Shadowshift

by Peter Giglio

  Samantha sat still as a stone as he told her about the robbery. Then he talked about the smug asshole from the convenience store. When he finished the story, she grabbed the pack of Marlboros beside him and took one. He sparked his Zippo and lit her cigarette. She always smoked under pressure. Although this wasn’t her mess, she was clearly expecting it to follow her home.

  “Sorry, Dad,” she said.

  “Not your fault, sweetheart.”

  “Didn’t say it was, did I? Said I was sorry. Means I care about you for some stupid reason. We humans like to do this little thing called sympathizing every now and again. It’s not bad. You should try it sometime.”

  “Fuck, I guess it’s me who should really be sorry,” he said.

  “You think?”

  Shaking his head, he lit another cigarette. He took a deep drag, then looked back at the scarcely populated shoreline. Storm clouds hung dark and low over the ocean, and the last of the tourists were packing up their towels and umbrellas.

  After a moment of silence, Samantha asked, “How can you know the guy from the Circle K did it?”

  “I’m ninety percent sure,” he said. “Thirty years as a salesman taught me a lot about people, and this guy isn’t right. His clockwork’s off. Hell, he covered his eyes when he sneezed.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  Phillip shook his head and coughed. “Well, who does a thing like that, unless they’re retarded or something? And this guy isn’t a retard. In fact, he’s smart and…I don’t know…and scary, I guess.”

  “Wow, someone who scares you. Remind me to stay away from this person.”

  Phillip laughed. “Look, a lot of people have tics and most people strike me as odd, but this fucker rang my bells pretty damn hard.”

  “If you didn’t trust him, why’d you let him see your driver’s license?”

  He held up a smoldering Marlboro, a grim smile cracking his face. “Out of nails and anxious to get back to building my coffin.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Dad.” She rolled her eyes. “You don’t trust anyone and never have, so don’t shit me that you gave up your code for a pack of Cowboy Killers. Just admit this guy had you off balance.”

  “You trusted your husband for more than a decade, sweetheart, and look how that worked for you. No one should trust anyone else. That’s how it works. Don’t blame me, its natural selection or something. Science.”

  “You saying I shouldn’t even trust you?” she asked.

  “No, not even me.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because I’m your father, dammit.”

  “David used to tell me I should put up with his shit because he was my husband.”

  “Well, you did get a nice beach house out of the deal, and you get the nobility of flaunting the last name of a well-known plastic surgeon. Bet that gets you to the top of the list for dinner reservations.”

  “McDonald’s isn’t exactly taking reservations these days, Dad.”

  “You always did have a weakness for that drive-through slop.”

  “For crying out loud,” she said. “As far as the fucking beach house I live in now, you of all people should know how much I hate the beach.”

  “Life’s a funny animal, Sam, but we’re not here to philosophize. I need to know if you’ll help me.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Okay, probably, but you need to admit you have nothing more than a wild hunch here. The crook didn’t trip the security system on entry; they set it off when they left. So I think it’s more likely you were hit by someone you know well; someone who could have found a way to get into your house while you were home and wait for you to leave. Maybe one of your floozies from the bar?”

  “That’s what the cops told me,” he said, “and if this had happened to someone else, I’d take that side of the argument, too. But I’m me, and I can’t do that. I know when someone is playing me. And that kid was playing me.”

  “All right,” she said, “so what do you want me to do about it?”

  With that, he placed his hands on his Samantha’s shoulders to steady her, then told her what he wanted.

  CHAPTER 8

  A feeling of accomplishment washes over Hannah as she studies her new room. A picture window is flanked by two massive bookshelves, and the spines of her books are organized by color from dark to light. Above her bed, a framed movie poster of Muppets Most Wanted hangs. On the opposite wall, her dresser is adorned with science and math trophies and ribbons. And all of her moving boxes, save one, are down in the basement. She did all the unpacking and organizing and cleaning herself. She worked hard for this. Her room kicks ass.

  But her satisfaction doesn’t last long.

  Hannah stares at a box next to her bed. The box she’s reluctant to unpack. The box she insisted ride in the trunk of the car rather than the moving truck. And an old Sesame Street song runs through her head.

  One of these things does not belong…

  This is Father’s fault, she tells herself. She should be happy, exploring her new neighborhood on the Cannondale, taking a walk in the expansive park across the street, or maybe just relaxing on the couch with a few mindless episodes of Regular Show. Instead, she’s thinking about him.

  Specifically, she’s thinking about where she’ll keep him.

  Kneeling, she slowly peels away packing tape, then pulls the lid flaps up. Many of the things inside the box are innocent enough—sweatshirts and sweaters. But in the center of these plush garments, a cat figurine waits. The statue glistens snow white, but its feline elegance is marred by a slash of black electrical tape across the eyes.

  Hannah wonders what will happen if she destroys the cat. She imagines the statue shattering on the floor, then pictures herself swinging a hammer through its head. These thoughts are nothing new, but she never summons the will to make them real.

