Watch Me

by Jody Gehrman

  “Why are you doing this?” It takes effort to get the words out.

  “I need to get some sleep.” You offer a wan smile.

  I stare at you, willing you to stop behaving like an aloof, condescending bitch. You need to take a good, hard look at what I’m offering. I’ve torn my chest cavity open and ripped out my raw, beating heart. The blood’s still pouring down my forearm, pooling at my elbow, dripping onto the floor, and all you can think to say is I need to get some sleep? Really?

  You’re scared.

  You’re refusing the call to adventure.

  The reluctant heroine.

  I won’t back down from this challenge. You’re begging to be convinced. I can do this. I can do anything. My life’s been one big rehearsal for this moment. Your cynicism’s no match for my optimism.

  It’s obvious, though, we’re done for tonight. I may be an optimist, but I’m not stupid.

  I shove my hands into my pockets. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry if I stayed longer than I should’ve.”

  “It’s fine.” You smile again, but it does nothing to mask how frightened and tired you are. Your eyelids are so thin and pale they’re almost translucent. “Thanks for the pizza.”

  “No problem.” I move toward the door, though it kills me to leave the warm embrace of your living room.

  When you open the door, cold air rushes in. “Good night, Sam.”

  I feel cheap, exposed, empty. “Yeah. Good night.”

  I’m too depressed to even try for a kiss.

  KATE

  I call Detective Schroeder as soon as Sam leaves. My fingers tremble so violently I can barely dial. I get his voicemail. My brain freezes after the beep, but I try to find the right words.

  “Hello, Detective. It’s Kate Youngblood. Professor at Blackwood? Listen, there’s something I need to…” I hesitate, my thoughts spinning, refusing to find traction. “I need to tell you something about the case you’re investigating.”

  After I hang up, I walk around my house, restless and indecisive. I don’t want to be alone here. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep. I feel like I’ve wandered into a nightmare; I can’t tell what’s a real threat and what’s a mere phantom conjured by my overactive imagination.

  “Sam killed Raul.” I say it aloud, just to see if it sounds crazy. I really can’t tell if I’m overreacting or underreacting. Either way, I don’t have definitive proof. There could be any number of logical explanations for why he has the same bottle opener. Lots of reasons. Maybe it’s a trendy man thing, some sort of masculine fashion statement. Or there was a concert and they gave those away as swag. It doesn’t mean anything.

  So why am I trembling uncontrollably? Why have my teeth started to chatter?

  He admitted to hacking my email, sending Maxine that damning message. He admitted to accusing me of sexual harassment. Someone who invades a person’s privacy and fucks with their life without regret—that’s sociopathic, surely. When I confronted him, he barely even seemed bothered. Sure, he apologized, but it was obvious he believed in the inherent rightness of what he’d done. Or maybe rightness and wrongness don’t factor in for him. There’s only what he wants, and what he’s willing to do to get it. That’s the definition of a sociopath, right? Someone who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. I decide to look it up, just to be sure. Precise definitions calm me.

  I pull the OED off my shelf. Just flipping through the pages, I’m soothed, although my hands are still shaking. I find the right entry and whisper the words aloud.

  “A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.”

  Someone who doesn’t give a flying fuck.

  If he’s a sociopath, that opens the doors to other possibilities. Easy enough to commit murder if you’ve got no empathy. Can you be a sociopath with a code of honor? Is that even possible? If so, that would be Sam. I’m pretty sure he’s got a moral compass; it’s just fucking whacked.

  You don’t really know him, I remind myself. You’re basing all this on his writing and what little time you’ve spent with him.

  It occurs to me, somewhat tangentially, that I could call Maxine, explain about Sam and what he did. She met him; she read his work. Maybe his peculiar brand of psychosis will make sense to her once I explain it, and she’ll see me as the victim here. I try to imagine us having a good laugh over it, perhaps turning it into an anecdote we’ll share at cocktail parties—that time when Kate’s crazy student tried to sabotage her life.

