by Dana Feldman
Just then we both hear the office door creak as Peter opens it. Our conversation ends abruptly.
“Ready?” Peter asks.
“Yes,” I reply, looking at Chris.
“Later, man,” Peter says to him with a friendly pat on the arm.
“See you Monday,” Chris replies.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell Peter as he gets into the car. Looking at Chris again, “Thank you. I know that you’re just looking out for me. I appreciate it. You’ve always been there for me, and I want to be as good a friend to you as you’ve been to me. I promise, one of these days I’ll tell you everything. Then you’ll understand.”
I hug him before I leave. He holds onto me tightly.
“Please be safe,” he says into my ear. I look at him, wondering if he means from Peter, or just in general. He knows my theory on Gabe. He just doesn’t know that I now have the proof, that I’ve been right all along.
Chris was one of the few people in the beginning of this whole mess that I really opened up to. It was just Evelyn and him that knew my thoughts. Until Peter came along, that is. I always felt that Chris believed that I thought I was telling him the truth, but in many ways I also felt that he always doubted me, thought that I was being paranoid.
I also knew that, regardless, he was there for me. He’s been somewhat of a protector of mine ever since I first met him. I look back over my shoulder at him as I walk to the car. And I watch him through the windshield as we back up and pull away.
“What was that all about?” Peter asks.
“Nothing. He just wanted to make sure that I’m doing ok. He’s always been a good friend to me.”
“And I’ll bet he’d love to be more than your friend,” he says. There’s no tone of bitterness or jealousy in his voice when he says this. But I do hear just a tinge of something that bothers me. It’s like he’s asking me if there’s something more to our friendship, almost hinting that I’m withholding something from him.
“Well, he’s just a friend. Nothing more,” I say, pushing the uncomfortable feeling aside. When I look at him, I can see something in his expression that looks almost predatory. He has a look of victory on his face. Like I’m his.
I know that look. I used to see it on Gabe’s face all the time. He thought that he owned me, controlled me. And then Peter confirms my suspicions.
“Mine,” he says, his hand now cupping my crotch. We’re stopped at a red light. He leans over and gently kisses my cheek.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHRISTOPHER
I’m anxious as I wait for Chris at the deli he suggested for lunch. I was relieved when he called me this morning and asked if I could meet with him today. I’ve ruminated over our conversation from the other day countless times, and I need to get some explanations.
I see him through the window as he pulls up and parks out front. He barely manages to squeeze his gray Escalade into a spot between two cars. I watch him as he gets out and walks up to the front door of the deli, a group of women ogling at him.
He doesn’t notice, he never does. Baseball hat and sunglasses do nothing to hide his good looks. He stands taller than everyone around him as he enters the busy lobby. Tan board shorts, a white T-shirt and flip flops, his usual attire, he looks the perfect image of Southern California.
“Hey, thanks for meeting me,” he says, as he slides into the booth across from me. A waft of soap and patchouli hits me, and I breathe him in. He always smells good. Today, though, he doesn’t have his usual white-toothed grin. His look is ominous. This doesn’t go unnoticed by me.
He takes his hat off, his blond waves come tumbling out, and sets it on the seat beside him. He then removes his sunglasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. His green eyes look at me and the rim of red around them tells me that he hasn’t been getting enough sleep lately.
“Of course,” I say. “You look as serious as you sounded on the phone earlier. And tired. What’s going on?”
He pauses for a moment as the waitress comes up and sets two steaming mugs of coffee down in front of us.
“I went ahead and ordered these,” I say. We ask the waitress for a few minutes to look at the menus.
After she walks away, he starts to say something and stops himself. I watch as he takes an empty packet of sugar and starts to fold it into tiny little squares until it’s the size of a dime. He continues to do the same with the few others scattered on the table.
Whenever he’s nervous like he is today, he fiddles with something. He has to always have something to do with his hands, especially when he has something on his mind. I wait, allowing him to think about how he wants this conversation to go.
Chris is very smart and kind and almost too honest. So whatever it is that he wants to tell me, he’s going to be wise enough to ensure that he’s in no way offensive yet truthful in a way that won’t hurt me.
I’m half expecting, half hoping that he’s going to just tell me that Peter is cheating on me or something. The feeling in my gut is that it’s something far more serious. Things with Peter have gotten too serious, too fast. I’m starting to feel like I’m married again, and after Gabe I’m not sure that I ever want to be in a serious relationship again.
“Chris, what’s going on?” I ask, just as the waitress returns. We quickly order and she rushes off. I look up and the deli is suddenly packed. I scan the place and don’t see any familiar faces. I’m relieved for a moment. Then I look back at Chris and see the serious look on his face again, and an odd feeling comes over me.
I’m so grateful to have him in my life. He’s been a friend to me for the last few years, a true friend. He’s the only one from my old life who stood by me and until Evelyn came into the picture, he was the only friend I had. I’ve been an absent friend in return, and for this, I’m sorry.
