Though the more that she thought about it, perhaps there were signs. Subtle, but there. Sometimes he’d be on the phone for extended periods of time, but she had never presumed there to be a woman on the other line. And there were times he’d come home late from work, but she never suspected a secret rendezvous keeping him after hours. Some nights he’d be out until eight or nine o’clock, but Haley had always given him the benefit of the doubt. Had she been oblivious all this time?
As she fixed her cold stare on her betrayer, she could take no more. She couldn’t be hearing this. She had to put a stop to it.
“Marc Vincetti—what do you think you’re doing?” Haley screamed as she rolled toward him like a steam engine.
He reflexively popped up from his seat and spun around, his eyes wide. Julie jumped behind him, obviously trying to side with him.
“Hey—” he stammered. But he never answered the question. Instead, he fixed that dumbfounded, blank expression on his face that cheaters were well-practiced at and said nothing. The three stood in apprehensive silence, on display before an eavesdropping crowd watching intently. Haley hadn’t noticed their interested audience before, but now she became keenly aware of their murmurings and stares. Did she really want to make a scene in front of everyone? Was it even worth it? Haley stepped back.
“You know what? I can’t even think right now. You… you make me sick.” The sugar-coated nuts were still in her hands, but she had lost her appetite. So before she spurted out something else to regret, she aimlessly threw down the almonds, which landed right near Marc and Julie’s feet, and concentrated on holding the tears at bay. “Enjoy the snack, and my boyfriend, Julie!” Haley yelled, and she took off running.
She didn’t know where she was running to or how long she’d keep running, but she had to get the anger out somehow. He had seemed so perfect for her, but now he was crushing her whole world. How could he do this to her? And the timing! She gave up Los Angeles for him. To unload this on her now, after it was too late to change her plans, was unfair. To lead her on like he did and then turn around and hurt her like this was cruel. He gave her no explanation, no time to mend things. While she was sobbing in the middle of an empty lakefront beach, he was laughing it up with his new fling. How was she going to fix this mess she’d made of her life?
And then something inside her broke. She was pretty sure it was her heart. Allen had been right.
Blindly she pushed her legs forward into pitch-black isolation, and fresh tears stung her eyes. She slowed her gait as she looked back, half expecting him to chase her down professing his apologies. But he didn’t follow. The raw emotion hit her unexpectedly, and she wanted to hate him. She wanted to punch back at him for playing her. It was as if he planned this whole scene just to hurt her. And she wanted vengeance.
Her aching legs reminded her of the earlier pursuit with the crazy dog, so she stopped to rub an oncoming cramp. When she resumed her trek into a nearby side street, she stepped off the curb into a puddle of slush. Feeling the cold liquid soak through her boot and into her sock, she burst into loud, angry sobs. She didn’t care if everyone in the world watched or heard her break down.
Julie—Haley wondered what Marc’s history was with Julie. They seemed like old friends, but Marc had never mentioned her. Snapping each piece of the puzzle together, Haley assumed Julie had been a friend from high school, possibly even more than just a friend. What did she have that Haley didn’t? Sure, she was average looking, but nothing special. Certainly no beauty queen. But apparently a coward for hiding behind Marc.
Yet as Haley stood in the dark analyzing Julie, herself, and her relationship with Marc, she wasn’t angry that Marc had ruined everything they had over a nobody like Julie. What bothered Haley the most was that she had trusted Marc with everything inside of her and he’d smashed her trust with such ease, almost as if he had no clue that what he was doing hurt Haley. The look on his face didn’t show remorse or even acceptance that what he was doing was wrong. Even if Haley’s suspicions were inaccurate—that Marc hadn’t been cheating all along and that meeting tonight was a mere chance—Marc still should have explained himself just now and apologized for letting Julie hang all over him. Haley detected no acknowledgement of his insensitive behavior. How could he possibly think that seeing Julie while courting her was all right? What dating handbook was he reading?
