Disturbed

by Jennifer Jaynes

  “I just finally decided that I needed to get my shit together,” he continued. “So I sobered up and asked Lisa to marry me. I was so focused on proving to everyone that I was capable of having a normal life that I didn’t even consider that I might not really be ready for marriage.”

  He glanced down at the table. “It all made perfect sense at the time.” His frown deepened. “But, man, I made so many bad decisions. Really bad ones, including agreeing to work for her father. I mean, it should have been obvious that the marriage was doomed from the start.”

  “Doomed?”

  He took a long sip of his wine, then set the glass down. “There was no trust. She knew what I’d gone through with the drugs, so she figured she’d keep a tight leash on me, and I’m not good with leashes. We butted heads and argued. Like, all-the-time argued. And that stressed me out. I ended up relapsing twice, which made things even worse, and we ended up hating each other.” His eyes locked on hers. “You know how when you’re with someone, how you always look forward to seeing them?”

  Chelsea nodded, though she couldn’t recall the feeling.

  “Well, it was the exact opposite with her.”

  “Do you still love her?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I fell out of love with her a long time ago.” He poured them both more wine, and she noticed his hand was trembling a little. “But enough about my marriage.”

  He set the bottle down and looked up at her, his eyes glinting beneath the soft glow of the candlelight. “I can’t even tell you how much that night screwed me up.” He shook his head. “I still have trouble believing it sometimes. I mean, Ethan. Who would have thought, right? That he could kill two people in fucking cold blood like that?”

  Chelsea wasn’t sure how to respond. She looked past Boyd to the piano player and watched as he flipped through his sheet music. The wine was working its way into her bloodstream. She felt warm inside. Looser, more relaxed, even despite the topic of their conversation.

  “Jesus. How did I live with someone for two semesters and have no idea he was so messed up?”

  She returned her attention to Boyd, remembering again how he’d stared at her the night of the murders, right before he left. She wanted to ask him what he’d been thinking then, but there was no way to ask the question without it sounding weird.

  Boyd passed his hand slowly over his mouth, then looked at her. “I have nightmares about that night. Like, all the time.”

  Me, too. “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  Knowing he also had nightmares comforted her. Maybe it was because for the first time since everything happened, she realized she wasn’t the only one still aching from that night. Obviously, Amy’s and Christine’s families did. And other people who had loved them. But she didn’t let herself think of them too often. Especially Amy’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harris.

  The last time she’d seen them was a week after the murders, at Amy’s funeral. A social worker from the psychiatric hospital had brought her, but Chelsea had ended up leaving just fifteen minutes after arriving.

  As soon as she walked into the church, Mrs. Harris had recognized her. She’d left her position by Amy’s closed casket and rushed past everyone to get to her. She’d grasped her bandaged wrists tightly, too tightly, and yanked her down so they were sitting next to each other on the last row of wooden benches, then sobbed on her shoulder. It was as though the woman thought that being close to her would somehow bring her closer to her dead daughter.

  People had watched and whispered as Chelsea sat trapped by Mrs. Harris. Then finally Mr. Harris had sat down and whispered into Mrs. Harris’s ear. When the woman didn’t let her go, he tried to coax her to release Chelsea’s hand. But she wouldn’t. He had to physically pry her hand open so Chelsea could escape.

  After that horrible experience, Chelsea had decided not to go to Christine’s funeral, which was scheduled for the next afternoon. Since that day, Chelsea had tried not to think about their families at all. It was too painful.

  “Jesus, would you listen to me?” Boyd said. “I’m sitting here talking about myself when you were the one in the freaking middle of it. You almost died. God, I’m sorry. I can be such an asshole.”

  “No. It’s okay. You know, I know it sounds awful, but it’s good to know I’m not the only one still screwed up from that night.”

  Boyd stared at her. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  They lapsed into silence for a moment; then Boyd’s mouth suddenly spread into a smile. She noticed that it warmed her insides even more than the wine. “So, how have you been?” he asked. “Like, truthfully.”

  She glanced past him, her eyes taking in the piano player again, unsure how much she wanted to tell him. On the one hand, she had the desire to unload. To just purge and lay everything on the table, see what he thought about it all: the amnesia, imagining she saw Ethan around every corner, the terrible nightmares, her constant thoughts of suicide, and the occasional blackouts. But on the other hand, she didn’t want to scare him away or, maybe even worse, make him feel pity for her.

  “I still struggle, but things are mostly good.”

  “Do you keep in touch with anyone from college?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “A couple of girls who I used to study with visited me in the hospital. But that was the last I saw or heard from them.”

  “No one else?”

  She shook her head.

  “How well did you know them? Amy and Christine?”

  Chelsea suddenly got a flash of their faces. Amy’s pale, freckled skin and straight auburn hair, her mouth always spread into a smile. Christine’s alabaster skin, silky blonde hair, and ridiculously long, dark lashes. They’d both been attractive, intelligent, and kind, and probably would have had long, happy lives. She still had no clue why Ethan would want to kill them. Any of them.