  Even as I’m dreaming this up, I know it’s not going to happen. Maxine was dying for an excuse to get rid of me. That’s clear. She probably planned to drop me anyway, unwilling to be shackled to a has-been. I bet she felt guilty about it, wanted to find the right moment. Even if she believes me about Sam, she’ll probably figure it serves me right for being such a weak judge of character. I introduced her to the psycho, after all. I vouched for him. What does that say about me?

  I stop in front of my French doors, caught by my reflection in the glass. I’ve got my wool throw draped over my shoulders. I look old and frail. My skin’s so white it’s almost gray. I’m withered, desiccated. I rest my forehead against the cool glass, willing myself to think clearly.

  That night, when he walked me home, I felt so young, so alive. The snow and the moonlight, his open fascination. The feel of my back pressing against the door as he pinned me with his body. Even now, knowing what I know—suspecting what I suspect—it doesn’t change the chills I get reliving that strange, romantic hour. I pull the first edition of Lolita from its place of honor on the top shelf.

  My phone vibrates. I look at the screen, surprised Detective Schroeder would call me back so late. It’s not him, though. It’s Zoe. I answer, swallowing hard before I try to speak.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounds a little dazed, like she just woke up. “I had this feeling I should call you. Like maybe you need something. You okay?”

  That’s all it takes. I burst into sobs.

  “Come over.” It’s not a request; it’s a command. “Right now.”

  “I’m on my way.” I wipe my eyes, shove my phone into my pocket. I grab my keys, my coat, my purse, and practically run out the door, like someone managing a narrow escape.

  * * *

  It strikes me that the only two men who truly look at me these days make strange bedfellows: a probable murderer and the detective who’s investigating said murder. Maybe that’s the price of aging. You no longer have to feel naked walking down the street, men’s eyes pawing at you like so many hands. In exchange, you disappear, except when it comes to men who need something from you, men with their own twisted agendas.

  That’s not a very positive outlook. Must be the lack of sleep, the stiffness in my neck, the fact that my life is falling apart.

  I stay at Zoe’s Tuesday night and meet with Detective Schroeder first thing Wednesday morning. I call in sick to work and don’t feel even a little guilty. Fuck them. Baby Drew woke up eleven times. I counted. How do parents do it? I’d brain the little monster. He is cute, though, I’ll give him that. Nature’s way of ensuring fewer parents give in to their infanticidal urges.

  Zoe’s a rock. I’m so glad she called. Even if their guest bed is an instrument of torture, and their offspring doubly so, she pulled me back from the abyss. I would have driven myself crazy home alone. Flinching at every gust of wind, hiding under my duvet like a frightened little girl. As soon as I arrived, she poured me a massive glass of wine, and I told her everything. She listened, her expression bouncing from sympathetic to horrified to calm in just the right places. Zoe has always been a great listener. Even now, with one ear cocked for Drew’s cries, she can pull the truth from me like nobody else.

  Detective Schroeder and I arrange to meet at the station. I’ve never been to a police station before. I suppose I should have been by now—a crime writer should research these things—but the opportunity
never arose. It’s completely sterile and devoid of drama, which is disappointing. I didn’t realize until I got there that I had expectations; I pictured myself being interviewed on the set of Castle, with soft lighting and an elaborate murder board in the background. Lots of cops milling about, talking shop, making jokes, drinking coffee, studying forensic samples. I feel ridiculous when I realize how made-for-TV my assumptions are. I take a seat across from Schroeder in his office, trying not to fixate on his cheap, particleboard desk or the stained Berber carpet.

  “So,” he presses his elbows into the desk, leaning toward me. “What did you want to tell me, Professor Youngblood?”

  “It’s about Raul’s murder.” I bite my lip, trying to think of the best way to frame this.

  He studies me with reptilian distance. He reminds me of a crocodile, that predatory stillness. It feels like he’s biding his time. At any moment his jaws might snap open.