I hold my hand out across the table and put it on top of his. He immediately stops fidgeting with the sugar packets, and we sit there like this for a few seconds. He finally looks up at me. He takes his hand and runs it through his hair. He has a five o’clock shadow, and I watch as he runs his fingers over the scruff.
“Chris, talk to me. Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I say and wait.
“I really think that you’re in danger,” he says finally, after a few seconds.
“Oh, yes, well about that,” I begin. “Evelyn and Peter are helping me through a few things. There’s so much that I haven’t told you, and I’m so sorry about that. I want to, believe me. Tell you, I mean. And I will. It’s just complicated right now. But they’re both helping me.”
“I think that Peter is dangerous,” he says, interrupting me, his hand now on top of mine. I can’t count how many times he and I have sat across from one another with his hand on top of mine like this, comforting me as he listened to me talk about my bad marriage. He’s never asked anything of me, ever. Right now I feel that he’s asking for me to pay attention to what he’s telling me. It’s the very least that I can do, so I listen and let him tell me what’s bothering him.
“Why do you feel this way? About Peter, I mean, I know that he’s been dealing with PTSD, and I understand how difficult that is. But he seems to be doing well. You’ve even said so yourself.”
“Yes, I did say that. And at the time, I really did think so.”
“So, what’s changed? He hasn’t had any outbursts at work or anything has he? You just said last week how happy the customers are with him and how spot-on his work is.” I keep to myself the moments that Peter has seemed to get lost within. I’ve caught him several times staring out into nothing, and I’ve wondered where exactly he’s gone. His body is there, but he isn’t. I can be speaking to him and I’ll look over, and I know that he hasn’t heard a word that I’ve said.
“And all of these things remain true.”
“Ok, so?” I question him, wondering if he’s seen what I’ve seen. I’ve tried to pull Peter back out of the darkness. I’ve tried to help him. It’s sadly been with little consequence. I
know where he is, and it’s a place too dark to climb out of without help. I’ve been there, and I know it too well.
“The other day,” he starts, but stops as the waitress comes by the table with our food. “Thank you,” he says to her, and then seems to have lost his train of thought.
“The other day?” I ask, my stomach churning in anticipation. I already know that Peter can snap, turn into someone else entirely. It usually only lasts for a few moments and then it’s as if a light switch is turned on, and he’s back.
“Well, I left the shop to go pick up some parts, and when I came back I didn’t see him anywhere. I looked in the offices and all over the lot. Nothing. Then I thought I heard something, it sounded like your voice. I walked over to where it was coming from, thinking it was you. And he didn’t see me. He was listening to a recording of you talking.”
“It was probably a voicemail that I’d left for him,” I say, defending Peter.
“No, it wasn’t. He didn’t hear me when I walked up so I stayed and listened for a few minutes. It was a conversation between you and Evelyn.”
I’m frozen still, wracking my brain for some sort of plausible excuse or reason for this but coming up completely empty. This is not what I was expecting to hear. I thought that he’d say that Peter yelled at him and apologized or seemed to be in a daze. These things I could easily explain as PTSD. Chris, of all people, would relate and have empathy. But this is something altogether different. This is something disturbing on a far different level.
“Ella, I’m worried about you,” he continues.
“There has to be some logical reason,” I say, not convincing either Chris or myself. “What were we discussing?”
“I must’ve gotten there towards the end of the recording, because in the bits of it that I heard, the two of you were discussing criminal activity that Gabe was believed to have been a part of. Evelyn was telling you about some of the crimes that he was involved in.”
I pick up my phone and look at it. He watches me as I do. A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard but it refuses to budge. I can handle PTSD, betrayal is a different story.
“I know that Evelyn would never betray me. She didn’t record our conversation. So there is only one person who could have. Do you happen to have a flashlight?”
He turns the one attached to his keychain on, and I study my phone in the light. I remove the plastic case that it’s inside of.
“What are you looking for?”
“This, right here,” I say, pointing. “This is a new phone, not even two months old. And it’s always in this case here. This scratch, right here, wasn’t there before,” I explain, pointing to a scratch on the side of the phone where someone had taken the backing off. “He’s done something with my phone. He’s somehow recording my calls. He has to be.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call the detective that helped me get information on Gabe. He’ll know how to help me.”
“Do you want to borrow my phone?”
“Yes, please. God, what am I going to do? I got myself out of one hell and now I’m in another.”
“I’m here for you, Ella. Always have been. Always will be.”
“I know. And thank you. I know that you’ve been a much better friend to me than I’ve had the chance to be to you. I’m grateful for everything that you’ve done for me. I know that you’re always looking out for my well-being.”
“Turn your phone off,” he says. I do as requested. “Leave it off until you speak with the detective. Take mine for the rest of the day. I’ll be at the shop, you can bring it by there later.”
“Is this why you were so cryptic when you called me earlier?”
“Yes, I had a bad feeling. Did he ask where you were going this afternoon?”
“Yes, and I told him that we were going to have lunch. I didn’t lie to him. And did you tell him that you were having lunch with me today?”