  “I just met them that semester after answering an ad for a room, so not that well. Did you know them?”

  He shook his head. “No. That night was the first time I met them.”

  He reached out and touched her hand, surprising her and making her breath catch. He glided his index finger slowly along the many raised scars on the back of her hand, and every nerve ending in her body tingled. “I still can’t believe you went through all of that,” he said. “Only a monster could do that to you. To anyone.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe it was from his understanding, the kindness of his touch. Or maybe the acceptance she felt from him despite all her hideous scars. She looked down at the table and struggled to hold the tears back.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  She looked up at him and nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  He squeezed her hand, released it, and sat back in his chair. “They said you blocked out what happened that night. Is that true?”

  She sniffed. “They?”

  “The media.”

  “Oh. Yeah. They diagnosed me with something called psychogenic amnesia. People sometimes get it after experiencing trauma. It’s a way for the mind to protect itself, I guess.”

  “So, what kind of things can’t you remember?”

  “Most of that night, but even stuff before it. Like, most of my childhood. It’s so strange. The only thing I remember somewhat clearly is that semester of college, up to that night . . . and that’s still not perfect. If I try hard to remember anything else, I always end up with a migraine. But thankfully it doesn’t affect new memories.”

  At least, I don’t think it does.

  It surprised her to hear herself telling him all this. She certainly hadn’t planned to. Maybe she’d needed to talk about it to someone other than Elizabeth. She didn’t like talking with Elizabeth about that night, about its lingering effects on her. Not that Elizabeth wouldn’t listen. She would. And she did. But Elizabeth was so strong, Chelsea always felt a little ashamed to talk too much about her prob
lems.

  There was awe in his eyes. “Wow. That’s crazy. Do you think you’ll ever get it all back?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked down at her wine. “It’s part of the reason why I don’t usually drink. Since everything happened, I have this almost-obsessive need to always be in control.”

  He glanced at her wineglass. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think to ask.”

  She was relieved he was more concerned about the wine than what she’d told him. Relieved that he wasn’t treating her like a freak for having issues, which, in that moment, made her see herself as a little less freakish.

  She now understood why she’d had such a powerful urge to approach him at the farmers’ market. She’d wanted a friend who she could talk with about that night. One who could truly understand the horror of what had happened.

  “No, it’s okay. I feel good right now. Maybe I should do this more often. Let go a bit.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He smiled.

  She could tell he understood. Of course he did, because he was in pain, too. Boyd was another damaged soul from that terrible night. A kindred spirit. It was refreshing to be around someone else who was damaged and wasn’t afraid to admit to it.

  She looked up and saw that Boyd was staring at her. But this time he wasn’t studying her scars. He was looking at her. “I’m so glad we ran into each other,” he said.

  “I’m glad we did, too.”

  Later, after they had said their goodbyes and she was getting ready for bed, Chelsea realized she was smiling again. She hadn’t smiled this much in . . . honestly, she had no idea. She just knew that she felt lighter, as if she had shrugged off one of the oppressive blankets that had been weighing her down for the last several years.

  She went to her dresser to grab a nightgown, and for the first time since they’d left the apartment for dinner, she remembered the scrapbook.

  The smile melted from her lips.

  Don’t do this.

  You’re being paranoid.

  What would he want with an old scrapbook?

  She considered searching for the scrapbook or calling Elizabeth to ask if she’d seen it. But it was late, so she tried to push it to the back of her mind for now.

  After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she climbed into bed, switched off her bedside lamp, and closed her eyes. She replayed dinner. Boyd had made her feel normal, even if she wasn’t. Not since the murders. Normal people didn’t have memories that had been erased. They didn’t have blackouts. They had family and friends who cared about them, who showed up at the hospital when they were in critical condition after being found carved up and left for dead.

  Chelsea didn’t have any of those things. But Boyd didn’t seem to care. At least, he didn’t tonight.

  She sank deep beneath her heavy covers, thinking about Boyd, and felt an excited fluttering in her belly. It had felt great connecting with him, not feeling afraid, and letting her guard down for once.

  CHAPTER 5

  CHELSEA OPENED HER eyes the next morning and instantly knew something was different. Then she recognized what it was.

  Sunlight was streaming through her window.

  The sun was never out when she woke up. She looked at her bedside clock: 7:47 a.m. She’d slept four hours longer than usual. She hadn’t slept this long for months. She also realized she hadn’t had the nightmare. It was the first time in more than a year.

  Outside, the chilly autumn-morning air was invigorating. She took a deep breath as she started on her route. For the first mile, she cleared her mind, concentrating on her pace as she ran, listening to her footsteps pound the cold concrete sidewalk. On her second mile, she let her mind drift back to last night.

  Dinner with Boyd had been positive.

  Therapeutic.

  Was that why she hadn’t had the nightmare?

  It had felt so good to talk to him. And not just about the murders. She had enjoyed his company. His easy laugh. She remembered the tingling sensation she’d felt when he’d run his fingertip across the scars on the back of her hand. She was hopeful that there would be more dinners. More chances to connect with him. Maybe she should start making more friends. Maybe she was ready for that now.

