by Mark Lukens
Suddenly, the idea of Phil cheating on her didn’t seem to be the worst thing that could happen to them. No, suddenly there were worse things.
“You were talking in your sleep again,” she told him, not even sure if he was still awake.
“I was?” he asked after a moment. He seemed guarded, even defensive. “What was I saying?”
“You were saying something about a girl.” There, she’d said it. Now she wanted to find out how much he would admit to, see how much of the truth he was going to tell.
“I don’t really remember dreaming,” Phil said, dismissing it.
“I think you might have been dreaming about a girl,” she said. She wanted to push a little more, wanting to gauge his reaction, wanting to use the same word she’d read on the notecard in his briefcase. “I think the girl might have been hurt . . . like someone hurt her. You said something about blood . . . or bleeding.”
Phil didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s weird,” he finally said. He was still tense. “I don’t remember dreaming anything like that.”
Another lie. Why was he lying so much to her lately?
“I didn’t say anything else?” he asked after another long moment.
“No, not really.” It was her turn to lie now. She waited to see if he would offer more.
But he didn’t. He fell asleep.
NINETEEN
Cathy
Wednesday
Cathy got up the next morning as Phil was getting ready for work. She kissed him goodbye when he was about to leave, a quick peck on the lips. Phil went into the garage, got into his car, and left. She stood at the door to the kitchen, watching the garage door close. Megan was still getting ready for school, and they needed to leave in the next fifteen minutes.
After dropping Megan off at school, Cathy decided she didn’t want to go back home. She needed to go to the supermarket. Maybe she should go now. But she wanted someone to talk to.
At a traffic light, she grabbed her phone and dialed Emma’s number. She knew it was a little early to be calling Emma, but maybe . . .
“Hey, Cathy,” Emma said, picking up on the second ring.
“Emma, I hope it’s not too early.”
“No, I’ve been up for a while now. Sheldon moved out last night. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry to hear that. If this isn’t a good time—”
“No. It’s fine. I can’t sleep right now anyway. What’s going on?”
Cathy drove down the street. She could feel tears threatening, and she didn’t trust herself to talk at that moment. She wasn’t usually a crier, but so many things in her life felt out of control right now, so surreal.
“You okay?” Emma finally asked.
“I think something’s wrong.”
An intake of breath from Emma. “What is it?”
“It’s Phil . . . I don’t know. He’s been acting strange lately. There’s this guy, one of his patients, he’s been harassing Phil, following him. Stalking him. Stalking us. He called and said he was watching Megan while she was at the movies with her friends last night.”
“Oh my God.”
Cathy knew she was talking too fast, jumbling things up, probably not making a lot of sense to Emma.
“Why don’t you come over?” Emma asked. “We’ll go get some breakfast or an early lunch.”
“I didn’t mean to call you out of the blue like this with my problems.”
“Please. You’ve listened to me enough.”
“You sure you’re not already doing something?”
“No plans. Come on over. I’ve got some coffee made.”
• • •
Cathy told Emma everything over two cups of coffee. Emma listened patiently and then grabbed her purse. “You hungry?” she asked.
Cathy followed Emma in her Soccer Mom Tank to a little café. Cathy wanted to drive because she needed to leave right after they ate. She really needed to stop at the grocery store, and she wanted to spend a few hours touching up some of her paintings before she had to pick Megan up from school.
At the café Cathy ordered hot tea and a croissant. Emma ordered breakfast and more coffee.
In her explanation to Emma, Cathy left out a few details like finding the number twenty-four scrawled over and over in Phil’s calendar book, and the notecard in the envelope with the haunting sentence inside. She didn’t know enough about those yet to speculate.
“I don’t want to think that he’s cheating on me,” Cathy said. “But he keeps mentioning that woman’s name every night in his sleep.”
“Did you check his phone? His computer?”
Cathy shook her head no.
“He has it password protected,” Emma said, nodding like she should’ve already figured that.
“No, I don’t think so. I mean not that I know of. He’s never tried to hide that kind of stuff from me.”
“Then you should at least check,” Emma said, but with less enthusiasm now that she found out his devices weren’t protected.
“I will. But it’s more than that. It’s more like a strange feeling I’m getting. Phil’s been acting so strange lately . . . so different.” How could she explain it to Emma without sounding crazy? Phil was actually beginning to frighten her a little. He was drinking more these last few days, he was quicker to anger, and there were those violent nightmares he’d been having about a bloody woman. Or was Dolores a girl? The note had read: I know what you did to that girl. And there was the way Phil looked at her these days, like he might want to hurt her—like the way he had looked at her last night beside the refrigerator when he’d gotten up for the bottle of water. She’d been about to tell him what she’d found in his briefcase . . . but the way he had looked at her at that moment had stopped her in her tracks. She never thought she would ever have a reason to be afraid of Phil. Her greater fear now was that there was something worse than infidelity going on, something dangerous, something to do with Phil and maybe Carlos, something about a girl. Was Dolores the girl that Phil had supposedly done something to? Was he dreaming about that every night now? Trying to push the memories away with alcohol? How could she tell her friend all of that?