No, Haley simply would not get jealous of someone like Julie. And yet Haley was jealous. She’d already fallen for him. No matter how hard she tried to despise him, her heart rejected the request. The conflict waged a war inside of her so vicious that she could have sworn the muscles in her heart were being shredded.
Maybe he was doing this for her benefit—flirting with Julie to try to change Haley’s mind about not going to Los Angeles. That whole “if you love something you’ll let it go” thing. If this was a way to manipulate her into leaving, it wasn’t going to work. Except that if he wasn’t going to be with her here in Westfield, then why should she bother staying? Westfield was nothing more than a reminder of him. Wanting to get back at him, Haley realized that leaving Westfield behind could be the ultimate revenge. But she just didn’t know if she could go through with it.
Without thinking, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed. The voice mail picked up, and while the voice instructed the caller to leave a name, a phone number, and so on, she grappled over whether or not to leave a message.
Beep!
“Hi, Allen. This is Haley. Look, you were right about Marc. He doesn’t care about me and I just want to move on. If you’ll still consider taking me with you to Los Angeles, I’d like to go with you. Call me back and let me know. And… uh… thanks. And I’m really sorry.”
If Allen found it in his heart to re-invite her, then she’d go and leave Marc, and all the feelings associated with him, behind. After what just happened, it would probably be the best thing. Heck, maybe she could still gain something out of all of this and fall in love with Hollywood instead. She wanted to let Marc go. But she also knew she loved him.
The game took turns volleying back and forth in her head, Marc… LA… Marc… LA… until she realized… checkmate. There was no decision to make. She had already lost the game. No matter what she’d be the loser. If she and Marc worked things out, she’d give up Hollywood. If Hollywood worked out, her relationship with Marc could never survive the distance… especially not with Julie’s claws digging into him. And then there was that horrible, unspeakable third option: that Marc didn’t want her and it was too late for Hollywood.
Chapter 32
Marc was too tired to notice the twenty messages left on his answering machine Saturday night when he got home. Too oblivious to see the large, unmarked package on his front stoop. Too exhausted to call Sheba into the house. Too drained to do anything but fall into bed fully clothed and fully unaware of the whirlwind going on around him.
The following morning, as Marc fumbled through the dining room on his way to a cup of much-needed coffee—black—the number of messages displayed on his answering machine stopped him dead in his tracks. When he pressed play, the sound of heavy breathing filled up his answering machine. The eerie wheezing woke him up more than the strongest brew ever could. Whoever it was wanted Marc to know he called over and over.
After twelve replays of the same thing, Marc skipped through the remaining eight messages. Listening to it would only drive him nuts. He wasn’t the type to have enemies… none that he knew of. No, Marc always made a point to get along with everyone, even those folks he didn’t like. This likeable trait tagged along with his laid-back nature, since he never cared enough to bicker about little things with people.
There was no way anyone could hate him this much. But then again, after Haley’s outburst last night, he apparently was in the dark about something. Did the messages have anything to do with her? Certainly he couldn’t have upset her enough to spur a half-dozen creepy messages. Or was someone else making the calls?
He step
ped away from the phone and retreated to his living room. Squatting in the middle of the floor, he massaged his fingertips along his forehead hoping to force an answer. Who had a vendetta, and why? There was obviously someone out there he had wronged to an unimaginable extreme, who hated him enough to greet him on a Sunday morning with twenty cryptic messages. This was a direct threat.
He shot up from the floor. Was his enemy possibly in the house? His Glock .40 was in his bedside table… which was upstairs. He grabbed the fire poker and held it over his shoulder, ready to strike.
Room by room he walked with his back against the wall, anticipating someone in a ski mask jumping out at him at any second. Not that there were many places to hide in his open concept home. Dining room. Clear. Kitchen. Clear. Then he heard a creak upstairs. Was that a footfall? He stepped stealthily up each stair making sure to avoid the noisy ones on his way up. The view to his bedroom was blocked by the thick oak railing that ran up to the landing.
