I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller

by Rachelle Lauro

  But my stomach still roiled with nervousness at the idea of walking into the place where cool people hung out, read the scribbly coffee menu, order one, give my name to the inquisitive barista who could neither hear or nor spell very well, and find a cozy couch that wasn't occupied. That required a bit of asking, which I was always loathe to do.

  Luckily, by the time I arrived, Virginia had already done the heavy lifting. I found her sitting in a corner couch, twirling her straw around in an iced coffee, and a steaming mug of tea sitting on the table in front of her.

  "Thanks," I said, sitting down.

  "No problem," she replied.

  "So how was the tour?" I asked, purposely avoiding the unpleasant topic of conversation that lay between us like a decomposing corpse.

  "Yeah, it went really well," she replied in a lackluster tone of voice. Usually by now, she'd regale me with news from David, the publishing house, and recount exuberant fan stories. But her disinterest was cause for concern.

  We sat in awkward silence for a few long seconds, whereby I blew on my tea and she examined the contents of her tall plastic cup. Then I took a bolstering sip of Earl Grey and set the mug down.

  "Why did you do it, Jinny? Why didn't you tell me?" My anger had bled out over the past week. I just wanted to know the whys and the whats, particularly what were we going to do about it. "I mean, how does something like that even happen?"

  "You don't have a right to judge me, Eugenia." She used my full name. That's bad. Full names were only reserved for moments of high alarm or great displeasure.

  "I'm not judging you. Really, I'm not," I said in my most reassuring voice possible. "I just need to know. Can you just tell me?"

  She pursed her lips and stared at the floor. "I really didn't want you to know," she began. "I was afraid to tell you, afraid that you'd call the cops and have him arrested."

  I probably would have, thinking I ought to do that right now. But I didn’t have any grounds. Virginia had dropped the charges. Since then, he hadn’t committed any jailable offense that I knew about. And unfortunately, we lived here in reality, where he’d have to actually do something before he got arrested.

  She looked at me with her piercingly blue eyes. She wasn't wearing any makeup, which made her look younger than she really was.

  "He's not bad, Genie. Really he's not. He's an Amy Mathews fan, that's how it all started. He saw my picture on the back the book, and he followed me home after he'd seen me at the grocery store. He was looking for Amy Mathews memorabilia, that's why he broke into the house."

  Like Amy's underwear? I wanted to ask, but kept my mouth shut. If I interrupted her now, I'd never hear the truth, and I needed to find out what sort of psycho we're really dealing with here.

  "Anyway, it was all really innocent, and he got away with it a few times, which made him feel like he could keep doing it without getting caught. But he did get caught. And when I heard the police wanted to charge him with stalking in the third degree, a felony, I was all for it. I mean that's really creepy, you know? And I was so mad about it! Breaking into someone’s house? But then . . . then, you remember I was seeing that shrink? Well, he suggested that I go see Dillon in prison and try to put my feelings of anger to rest. He said forgiving people is the best therapy because you’re actually forgiving yourself. So I went—I went to jail to try and forgive him and we just started talking. And he told me why he did it, and he said that he was really sorry. And he even started crying. And I felt so sorry for him." She looked at me. "He's a good guy, Genie. He's a hopeless romantic. The next time I went to go see him, he'd written this poem about me, and he read it out loud. And you know? That shrink was right. I forgave him and . . . and I just felt like a better person for it. And when he told me that a felony stays on your record forever, I just thought, you know, that's not really fair. He's not a felon. He's a really nice guy, who just needed a break."

  "Mmhm." I didn't have much else to say. There were so many plot holes in her romantic tale of falling in love with a jailbird that I didn't even know where to begin. It was obvious Dillon had manipulated her, but pointing it out was useless. I guess my overwhelming feeling was one of pure astonishment. Was Virginia really that stupid? It was clear she was victim of that strange phenomenon called "blinded by love," but did Dillon feel the same way about her? Enough to curb any violent tendencies?

  "How much does he know about Amy Mathews?" I asked, setting aside matters of the heart and getting down to facts.

  "Pretty much . . . everything," she said, fiddling with her straw.

  "Shit!"