  She can’t bring herself to murder her own father.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Tina sorts through her belongings as Kevin cuts tape from boxes. Although she’s done more than her share over the last decade, moving is always hard. She hopes this is the last time.

  Taking a break from lining up her possessions, she watches Kevin. The way his tongue sticks out of his mouth when he works reminds Tina of Charlie Brown. Cute as hell. And while he’s far from the most handsome man she’s ever romanced, there’s something special about him—a charming mix of innocence and stability. Unlike her former partners, Kevin isn’t broken. He’s wounded, just like her, but Tina doubts anyone over thirty lives without a few deep scars.

  “It’s perfectly acceptable if you rip the boxes, sweetheart,” she says.

  He glances at her for a second, then goes back to his methodical procedure. “Want to be careful,” he says. “You never know when you might need these boxes again.”

  She stands and paces, trying not to let Kevin’s words inflict injury. He didn’t mean harm, she tells herself. But that doesn’t make her inference any less painful. Or maybe it was his implication, even if only subconsciously. None of that, however, changes the grim reminder that her hold on this home is tenuous.

  With hands on her hips, she barks, “What are you trying to say?”

  Confusion darkens his face as he slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose and clears his throat. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why would I need these boxes again? Are you already planning to kick Hannah and me out?”

  He shakes his head and waves his hands defensively. “No, no, of course not. That’s not what I—”

  “What did you mean, Kevin?”

  “Don’t be angry,” he pleads. “I’ve always been careful with packing materials. I’m the same way with wrapping paper. Check the closet in the bonus room upstairs if you don’t believe me. You’ll find more Amazon boxes up there than any man has a right to. It’s just an old habit I inherited from my mom. I’m sorry.”

  He wraps his arms around her, but she breaks away from him and drops onto the co
uch. After a tense period of silence, she heaves a groan, then says, “I’m sorry.”

  Sliding next to her, he places his arm around her back and pulls her close. “Look, it’s all right. I’m sorry, too. All of this is new to us. We have to cut each other some slack.”

  “I can’t help it, Kevin. I’m afraid. I know I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

  “Why?” he asks. “You have nothing to fear.”

  “Like I said, I know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am.”

  He hugs her, and this time she returns the gesture. “You belong here, Tina. So does Hannah.”

  “I’m just so tired of my transient life,” she says. “My parents moved a lot when I was a kid, then college, then Chet. I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere. I’m ready for home.”

  He releases her and extends his arms wide. Looking around the living room, he says, “This isn’t home.” Then he points at his chest. “This,” he says, “this is home. This is what’s been missing from your life. Someone who loves you unconditionally.”

  She smiles.

  “We may need boxes to leave this house someday,” he says, “but when that happens, we’ll use them together, and we’ll go someplace even better than here.”

  “And what if I like it here?”

  “Then we’ll stay.”

  * * *

  When her mother’s shout rings out below, Hannah turns her attention from the cat. She’s worried. Mom and Kevin are already fighting. When she looks back at the figurine, she feels an unaccountable pang of sympathy for her father.

  No, she tells herself. This is his fault, not Mom’s.

  But Kevin isn’t like her father; he’s a good man. Why would she fight with him? Hannah’s not only confused by this, she’s upset. Part of her wants to rip the tape from the cat’s eyes and let the adults sort everything out. This is too much pressure for a twelve-year-old girl.

  But that would unleash hell, and she has to do her part to keep the peace. Like it or not, this is her charge.

  Hannah slides the bottom drawer of her dresser open. Beside her journal, she places the cat figurine. Over its head, she drapes a cloth meant to clean the flute she no longer plays.

  “Turn away,” she whispers, and tears trail down her cheeks.

  * * *

  In the living room, things are once again calm. Tina places keepsakes on shelves while Kevin flattens the boxes he has carefully preserved.

  A stack of cardboard in his arms, Kevin says, “Heading down to the basement. Be right back.”

  “Okay,” she says, staring at the porcelain cat figurine she has just placed on a bookshelf.

  The intensity of her stare captures Kevin’s attention. He stops and asks, “Do you want to get a cat?”

  “Oh, God, no. I’m allergic, and I can’t stand cats—they’re…ugh, they’re bitey and scratchy things, and they stink. If you want to get me a pet, get me a dog. Dogs I understand. And Hannah loves dogs. She loves all animals, and they love her.”

  He chuckles and points at the object holding her fascination. “Well, you certainly seem to like that cat.”

  “Hey, Einstein, it’s not real,” she says. “Besides, my grandmother gave it to me. She’s the only person who understood me when I was a kid. She encouraged my writing, and she told me I needed a cat, that all great writers have them. That’s when my mom jumped down her throat. She spent the rest of the day berating Grandma, telling her how thoughtless she was, all because I was allergic to cats, as if that was somehow Grandma’s fault. Hell, Grandma didn’t know about my allergy because my mom hardly ever let her come around.

  “But Grandma let my mom’s abuse slide. ‘Like water off a duck’s back,’ she’d say. And the next time she visited the house, she brought me this.” Tina picks up the figurine and presses it against her chest, then returns it gently to the shelf.