Cathy started feeling nervous and antsy, flushing with heat now. Why had she even called Emma up? Because she didn’t want to go home? So Emma could talk her into believing that Phil was cheating on her? That wouldn’t be too difficult; Emma believed that all men were cheaters now.
“Yeah,” Emma said. “They get different like that when they’re cheating. I think it’s the guilt.”
Cathy nodded and sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really need to get going.”
Emma looked disappointed. “You hardly touched your food.”
“I’ll take it home with me.”
“I know these things are difficult to talk about, but you need to talk about them. It really helps. You helped me so much when I needed it. I want to be there for you, too.” She touched Cathy’s hand.
“Thanks.”
The waitress came by with a takeout box for Cathy.
“I know it seems impossible, but you’ll get through this,” Emma said.
“I know,” Cathy said and forced a smile. “Thanks for letting me vent.”
“Oh God, sure. Like I said, you listened to my whining enough.” She looked suddenly embarrassed. “Not that I think you’re whining.”
“I know. I really need to get some work done on those paintings.”
“Oh yeah,” Emma said, a light dawning in her eyes. “That show is coming up soon. I’m going to be there this time. I promise.”
“Thanks.” Cathy got her purse out to get some money.
“No. This is my treat.”
“Thanks,” Cathy said. “Let me get the tip.” She laid a ten dollar bill down before Emma could object.
“Call me anytime,” Emma said.
“I will,” Cathy said and left.
TWENTY
Phil
Between his
morning sessions, Phil turned on his cell phone and saw that he had a message from Detective Grady to call him back.
“I found some things out,” Detective Grady told Phil when he called him. “I’d like to share them with you.”
“Okay.” Phil braced himself.
“How about we meet somewhere? You can buy me lunch, and we’ll discuss some things.”
That sounded ominous to Phil. He suggested a diner close to his office and a time of twelve thirty.
“Sounds good,” Detective Grady said.
Phil hung up and wondered what kind of information the detective had found. Was it about Carlos? Detective Grady hadn’t specifically said anything about Carlos just then on the phone, just that he had found some things out. And now he wanted to discuss things in person. Phil couldn’t help feeling a little paranoid. He wondered if Detective Grady had dug into his past somehow.
He had one more patient to see, and then he would go to lunch.
• • •
Phil got to the diner a little after twelve. The place was usually busy, and he wanted to get a table by the window.
A bubbly waitress came up to the table. “How are you today?” She handed him a laminated menu. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes, please. Just some coffee and a glass of water for now. I’m still waiting for someone.”
“Of course. Coming right up.”
Five minutes later Phil watched Detective Grady enter the diner. He glanced around for a few seconds with his calculating eyes, those narrow eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing, and then he was walking towards the table.
“Nice place,” Detective Grady said with no real compliment behind the words, just a hollow platitude.
“Yeah, it’s close to my office. I come here sometimes for lunch.”
The detective just shrugged—he didn’t really care.
“How are you doing?” Phil asked.
“Busy. How about you? You’re working today? I thought you would’ve been home with your wife . . .” He let his words trail off, but Phil could mentally finish the sentence: after everything that’s happened.
“I needed to come in today and see a few patients that were scheduled, make some arrangements to get another doctor to take over.”
Detective Grady nodded. He seemed suddenly bored by the details, perhaps sorry that he’d brought it up.
Phil got right to the point. “What did you find out?”
Detective Grady’s eyes never left Phil, like he was studying him, gauging every reaction. “It’s kind of strange,” he warned.
The waitress was back; she had a cup of coffee and a glass of water for Phil. “Here you go,” she said, setting the cups down in front of Phil. She turned to the detective. “What can I get you today?”
“Just coffee please. Black.”
The waitress almost seemed disappointed by the simplicity of his order. “Coming right up,” she said and was gone again.
Detective Grady’s attention was back on Phil. “I checked this Carlos guy out. I checked the info you gave me—his phone number and his address.”
Phil braced himself, knowing what was coming, but he didn’t want to seem like he knew.
“The number and address were for a local business.”
Again Phil felt like he was being studied, like he was being grilled. He thought of that cliché again of cops questioning a suspect in a small room with a bright light. “Oh?” he said, trying to sound surprised but afraid he wasn’t pulling it off. “Somewhere he works?”
The detective watched Phil for a long moment. “No. I checked on that. They’ve never heard of him.”
Phil nodded, not daring to say any more, not daring to slip up.
The waitress was back. “Coffee. Black.” She set the cup of coffee down in front of the detective. She looked at Phil. “You guys ready to order yet?”
Phil realized that he hadn’t even taken a sip of his coffee. “No thanks.”
“Nothing to eat?” the waitress asked, glancing at the detective.
“Nothing for me, either,” the detective said like he didn’t plan on being in the diner that long.
