he told me without a hint of false modesty, “but healthy. Besides,” he added, “if you can get your act together after everything that’s happened to you, then the least I can do is try.”

  So far, so good.

  “Bet she’ll be happy not to be sleeping on this thing anymore,” Heath says now, plopping down on the sofa bed and causing the laptop Jade left lying there to jump into the air. “It’s a real backbreaker.”

  “Don’t tell Wes that,” I warn.

  “Who’s Wes?”

  “One of the valets. Jade told him it’s for sale and he’s coming up later to have a look.”

  Heath leans
his head against one of the purple velvet pillows and closes his eyes. “So, what else is new?”

  I give the question a moment’s thought. “Not much. My friend, Sally, brought her new baby over the other day.”

  Heath’s eyes pop open. “You have a friend?”

  I laugh, although the question isn’t that far-fetched. “Amazingly, yes. Don’t think you’ve ever met. She works at Holden, Cunningham, and Kravitz.”

  “Are you considering going back there?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve actually been thinking of starting up on my own.”

  “What?”

  “I know. It’s a stupid idea.”

  “It’s an awesome idea. ‘Bailey Carpenter, Private Investigator.’ Sounds great.”

  “Jade thinks ‘Bailey Carpenter and Associates’ sounds even better. She’s already started looking into courses online.”

  “What a woman,” Heath says, and I laugh. “God, it’s good to hear you laugh again. It’s been a while.”

  “Getting a little stronger every day.”

  “No more panic attacks?”

  “Some,” I admit. “But less frequent, less severe. And I’m sleeping better.” I don’t tell him of the deadly sharks that continue to swim through my nightmares, their fins slicing through the surface of deceptively placid seas.

  Heath pushes himself to his feet. “Well, little sister, it looks like my work here is done.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I actually have a date. A real date, not just a hook-up.”

  “Wow.”

  “Nothing serious. Just, you know, this girl I met on set.”

  I follow my brother into the hall.

  “What about you?” he broaches tentatively when we reach the door. “Given any thought to maybe dating again?”

  “I think about it. I’m just not ready.” I picture Owen Weaver and wonder if his invitation to dinner will still be open if and when I am ready.

  “You will be,” Heath says, taking me in his arms. “I love you, Bailey. Remember—you’re my hero.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “I love you, too.”

  I watch him through the peephole as he disappears down the hall. Then I double-lock the door.

  After all, my rapist is still out there.

  My rapist, I repeat silently as I head toward my bedroom. As if he is someone I possess and not someone who once possessed me, possesses me still. My rapist, as if he is mine alone.

  I doubt this is true. Experience tells me that, even in the unlikely event I was his first victim, it’s even more unlikely I’ll be his last. He won’t stop until something—or someone—stops him.

  I’ve thought a lot about him these past months. I’ve researched the kind of man who rapes, what motivates and drives him. Of course, there are as many motives as there are rapists, but I’ve learned that these men share a number of traits: Many are the product of meek mothers and brutal fathers, or weak fathers and overbearing mothers. Take your pick. Many were abused. Most feel inadequate in one way or another, often sexually, although rape has little to do with sex. It is a crime of power, of control and humiliation. In its quest to inflict pain, it cuts through class, economic boundaries and racial divides. One thing unites these men: Men who rape are men who hate.

  Tell me you love me.

  I’ve tried to reconcile these words with the act itself, to determine what kind of man would demand such an admission from a woman he’d just violated. I’ve discussed it with Elizabeth Gordon. We’ve postulated that the man who raped me might have been subjected to frequent beatings by his mother for even the most inconsequential of childhood transgressions, then made to apologize for his punishment and, in a final act of debasement, forced to declare his undying love. Another theory is that as a young boy, the man who raped me might have witnessed his father repeatedly abusing his mother in just such a manner. Both scenarios are possible, even plausible. Of course, it’s equally possible that neither of these suppositions bears any relation to reality, that the man who raped me is the product of a warm and loving home and that his parents remain blissfully ignorant to this day of the monster their love created.

  And ultimately, do reasons matter? The “why” is of consequence only if it leads to the “who.” It’s the “who” that counts.

  I sink down on my bed, scoop up my remote, and turn on the TV, absently flipping through the channels. Stopping on 1000 Ways to Die.

  The reality is that I will likely never know who raped me, that he will forever remain faceless, nameless, that the biggest question in my life is the one I might never be able to answer.

  But sometimes you have to be okay with ambiguity. Sometimes it’s all you’ve got.

  As an investigator, someone who solves mysteries for a living, this is hard to wrap my head around. Even more ironic is the fact that the mystery I did solve had nothing to do with the mystery I thought I was solving.