He stopped again and listened. A sound was coming from his bathroom. With the fire poker held high and ready to smash the skull of an intruder, Marc moved forward and rounded the corner to his bathroom. Just as he was about to kick open the door, the heat vent whirred and a burst of hot air sent the door in motion. The door squealed again—in need of some WD-40. Was it just the vent he’d heard? His elbow propped the door open and sure enough, there was no one in the bathroom. He blew out breath held for too long. He quickly checked the remaining rooms—all empty, just as he had left them.
He was alone.
Wait.
He was all alone.
No, that wasn’t right. Something was missing. Where was Sheba? With the messages and the strange sounds, he hadn’t noticed that Sheba wasn’t around. It didn’t occur to him earlier in the day that Sheba didn’t greet him with her usual slobbery kiss. When he called her name and didn’t hear the clink of her nails on the floor, he remembered last night. He never called her into the house. The poor dog spent all night outside in the cold. He was thankful for her thick winter coat and hoped she’d forgive him after he shared some eggs with her for breakfast.
A cold gust of wind slapped him across the face and chest when he opened the back door.
“Sheba! C’mon, girl! Time for breakfast!”
He strained his ears for the sound of her dog tags jingling as she ran for the house. Nothing. Dead silence.
“Sheba, it’s time to eat!”
Maybe she’s gotten into something, he figured. Guess she wants me to get out there and apologize before she’ll come in. Sheba was a little more emotional and stubborn than most dogs. If she was upset, Marc knew it.
Marc stepped into his boots and shrugged on a coat and headed out. The wind off the lake felt extra bitter this morning. He stepped along the patches of dormant grass and made his way around the front of the house. Twigs cracked under his steps and leaves crunched as his stride quickened.
“C’mon, Sheba!” Still, no bounding fur ball in sight. It was peculiar, since she always came when he called her. Even if she was upset with him, she would still respond. Something was wrong.
His stride turned into a jog, which turned into a run down the gravel driveway. Rocks skirted sideways underneath him as he ran, and he kicked up more loose gravel in his wake.
“Sheba! Where are you, girl?”
Then he spotted something. A shadowy lump that resembled Sheba lying near the end of his driveway, much too close to the road. His heart started racing as a twinge of panic set in. Somehow his legs managed to make it all the way to where her body lay sprawled out, and he crumbled down next to her. Her eyes were open and her purple tongue was hanging partway out of her mouth. Using his fingers to part the fur, he felt for a heartbeat. He couldn’t find it. He pressed his ear against her chest, but he couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. He spoke softly to her.
“Sheba, girl, what happened to you?”
When he picked her up, her body was cold and stiff.
“No…” This couldn’t be happening. Pulling her closer, he rested her rigid body against his knees. He felt the pressure of oncoming tears.
How long had she been like this? He didn’t remember seeing her when he rolled up the driveway last night. How could he not have seen her? She had to have been placed here after he returned home. He ran his hands over her body. There were no marks on her, no sign of impact, no blood, so she hadn’t been hit by a car. Reaching for his phone in his pocket to call someone, anyone, he only felt the empty space where his cell phone should have been. Had he left it in the house?
He stood at the end of his driveway kneeling by his dead dog—the only best friend he’d ever really had. How could someone hate him enough to kill his dog?
Marc began to cry. It was against every male, testosterone-driven part of him, but the tears just kept falling.
**
Ten minutes felt like hours as he carried Sheba home. She was like family to him, his baby girl. He would never be able to view this stretch of land the same way again. When he walked down the driveway to pick up the mail, he’d remember carrying his dead dog up it. When he pulled into the driveway, he would remember what had happened. It would be a memory he’d never forget. And yet a part of him didn’t want to forget. He wanted to get even.