  “So I gathered,” he says, not moving. “Go on.”

  “I have a student. His name’s Sam Grist.”

  He pulls a notebook from his pocket and scribbles something. “Grist. Okay. What about him?”

  “He has the same bottle opener Raul carried.”

  His bushy eyebrows pull together. “The same bottle opener?”

  “Yes. With the Rolling Stones logo. You know the one?”

  He looks puzzled.

  “You know, the lips, the tongue?” I stick my tongue out by way of illustration.

  His looks slightly alarmed, but then he gets it. “Oh, right. I know what you mean. Red and black, right?”

  “Exactly.” I look at my lap. “Sam has the exact same kind Raul had, and it got me thinking: Where did he get it?”

  He nods. “How did you happen to see this bottle opener?”

  Fuck. I can feel all the blood rushing to my cheeks. “I saw him using it.”

  “In class? On campus?”

  I consider lying, but I know I’m no good at it. “No. At my house.”

  This time the bushy eyebrows fly straight up. “At your house.”

  “Yes. He came by. We shared a pizza.” Oh my God. Why did I not think this through? Suddenly I feel like the criminal.

  He jots something down in his notebook. “Forgive me for asking, but are you in the habit of entertaining students at your home?”

  “No.” My mouth feels like it’s full of sand. “I didn’t invite him. He just showed up.”

  “With pizza?”

  “No. We ordered that once he got there.” I push my hair away from my face, flustered. “Look, I know this sounds sketchy, but it’s not—we’re—I mean, yes, he has a crush on me, but we’re not…” I sputter to a stop.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says, more gently than I’d expect.

  “It’s not like it sounds. I had a very strange day yesterday.”

  “So, you’re not in a relationship with this student?” He asks it in a neutral tone, perfectly reasonable, like it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  “No. Not like that. Of course not.”

  He nods. “Did this Sam Grist ever spend time with Mr. Torres?”

  “Not that I know of.” I consider. “They were both at the party where I met Raul? But I never saw them interact. Oh, and I did introduce them once, very briefly.”

  “Really?” He looks mildly surprised.

  “It wasn’t a big deal.” Why do I sound like I’m making excuses? “Raul and I went on a date, and Sam was there with a girl—”

  “Where was this?” He flips a page in his tiny notebook; his pen hovers over the paper.

  “On campus. We went to Oleanna.”

  “Sorry, is that a café or…?”

  “A play. David Mamet?”

  “Oh, yeah. The guy who did Heist?”

  I’m impressed. “Exactly.”

  “So you were at the theater, then.”

  “Right. I went with Raul—it was our second date—and Sam sat next to us, just by chance. He was with another student of mine, Jess … her last name’s Newfield.”

  “Jessica Newfield?”

  “Yeah. That sounds right.”

  He jots it down. “Is she Sam’s girlfriend?”

  “He says no.” I shrug. “I have no way to be sure. She flirts with him in class, but who knows?”

  “So, you introduced them—Sam and Raul?”

  “Yes. And Jess, too. We made small talk for a few minutes, and that was it.” I try not to think about the heat I felt coming off Sam the whole performance, the way just touching my elbow to his made me sweat.

  I meet Schroeder’s eye and suddenly feel self-conscious again. He’s looking at me with steady, searching intensity.

  “Was there something else you wanted to say?” He leans forward slightly.

  “About that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, why?”

  His head tilts slightly to the side. “You looked like you had something to add, that’s all.”

  “No.” I sound like a teenager evading her father’s questions. I sigh, frustrated. “Look, the thing is, this kid Sam is obsessed with me. He hacked into my email, fired my agent.”

  “Your agent?”

  “Pretended to be me, told her we’re through.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for my next revelation. “He even told my boss I sexually harassed him, which got me fired.”

  “That’s pretty serious.”

  “You’re telling me! He’s ruining my life.”

  His eyebrows arch, but otherwise his expression remains unchanged. He waits for me to go on.