The waitress left, attending to a nearby table. Phil looked back at Detective Grady, wondering when he was going to name the place, but he seemed content to just wait to be asked.
“So,” Phil said. “Where is this place?”
“It’s a bicycle shop on Edgewood Drive. A place called Murphy’s.”
Phil shook his head a little. “Why would Carlos pick that place for his address and phone number?”
“That’s exactly what I was wondering,” Detective Grady said.
“Could be random,” Phil suggested. “Something he picked out of a phonebook or off the internet.”
“Could be,” the detective agreed. “But it could also mean something.”
“What do you think it means?”
Detective Grady shrugged. “I don’t know. You have any ideas?”
His question seemed more like an accusation.
Careful here . . . don’t get too paranoid.
“That’s it?” Phil asked. “That’s all you’ve found?”
“Afraid so. It’s a start.”
“Yes,” Phil agreed. But it wasn’t much of a start, he wanted to say.
Detective Grady kept staring like he had more to say. Phil thought the detective was going to ask him again if he was sure that he didn’t know why Carlos would be harassing him, why he had singled him out, but he didn’t. Maybe the question didn’t need to be asked again.
• • •
Ten minutes later, after some more small talk and a few sips of coffee, Phil told the detective that he needed to get back to work. He paid the bill and left a generous tip.
Outside the diner, Phil sat in his car for a moment, watching the detective drive away in his plain sedan. When he was sure Detective Grady was gone, Phil drove off in the other direction, but he wasn’t going back to work just yet; he didn’t really have many patients to see today, already rescheduling most of them.
He drove towards Edgewood Drive, to the bicycle shop. He was afraid the detective might follow him, or show up when Phil was there, but he could always tell the detective that he wanted to see the place in person.
Murphy’s Bicycle Shop was squeezed into a strip plaza off of the busy road among other small businesses: a floral shop, a discount appliance store, and a thrift shop at the other end.
He parked in the parking area closer to Edgewood Drive, backed into the space so he could watch the store. A line of hedges and a sidewalk separated the parking area from the street, all of it baking underneath the Florida sun. The humidity was building up and soon there would be a thunderstorm in the afternoon just like clockwork.
A lawn service crew was working at the property next door, a riding mower rumbling, weed trimmers and edgers buzzing. Phil watched the men work for a moment in the intense heat, wondering if he could do that kind of work all day, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t—he didn’t even mow his own lawn or take care of his own pool.
Phil turned his attention back to the plaza across the parking lot, the black asphalt shimmering in the heat. He watched the bicycle shop. There was no need for him to go inside, nothing for him to see in there or find out. It was the idea of the store that Carlos wanted to get across to him, a clue that only Phil would understand.
The sound of his cell phone roused him from his musings.
How long had he been sitting here? He needed to get back to work.
He had a strange suspicion that Detective Grady was calling him, spying on him from somewhere close by, wondering why he was sitting at the very address that Carlos had written down in his paperwork.
But it was Cathy calling.
“Hey, babe,” he said into the phone, about to say something else, but she cut him off.
“You need to come home right now.”
He sat up straighter in his seat and put his seatbelt on without even t
hinking about it. He’d left the engine running so he could keep the air conditioning blasting. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The terror in her voice was scaring him. His mind was already jumping to the worst possibilities. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” she told him.
“Is Megan alright?”
“Yes. She’s fine. Still in school.”
“Carlos isn’t there, is he?” Phil asked.
There was a hesitation from Cathy, and then: “No. It’s nothing like that.” Another pause. “Can you come home right now?” She seemed a little more relaxed now. Maybe she realized how badly she had frightened him.
“What is it?” he asked as he shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking space. “I need to get back to work.”
“It’s important,” she told him.
“What’s wrong? Do you want me to call Detective Grady? I can call him.”
“No. Don’t call him yet. Just come home. There’s something you need to see.”
Phil was about to ask her what it was that he needed to see, but Cathy had already hung up.
TWENTY-ONE
Cathy
After her breakfast with Emma, Cathy decided to stop at the supermarket on the way home. She didn’t really need a lot from the store, but she didn’t feel like going home just yet. She wandered the aisles of the store, spending more time than she needed to, studying different brands carefully, checking the quality of the fruits and vegetables. She wasn’t in any hurry to get home. Home seemed so complicated right now. At home, the questions that had been nagging at her for the last week would only return.
But she couldn’t stall anymore; she had some work to do on her paintings, touchups really. It was difficult as an artist to know exactly when to stop fiddling with a painting, when to finally sit back and declare the work officially completed. It was easy to keep adding a little here, changing a little there, but at some point an artist had to leave the work alone and move on to the next project. Of course she would always see little mistakes every time she saw the painting, details that she should’ve changed, slight improvements she could’ve made. This was a battle she always had with herself—nothing she created was ever perfect enough. It wasn’t easy to know the exact point when to let a piece of art go, but over the years it had gotten a little easier to tell. One thing that helped was the excitement of moving on to new works, new challenges. Yet she never let the draw of new work rush her touchups.