  Her eyes glazed over with defiance.

  "Jinny, this could mean the end of Amy Mathews as we know it. He could—he could go to the media, he could—"

  "But he won't," she replied. "He wouldn't do that."

  "But how do you know?"

  "I just—"

  "Please don't tell me that you just know." I looked away, infuriated. "Just spare me your insights."

  "I didn't mean to. I mean, I didn't tell him. I just confirmed what he already knew. It was pretty obvious. We have placards and special edition book covers hanging on the walls. We have piles of autographed copies sitting at home. My name obviously isn’t Amy, and neither is yours. So you'd have to be stupid not to figure it out."

  "And let me guess, Dillon isn't stupid," I said, regretting the words the moment I spoke them. I saw the defensive linebacker look in her eyes and immediately retreated. "Sorry, Jinny. I couldn't help it."

  Her shoulders sagged, defensive linebacker benched. "Well, can you at least try to help it? I really am on your side here."

  I clenched my teeth together, trying to disguise my alarm and deep, resounding disappointment. Everything we'd worked so hard for lay in the palm of that criminal's grimy hands. It was true: I wanted to retire Amy Mathews, but I intended to retire her in dignity, not let her perish in the ritual fire of a media witch-hunt.

  "Does he have the code to house?" I asked tiredly, rubbing my eye.

  "No," she said, almost proud that she hadn't handed it over.

  "Does he have any keys?"

  Again came a proud, definitive "no" as if she'd be so stupid to give him a copy. I sighed and thanked God for small mercies.

  "Are you going to move back home?" she asked, finally, looking almost hopeful. "It's pretty lonely there without my little hermit."

  I had to admit, I was ready to move home. I was ready for a little reprieve. But first, we had some housekeeping to do.

  "I want access to the security account so I can change the code," I said, laying out my demands like an attorney. "I want the locks changed, just in case he found a key and copied it." I paused, for this would be the clincher. "And I don't want him anywhere near me or the house again."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Virginia swallowed my last term with poor grace. I wasn't sure where Dillon lived, but if they couldn't hang out at our spacious home, she would have to disembark at Dillon’s, which I suspected was a considerable step down for all parties involved.

  I knew I wouldn't be able to get her to dump him, but as long as I could keep a healthy distance between him, myself, my things, and my house—I could accept it. I could only send stalker articles to Virginia and hoped for the best.

  She never replied to my emails, nor did she ever mention them in person, but I hoped I was at least making some headway in her mind and her heart.

  A mere twenty-four hours after I had moved back home, Virginia started her innocent questioning about how many words I'd written for book two, and how long until I'm done? I didn’t have the courage to tell her the bad news.

  I’d tried. I’d tried really hard. But everything I’d written was dead on arrival. The book is over. Amy is done. But—how would Virginia take the news? Would something terrible happen?

  A few weeks had passed since I'd moved back home. I changed the code, changed the locks, and put my name on the home security policy. Better yet, I hadn't seen a trace of Di
llon.

  But sleep eluded me. Every time I closed my eyes and started drifting down to the wonderful watery world of Sleepy Land, worries rose up and my stopped my journey short. I’d gone back into stalker mode, where I locked the door behind me, and double checked that it was secure. Where I glanced over my shoulder as I walked down the hallway, watching the shadows.

  And the broken record player was back, analyzing my every thought. Was I sure the book was over? Could I get a little mileage out of Falco? No, I concluded, every time. I’m just not that person anymore.

  Then there were technicalities that required more thought. Should I try to just blurt out the bad news? Or maybe arrange my grand reveal in public, where she’d have to curb her anger?

  There were lots of other things to consider, lots of other stuff I couldn’t quite remember because it’s—let me check . . .

  It’s four forty-seven in the morning. I slung my arm over my eyes. Another sleepless night. My brain felt like a congealed mess. I had a low level head buzz. Stress gnawed on my innards. I felt like my eyes were going to fall out of my head if I didn’t get some decent sleep, and soon.

  I longed for my pills and toyed with the idea of getting some more. I just had to pay Dr. Miller a friendly visit, ask about his kangaroo, and tell him I wasn’t feeling too bright eyed. Be strong, I told myself. That is not the answer.