When he reached the porch, he laid her by the stairs and ran his hands up her muzzle and over her fuzzy ears. It was his last good-bye. Somehow he knew this was no accident. Someone had killed Sheba to tell him they were watching, waiting. It was the same warning the mysterious telephone caller was trying to send him—only this had gotten violent. And then the message hit him like a fist to the face: He would be next.
As he turned to go into the house, it seemed that his mysterious caller and dog-killer hadn’t quite finished making his point. A brown unmarked box taunted him from the front porch.
He threw his arms heavenward. “God, help me!” Marc screamed at the top of his lungs, as if waiting for a booming voice to answer his cry.
A tumbleweed-like jumble of crisp wind-blown leaves rolled past him.
God apparently wasn’t going to thunder his answer, and this wasn’t just a nightmare. It was real.
“I don’t know what’s going on or why, but please… where are You when I need You?” Marc hoarsely whispered.
The box drew him with a magnetic force. Deciding to get it over with, he resigned himself to picking up the box. Once inside his house, he dropped the box onto the dining room table. His heart slammed in his chest cavity and his hands shook with rage as he grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the duct tape holding it closed. He fully expected to find a human hand inside. Nothing would surprise him anymore.
Chapter 33
Entry 6957
I must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy me. I borrowed the line from Ray Bradbury, but it’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive right now. I caught Marc last night with someone else. Allen was right. How could he have known? As if he scripted my future before it happened, seeing all, narrating my final destination. I don’t know who to hate most. Marc for hurting me. Allen for being right. Or me for being so vulnerable.
Beep. “Haley, this is your mom. Please call me as soon as you get this. I have something urgent—”
Skip.
“Haley, honey, please call me. It’s your mom again. I need to speak with you immed—”
Skip.
“Haley, this is Shelly from work. Sorry to call you on the weekend, but we’ve been worried about you. Where have you been?”
Skip.
“It’s Mom again. You can’t go to Los Angeles with Allen—”
Skip.
Haley wasn’t in the mood for her mom’s dramatics or her office’s inquiries. She’d call everyone she needed to when she got to L.A. After a long conversation with Allen—full of tears and apologies and consoling words—he had agreed to take her back as his protégé. She’d be leaving soon, so there was no point calling Shelly since she’d
never see her again. She’d burn her bridges today—her bridges to her job, to Westfield, and to Marc.
Her suitcases sat by her living room entryway, zipped and ready to go. Taking a seat on the sofa, Haley looked at the luggage with uncertainty, praying that the throbbing in her skull would stop. With only three hours of sleep, she was exhausted and tense. She had spent much of the night furiously packing, then unpacking, then finally packing again until her heavy eyelids refused to stay open a moment longer. Even after plopping into bed, sleep eluded her. She had tossed and turned through fitful slumber before being thrust wide awake. He had invaded her dreams—his fingertips on her face, his lips meeting hers, his arms around her warding off the chilly night air.
But then she attacked Haley’s sleep—haunting her, taunting her. Did he ever really love me? What about Julie? What about his notes? Where do I go from here?
The temptress’ heartless flirting popped into Haley’s dreams last night and thoughts right now, egging her jealously on. What previous life of his did Julie belong to, and why was she coming back now, popping out of the cracks just when things were going so well for Haley? As much as Haley wanted to spit in both of their faces, she still loved him. Maybe that made her a glutton for punishment, but her heart wanted what it wanted… and it usually wasn’t what was good for her. Haley glanced up at the clock on her mantel; it ticked away the minutes, announcing an inevitable good-bye that she resisted all night and all morning.
Sleep apparently hadn’t been the answer to her problems. A drive, however, had helped. She tried to recall what time it was when she found herself at Marc’s house, wishing on all the stars in the cloudless night sky that his light would be on. Though right now she regretted even going there, since it only confirmed her desperation. Part of her wanted to reconcile, talk things through before she left. She wanted a reason to change her mind about California. But it was too late.
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