  After the murders, she’d needed her life quiet, stable, and predictable to be able to heal. So, for years, she did little besides run, work, and stay home. Elizabeth joined her on the nights she was free, but that was usually only a few nights a week. The rest of the time she spent by herself with Harry. But dinner with Boyd had shown her that maybe now she was ready for something more. Maybe she was ready to make her world a little bigger.

  As she crossed the street, she suddenly felt the sensation of someone watching her. The hairs on her arms sprang up, her mind flashing to an image of Ethan. She whirled around so fast, her ponytail whipped her across her face and made her eyes water. But no one was behind her. Just a passing city bus and a woman walking her small dog.

  She’d just imagined it.

  Like she always did.

  As she neared her apartment, she took a small detour to the park a few blocks from her building and sprinted through the empty playground, the wood chips crunching beneath her feet. She jogged up a sharp incline. By the time she reached the top of the grassy hill, her thighs were on fire. She lay on the ground, trying to catch her breath. She pushed her hands out to her sides and raked her fingers through the cold, soft blades of grass, letting them tickle the skin between her fingers.

  Had she done this when she was a child? A teenager? She sometimes wished she could remember more about those years.

  After a long moment, she sat up and gazed out at the languid, peaceful Charles River in the distance. Then she looked up at the sky, letting the sun warm her face.

  This was going to be a good day.

  BACK AT HER apartment, she brewed a pot of coffee, then went to the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. She let the hot spray of the shower thunder down on her body, pelt every inch of her skin. She turned to let it hit her face and felt the blood immediately rush to her forehead, her cheeks, her chin.

  She had to go to the office this morning. She worked as a medical transcriptionist—a job that afforded her the ability to work primarily from home and also enjoy a comfortable living. Her agency, which serviced clients like doctors and independent scientists, would send her reports in audio files, and Chelsea would convert them into text formats. The job kept her busy, which, for her, was crucial.

  Most days she could receive the files that needed transcribing electronically. But today’s audio files needed to be picked up in person because a client was experiencing technical issues. She’d agreed to stop by the office to get them. She hated going to the office. She much preferred staying at home and working in her pajamas or yoga pants, but it was part of the job, and she needed to eat. Besides, she was rarely required to venture out of her apartment for work more than once a month, so she could hardly complain.

  As she toweled off from her shower, she studied her naked body in the full-length mirror. Scars from the stab wounds marred her olive skin, making her look and feel more like a science experiment than a woman. She ran her fingers over the many physical reminders of that night.

  Even though Elizabeth had thought it was too soon, Chelsea had decided a year after the murders to order her file from the Department of Children and Families, hoping she could piece her past together. She’d learned she’d lived with eight different foster families before the age of eighteen. She’d tried to contact a caseworker she’d had for six of those years, to see what she could tell her, but the woman had already retired. Chelsea had gone so far as to visit one of the foster families with whom she’d lived, but it had been a negative experience. It was at that point she decided she would just start anew. With a blank slate. At least, for now.

  Golden light from the morning sun flooded in through the French doors that led to her balcony as she poured a second cup of coffee into her favorite ceramic mug. She slipped
on her fleece jacket, grabbed her keys, and soldiered out the door. While she walked through the hallway that led to the stairwell, her phone buzzed. It was a text from Boyd.

  Still thinking about our dinner last night. We need to do it again soon.

  Her stomach did a little flip. She smiled as she thumbed a reply.

  I’d like that.

  Little thought bubbles instantly appeared on her screen, letting her know he was typing another message. She waited in anticipation.

  How about this weekend?

  She grinned and quickly agreed.

  Pushing open the door at the bottom of the stairwell, she felt a little giddy. Now outside, she curled her fingers around her pepper spray and made her way toward her silver Toyota Tercel, which was parked on the street a block away. As she neared her car, she thought she could see a slip of paper under her wiper blade.

  Great. Another ticket.

  She hadn’t thought she’d left her car in a no-parking zone, but honestly, the city seemed to change the zoning daily. Who could keep up?

  As she got closer, she saw it wasn’t a ticket at all. It was a note. She grabbed it, and as her eyes slipped over the message, an icicle of panic sliced through her heart. Her mug slipped from her fingers and shattered on the asphalt.

  Fifteen minutes later, Chelsea’s heart was still stuttering inside her chest.

  Elizabeth sat across from her, staring at the note.

  “It’s probably just a prank. Someone found out where you live. Some asshole with too much time on his hands.”

  Chelsea wrung her moist hands. The message had been written with a red marker.

  YOU MADE ME

  It was the same message that had been scrawled on the bathroom mirror the night of the murders.

  Chelsea shook her head. “No one knows about that message. The police never released it to the public.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “It’s been almost five years. Maybe someone leaked it at some point. Things like that happen all the time.”

  Chelsea wasn’t convinced. It had to have been Ethan. He was back, and chances were he truly had been around her at least one, if not several, of the times when she’d thought she’d seen him. But then another possibility popped into her head, and she felt a sick sensation in the pit of her gut.