  I tossed off the covers, sat up, and pinched the bridge of my nose between my eyes. Maybe an early morning walk would help clear matters in my mind. I pulled on my leggings, hoodie, my shoes, and headed outside.

  The sky had lightened from black to midnight blue, which really should be called God Awful Hour of the Morning blue, but nobody consulted me on the matter. I set off on a brisk pace, pulling in a deep breath of crisp morning air.

  Snow crunched under my feet. Dead leaves lay encased in ice like frosty jewel cases. I smiled as the sun began to rise. Sets in the west, rises in the east. I found some comfort knowing that I walked due north. That the eastern seaboard lay to my right, and the Catskills mountains lay to my left somewhere.

  Life seemed to be swirling around me. First with the Amy Mathews rocket ship ride up to success, then with the fat advance checks that arrived in the mail, the knowledge that I could buy anything I wanted (though I never wanted anything), then ditching my pills, falling in love, and now this turmoil brought on by Amy’s early retirement. And of course the topic never far from mind: Dillon.

  I stopped and looked up at the zenith of the sky, a limitless dome of fading stars, where I could always find my bearing. Mom, Virginia, and I used to park at the beach, lay on the hood of the car, and look up at the sky, listening to the ocean crash in the distance. Star gazing always made me feel insignificant. I liked feeling like a speck of sand on a giant galactic beach. It was Mom’s favorite pastime too, for the same reason.

  I picked up the pace, trying not to think about Mom too much. That would carry me down the long road of anger, despair, and loss—a weary road that I’d traveled for far too long. For now, I needed to get my blood flowing. I needed to raise my body temperature. I needed to figure out how to tell Virginia the bad news.

  I shivered and kept walking, pumping my arms a little to chase away the cold. You should just tell her, a little voice rose up from within. Just say it.

  My stomach twisted with nervous anticipation, but I could feel a weight lift from my shoulders. There was a little bounce in my step. Just the thought of telling her gave me a nice, peaceful feeling.

  And how would we tell the fans? Maybe Virginia could go on a morning talk show and tell the world that Amy needed to take a break.

  Only one block from home now. I picked up my pace as more ideas flowed to me. Amy wanted to get a new perspective so she visited Seattle and just fell in love with the city. She needed a change a pace. She’d lived on the stuffy East Coast for her whole life, and wanted to experience something new, something different, something vibrant.

  She loved sitting in the coffee shops, breathing in the invigorating aroma of roasted coffee. I could hear Virginia now, blabbing on a podcast. "And I just feel in love with—everything! Did you know the Pacific Northwest is home to the largest temperate rainforest in the world?" Then she’ll talk about the vibe—that’s a word Amy would use—and how Seattle is so hip. Seems like another one. And about how she feels like so much has happened since she wrote After The End, and she needs to take time for herself.

  The world will go on. Amy’s readers will read other books. There will be an initial flurry of half-true articles. David won’t be too happy. But Virginia . . . what about her?

  I rounded the corner to the home stretch, and resolved to tell her at my first opportunity. No more anguish. No more avoidance. I’ll just have to support her through it. I hurried up the drive, went inside, and stopped cold. Virginia stood in the kitchen, making a cup of coffee.

  "Hey," she said, glancing over at me as I walked over. "You’re up early."

  "I couldn’t sleep," I said.

  "Everything okay?"

  My heart skittered in my chest. I’d expected a few more days of mulling it over, maybe even change my mind. But here I was, staring down the barrel of the opportunity.

  "Not really . . ." I said, walking to the bar stool and sitting down.

  "What’s up?" she asked, heaping teaspoons of ground coffee into the machine. She has no idea, I thought. None at all. I could just make something up. Anything would do. She was barely functioning anyway. She wouldn’t notice my little fib.

  Tell her now. "Um . . ."

  "Um?" she asked, glancing toward me. "Sounds terrible."

  My mind went blank. All the fancy words, the easy-peasy conversation that I’d had with myself during my morning walk, disappeared. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say, besides—"Jinny, it’s over. The book is done. I can’t write it. I’m not that person anymore."

  Stone cold silence.