  My rape masked a lot of things. For weeks, I was operating under a huge distraction, a distraction engineered by my half-sister, a distraction that cut two ways. The rape distracted me from dealing with longstanding family issues, while my family distracted me from dealing with my rape.

  Elizabeth Gordon—the one positive to come out of Claire’s betrayal—will help me come to terms with both of these enormities. But first I have to figure out what is solvable and what is not. Now that I am no longer being overwhelmed by all the red herrings Claire threw my way, my focus is starting to clear.

  Tell me what you see, I hear my mother say now, her voice mixing with the voices emanating from the TV.

  The darkness of that awful October night instantly surrounds me. I’m transported from my comfortable bedroom into the middle of a circle of prickly bushes. I breathe in the deceptively warm air, the gentle breeze blowing the subtle scent of the surrounding blossoms toward my nose. What details have I overlooked? I ask myself, as I slide off my bed to crouch beside it, mimicking my actions of that night.

  Reflexively, I retrieve my binoculars from the bottom drawer of my nightstand, conjuring up the scene and watching it play out again. I see the large rectangular window of the third floor corner apartment across from my hiding place. Occasionally, a woman walks into view. Once, she stops and lingers in front of the window, craning her neck, as if she might have spotted me. I’m growing tired, thinking of calling it a night. Which is when I hear the noise, feel the modest shifting of the air.

  Tell me what you see, my mother prompts again.

  I see a sudden blur of average height and weight, a flash of skin, brown hair, blue jeans, and black sneakers with their trademark Nike swoosh. I relive the onslaught of punches to my stomach and head, and strain against the roughness of the pillowcase that drags my hair over my face and burrows into my eyes, nose, and mouth.

  The phone rings.

  I jump at the sound, a familiar reflex. Taking a series of long, deep breaths to calm my newly jangled nerves, I grab the remote and turn down the volume of the TV. It’s closing in on ten o’clock, and Jade is at a party. She’s probably calling to see if I’ll extend her midnight curfew.

  But the number that comes up on my caller ID doesn’t belong to Jade.

  My heart is reaching into my throat as I push myself to my feet, my hand hovering over the receiver, as I try to decide whether or not to pick it up. On the television screen, a woman is choking on a plastic Easter egg she mistook for chocolate. “Number 912 …,” the announcer begins as I press the mute button and pick up the phone, sitting down on my bed and leaning back against the pillows. “Hi,” I say.

  “How are you?” Sean asks softly in return.

  “Okay.” Why is it that, in spite of everything—the revelations, the lies, the fact it’s been months since he’s tried to contact me at all—a part of me still thrills to hear his voice, a part of me wants nothing more than for him to come over and spend the night holding me in his arms, assuring me that his feelings remain unchanged and t
hat he will always be there, to love and protect me, to keep me safe and out of harm’s way?

  Except, of course, he was never there for me at all. He never loved or protected me. His arms never kept me safe. How could they, when his grip was so deliberately tenuous?

  “It’s been a while,” he says.

  “It has,” I agree.

  “I still can’t believe that Claire, of all people …”

  “Yes.”

  “She seemed so nice.”

  People are rarely what they seem. “She had us all fooled.” Why is he calling?

  “Look. I hate the way things ended between us,” he says, answering my silent question. I picture him hovered over his phone, keeping his concern for my welfare well away from his pregnant wife’s ears. “I think about you all the time.”

  “I think about you, too.”

  “I miss you, Bailey.”

  “I miss you, too.” A wave of shame washes over me. Have I learned absolutely nothing?

  “I was thinking maybe I could stop by sometime soon.…”

  It would be so easy to give in, to overlook, to surrender.

  Except I’ve already surrendered too much of myself. And I’m tired of feeling ashamed. “Aren’t you expecting a baby any day now?”

  “That has nothing to do with us.”

  “Well, maybe it should,” I say forcefully, surprised by how easily the words fall off my tongue.

  “Bailey …”

  “I don’t want you to come by. In fact, I don’t want you to call me ever again.”

  “You don’t mean that. It’s late. You’re tired.…”

  “And you’re a liar and a fraud,” I tell him, borrowing the words Jade threw at her mother. “Call me again, and I swear I’ll call your wife.” I drop the receiver back into its charger, my adrenaline pulsing through my veins, my veins threatening to burst. I want to scream. If I don’t do something, I will explode. I jump off my bed and march into the bathroom, coming face to face with my reflection in the mirror over the sink.

  While I’ve put back a few of the pounds I lost in the immediate aftermath of my rape and I’ve cut down on the number of showers I take, I’m still way too thin, and my hair continues to hang like a crumpled dishrag around my too-narrow face. Sean always loved my hair.