  “I think I saw his car near my house the first night I went out with Raul. A silver Honda.”

  He nods, barely glancing at his notepad as he jots that down.

  “And then, last night, when I saw that bottle opener, which I know was Raul’s…”

  “Does it have distinctive markings? Dents or scratches you recognized as unique and definitive?”

  “No. But come on. It’s unusual, right? How many people have that specific bottle opener?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” He glances over my shoulder very quickly at the clock.

  I stare him down. “I’m not saying Sam killed Raul.”

  “What are you saying, Ms. Youngblood?” It’s not a challenge but a gentle invitation.

  “That it’s possible.” Suddenly, to my great annoyance, a sob tries to burst from my lips. I swallow it down like a sneeze.

  “Are you all right?” He’s solicitous, leaning forward. His squinty eyes study my face.

  I force myself to speak in a calm, even tone. “He kind of scares me.”

  He sets his notebook down and leans back in his chair. “But owning the same bottle opener and meeting that night at the theater—those are the only connections between them, as far as you know?”

  The evidence looks threadbare when he puts it like that. I just nod.

  “Anything else that makes you think we should look at this young man?”

  “He’s obsessed with me,” I repeat, praying it doesn’t sound delusional. “He thinks we’re going to run off together.”

  He considers this for a long moment, his calm gray eyes assessing me. “Are you suggesting he may have killed Raul Torres out of jealousy? Perhaps he saw you and the victim together and became enraged?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you believe he’s mentally unstable?”

  “Maybe.” I hold his gaze. “He’s very bright, talented, but I think he might be a sociopath.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I choose my words carefully. “He seems incapable of empathy. Like he’ll do anything to get what he wants, no matter who gets hurt.”

  “Has he ever been violent that you know of?”

  “No.” I hesitate. “Unless you count his stories.”

  “His stories?” he echoes.

  “He’s in my fiction workshop, so I read his work. Sometimes it’s pretty violent. In fact,
his last manuscript made my skin crawl, and that’s saying something. I even told my department chair about it.”

  “Was he concerned?”

  “She,” I correct him. “No. Not really.”

  “Has he ever made threats, either to you or his fellow students?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” I pause. “He threatened to kill himself, though.”

  “When and where was that?”

  Great, now we’re back to last night. “At my place. Last night. That’s the main reason I let him in. He’s tried it before.”

  “Attempted suicide?”

  I nod. “He’s got scars on his wrists. We’ve talked about it.”

  “I see.” He nods, completely unfazed. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  I feel lost. Don’t ask me what I thought he’d do. Rush to get a warrant? Organize a SWAT team? All I know is, the blank look he gives me feels like a brush-off. I’m on my own.

  “No. I guess that’s it.”

  The detective stands. So do I.

  He puts one hand on my elbow, steering me toward the door. “Well, Professor, it’s an interesting theory. We’ll definitely keep it in mind.”

  “Do you have any suspects? Besides me, I mean?” I try to laugh, but it comes out sounding strangled.

  “We’re working on it.” He gives me a tight smile and opens the door.

  I take the hint and step out into the hall. “I know it sounds a little out there. I just have a feeling about this. You know? Intuition.”

  “Sure.” He starts to close the door, a placid smile on his thin lips. “Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch.”

  SAM

  I’m so tired of being right.

  Everyone talks about doing what’s right, but nobody has the balls to follow through. I’m the only person I know who actually lives by a code of honor. I get that it might not be everyone’s code, but it’s mine, and I stick to it, day in and day out.

  Fuck other people. Fuck legal systems and the ten commandments and everybody judging shit they don’t understand.

  You’re leaving the police station, your face tense with worry. I can tell by the way you slam the door of your Saab you’re pissed. It’s a scrappy gesture, and it turns me on even though I should throttle you. Guess the cops didn’t take your concerns to heart. You went running to them like a whiny little bitch. I bet they laughed at your wild accusations. Thank god for inept law enforcement.