  I wasn’t sure if I should expand on my personal feelings, or how I’d reached my final conclusion, but Virginia, for once, didn’t have anything to say. She turned back to the machine and poured herself a cup. I could see her jaw muscles jumping. Then she turned back to me, steaming mug in hand.

  "You sure?" she asked.

  That she didn’t attack me, or tell me that I’m a nobody, or strong-arm me made me want to weep. I nodded my head one slowly, sadly, kind of in disbelief. "I am."

  She pressed her lips together. "I suspected that was the case." She shrugged. "All right. I’ll tell David."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Virginia hadn’t blasted me with her fury. For that I was grateful. But she was cordial about the matter. That worried me. She’d come around, I reasoned. There would be a slew of Amy related events to keep her busy, marking the announcement of Amy’s retirement. Maybe by then, maybe she’d find a new direction in life. Maybe, she’d even dump Dillon.

  So I tried to keep up a normal routine: seeing Ben, making myself available in case Virginia wanted to talk (she didn’t), writing some, and seeing more of Ben.

  A week later, I worked later than usual, polishing up my latest chapter of "Rebecca." Then I yawned, stretched, closed the document—save. close.—and went to the kitchen, where I heard the familiar low tones of a voice that instantly stilled me.

  Dillon.

  I found him laying on my favorite chaise with one leg sprawled to the side, the other stretched out before him, his shoe resting on my Tiffany blue chenille. Virginia lay on the adjacent couch as still as a corpse.

  My heart started hammering. How could she bring him back here? I thought furiously, but the initial anger dimmed at my rising alarm.

  "Jinny?" I asked, going to her and trying to rouse her from her slumber. "Are you okay?"

  There was a dull reek about the room like stale food or decomposing plants. Yes, that was it. They'd both been smoking pot, and were currently vegetating in a stupor. She roused from her slumber and wiped some drool from the corner of her mouth. "Oh
," she said dazedly. "Hey."

  She seemed okay. Now onto the next order of business. "What is he doing here?" I mouthed, pointing at Dillon.

  "Oh, that. Yeah, sorry. We just stopped by for a second. He was just leaving, weren't you, babe?"

  No answer.

  I looked over at the person in question. He didn't seem to be "just leaving" anywhere, besides reality.

  "He needs to leave, Virginia," I said between clenched teeth. "Now."

  "Yep," she said, pushing herself up to a sitting position. "Hey, babe," she said louder, "My sister says you need to go."

  I gaped at her, willing jabs of electricity to fly from my eyes and sizzle Virginia's sleep-creased face. "Why are you blaming this on me?" I whispered.

  Then Dillon roused. "Tell your sister to fuck off," he said, rolling over to his side, back facing us, both shoes resting on my pretty blue chenille.

  I turned back to Virginia. "You get him out of here now or I'm calling the cops," I said, burning with rage.

  "I'm up! I'm up . . ." replied Dickhead. "I was just kidding. Geez. Your sister is right. You have a real stick up your butt." Then he labored to his feet. "Can I get a drink before I go?"

  Before either myself or Virginia could reply, he walked to the fridge to do a bit of his usual perusal. "You can have some tap water, Dillon,” I said, my voice shaking with anger and fear. "Looks like you could use some."

  He scoffed, scratched his head, and pulled the fridge door open. "Hey Jinny, are there any beers left?"

  Virginia scooted past me and went to the fridge, eyes glazed over. "Maybe you should get one at the 7-11," she said. And mouthed, "Anywhere but here."

  "Gotcha," Dillon said, closing the door. "I'll take you up on that tap water offer though, Eugenia."

  Suddenly, I wasn't so glad I’d offered. I went to the cupboard and retrieved the smallest glass we stocked, one meant for a single shot of espresso, filled it with water, and handed it over.

  "Thanks," Dillon said, lifting it up and regarding the meager portion of water. "Cheers." And he sipped it. "So how are your books coming along?" he asked in a companionable voice that chilled me. Dillon and I had probably exchanged a grand total of four words throughout his entire association with my sister. I held a barely disguised contempt for him (the reason of which I now understood), which he reciprocated with pointed silences.