“Yes, and he stayed at the shop to work on a few boats, said he would grab his lunch later.”
“Did he look suspicious?”
“No. He knows that we’re friends.”
“Ok, good. Please, when you go back to work, let him know that my phone isn’t working, and that I’m going to have it fixed.”
He assures me that he’ll let Peter know, and I’m relieved to have the reprieve away from him for a few hours. Peter has done the very same thing that his father did when I first met him. He’s inserted himself into my life, and he now stands, or at least he thinks he stands, between me and everyone else in my world. Little does he know that for the first time, I have two very true friends in my life: Chris and Evelyn. Neither of them will allow me to get stuck in the vortex of a controlling man again.
I run my hands up and down my thighs nervously under the table. The comment that Peter made that day in the car with his hand on my crotch has resonated with me. It was too eerily similar to comments that his father made once upon a time.
No, I think to myself. I am not yours.
“You ok?” Chris is asking.
“Oh, yes,” I tell him. “I’m just a bit overwhelmed, that’s all. I know that you’re telling me the truth because I know that there would be no other way that you’d know this information. I don’t want to talk about it with you just yet. I’m not sure how safe it is for you to know too much about any of this. I also know that you’d never lie to me, Chris. Thank you for telling me.”
“I would never lie to you. I would never do anything to hurt you in any way. And I just don’t want to see you with another man that’s going to try and control you. You’ve been through enough. Far more than your fair share.”
He puts money on the table, and we head out. As we get outside I look around and over my shoulder, par for the course in my new life. He watches me.
“Peter is at the shop, don’t worry.”
“I’m not just looking for him,” I say. The hurt look on his face is more than I can handle. I’ve been keeping too much from him, and at this point it isn’t fair.
“Can we get in your car for a few moments and talk?” I ask. “Or go for a drive somewhere? If you have the time.”
“Yes, of course,” he answers, and we get into his car. He drives me around the marina, and I decide to tell him a few things.
“Gabe is still alive, and he’s trying to frame me for his murder. I know that I’m right; I just can’t tell you how I know at this point.”
“I believe you,” is all he says. “And I love you. I just want to help you. Please let me.”
The rest of the drive is spent with me finally telling him the whole story, as I know it at this point. I also tell him that I love him too, but not in the way that he loves me. My life, I explain, is simply too fucked up and he, of all people, knows how true a statement this is.
We don’t talk for too long, as neither of us wants Peter to get suspicious. He has to get back to the shop, and I need to see if I can meet with Bob.
As I lean over to hug him goodbye, I say, “Chris, you know how much I care for you.”
He nods his head. He understands. Something in my chest aches as I close the car door behind me. I look back and watch him drive away, and I wonder how I missed the signs with him.
Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I pushed him away not believing that I was deserving of a man like him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BOB & HANK
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me so last minute,” I say as Bob walks towards me. We’re on the Venice Boardwalk, a safe place since I’m thinking that no one could possibly bug the walkway. No one seems to be following us either. I look behind us and the walkway is fairly empty, there are maybe a dozen or so people meandering within my line of sight.
It’s cloudy outside, a thick fog layer rolling in, following us along the pathway as we walk. He hands me a steaming cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup.
“I added cream and a few of those pink sugar packets,” he says.
&n
bsp; “How’d you know?” I ask, taking a sip. “Umm, perfect,” I say, surprised that he made it just right.
“I study people. I just saw you as a cream-and-sugar kind of gal.”
“Wow, you’re that good or I’m that obvious?” I reply, laughing out loud.
“I’m just that good,” he teases. “As for the last minute meeting, your timing was perfect. I rarely answer the phone if I don’t recognize a number, but for some odd reason, today I did.”
“Yes, as I said, I’m borrowing a friend’s phone for the day. What do you know about bugging a phone?”
“A lot,” he tells me. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks, holding out his hand, waiting for me to hand him my phone.
I dig through my purse, finally pulling it out. I hand it to him without the plastic cover.
“There,” I say, pointing. “When I took the cover off I saw that scratch there. I know that wasn’t like that. I think that someone tried to take the backing off my phone, and maybe they placed a bug inside.”
“Nah,” he says, handing me my phone back. “That’s how they used to do things. With these new smart phones it’s usually a program that’s downloaded onto your device. A software that can clone your phone so a person can read every email, text, listen to every call, have access to all of your contacts, see your browser history. It’s far more advanced than a simple bug.”
“Ok, so how would I know if someone did this?”
“You’d have to have an extremely smart detective take a look. Do you happen to know anyone like that?” he teases and I’m grateful for a reason to laugh.
“I just might,” I joke in return.
“Good then. I live right over there,” he says, pointing to a small bungalow just off the boardwalk.
“I’m shocked,” I say. “I thought for certain that you’d live in some high-rise security building! Don’t you feel somewhat exposed living here? I’m sorry. It’s a great place. I mean who wouldn’t want to live right in the heart of Venice? But anyone can walk right up and get into your place.”