  “Looks perfect there,” Kevin says.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she says. “Chet didn’t. He hurled it at me once, when we were fighting.”

  Kevin cringes. Images of a man abusing Tina flash through his mind. Chet never hit her, Tina has said, but Kevin has a hard time believing that’s true. Any man who launches items at his woman in the heat of an argument is capable of causing bodily harm. And from the other things Kevin has learned about Tina’s ex, he knows Chet was certainly no stranger to violence.

  “It’s a miracle it didn’t break,” Tina says distantly. “I think Chet hated that it meant so much to me. That the person who gave it to me loved me more than he ever could.” She turns to face Kevin. “Is that strange?”

  “You said he had a hard childhood.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “But there’s something I never told you.” After a long pause, she continues: “I met Chet’s father a few years ago. He tracked me down. Called me. Wanted to meet. Of course, I didn’t want to meet him, but…he wanted to see Hannah.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, it was a tricky situation. So I left it up to Hannah, and she chose to meet him.” Tina’s gaze returns to the cat. “Hannah never had grandparents around to spoil her, and who was I to deny my baby the experience? Not that I thought any good could really come of it.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I was wrong, and he was nice. Really nice. And genuine. When Hannah wasn’t in earshot, I challenged him about the number he did on his son, the monster he created.”

  “And?”

  Tina shrugs. “And he looked pretty fucking confused.”

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Ray Mitchell could have been full of shit. He could have been a great manipulator, like his son. But…I don’t know…there was real pain in his reaction. I believed his denial. And that made me realize what a monster Chet really was. He also told me that Chet was adopted, which is something Chet never mentioned.”

  “Do you think that gave Chet more reason to hate his father?”

  “Who knows with Chet. He could rationalize anything.”

  “Does Hannah still have a relationship with her grandfather?”

  “She talked to him a couple times over the phone, and she said she liked him. But he died last year. Cancer. I was on a tight deadline with my publisher, so we didn’t go to Ohio when it happened. I don’t think I could have afforded it anyway. Hannah was pretty upset about missing the funeral, but she got over it.”

  “At least they got to connect. That’s something. Closure maybe?”

  “Closure,” Tina whispers. “I hope that’s right. Because if anything Chet did messes with my little girl’s future; if his shit fucks up her mind and hurts her in any way, I’ll track the bastard down. And if he’s dead already, and I pray to God he is, I’ll dig him up and kill him again.”

  “You’re starting to sound like one of your books,” Kevin says.

  Tina chuckles mirthlessly. “You need to reread my work, sweetheart. Every death I write belongs to Chet.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The cold and dark theater had never bothered Chet before. He always kept his attention on the screen, where the action unfolded. From his seat, he had witnessed his parents fight. With every lash they gave or took, he turned colder inside, until he stopped caring about them altogether. They were monsters, plain and simple. But watching them unload on each other grew tiresome fast. That aside, Chet still had a reason to catch frequent matinees and late shows.

  His father had a habit of hiding money around the house. Although Chet didn’t understand this strange behavior, his fascination had bloomed. He kept a journal of hiding places, looking for a pattern in his father’s madness. If he couldn’t love the man, maybe he could at least understand him; or, more importantly, learn how such a terrible human being could sire such a special son.

  He had watched his mother, too, but her quirks were far less interesting. She divided her day between trashy romance novels, laundry, and delivering violence as well as she took it in the bedroom. Molly Mitchell had a shockingly strong left hook
—fun to watch, but hardly illuminating.

  Alas, years of study brought no insight, leaving Chet with an empty answer to a loaded question. His abilities were not inherited.

  On his eighteenth birthday, he burned his journal and stole the money he’d watched his father hide—a little over than ten thousand dollars. The cash moved him to Cincinnati and set him up in a nice apartment for a while. He never talked to his parents again.

  Waiting for Tina to appear on the screen, Chet grew fidgety. Here he was, thinking about his parents. He hated remembering, and his wife’s tardiness was fucking everything up. None of this was necessary, he knew, but old habits die hard, and knowing half his wife’s secret was not enough. He needed everything. While hidden cameras worked, they were a waste of money and employed technology Chet despised. Recorded footage often incriminated those who employed it, but his mind never would betray him in a courtroom, not that he planned to end up in one. As long as he kept his secret hidden, he was too slick to ever get caught.

  He suddenly felt something—bugs?—crawling on his ankles. Bending down, unable to make out anything in the darkness below, he reached up his pant legs. He felt nothing more than hairy ankles. When something slithered across his chest, he stood and lifted his shirt, but only succeeded in uncovering his toneless torso.

  The screen remained free of Tina.

  Chet had never spent this long in the theater, and the place was starting to spook him. The walls seemed to close in. The screen shrank. And the sensation of things crawling on him intensified.

  Clawing at his body, he shouted, “Come out and play, bitch. You’re starting to piss me off!”

  Things began burrowing in his ears. He tasted dirt. Then the screen darkened, and the shrouded theater ignited with the rising din of chattering insects.