Monsters Among Us

by Monica Rodden

  “Yeah. I figured.” After a moment, Leyna walked forward. She sat in the chair but pulled it a little away from Catherine’s bed.

  “I was wondering,” Catherine said, “if you could tell me what Henry did to you.”

  Leyna’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you—? Did he—?”

  “No,” Catherine said. “He didn’t tell me. But I…I heard something. About an attack.”

  Leyna said nothing.

  “You went to the cops,” Catherine continued.

  “Yeah. Very productive, let me tell you.”

  “They didn’t believe you.”

  “No.” A pause. “I met him at Falls, at the library where he worked. We dated for a few months. But he was…intense. It was too much, too fast. He wanted to be around me all the time and if I canceled plans or wanted to hang out with other people…” She sighed. “So I broke it off. He was upset, but he seemed to take it well. At the time. I thought that would be the end of it. I had no idea, no clue, what would come next.”

  Another silence. Catherine waited, watching the other girl’s eyes, the way they went distant and dark.

  “I was walking back to my car one night after an honors council meeting. He was there, waiting for me, just standing in the parking lot next to the driver’s door like he was going to take me home or something. I asked him what he was doing and he was acting very…it was weird. Like he was trying to act like we hadn’t broken up. Like I was still his girlfriend. I didn’t…I was kind of mean. I was tired and it was late and I just didn’t want to deal with him anymore. I told him to leave me alone.”

  Leyna shut her eyes.

  “He grabbed me. My arms. Pulled me toward him to hug or kiss me, I don’t know. I kind of froze and then tried to pull away and he—he didn’t like that. He kept saying I couldn’t leave him. It was incredible, how strong he was. I remember trying to get away from him and realizing I physically couldn’t do it. Then he called me Catherine.” Her eyes opened. “Catherine, Catherine, you can’t leave me. Catherine, no. Just over and over. I was fighting, pushing, and then—I don’t know if I tripped or what but I was on the ground and he was pulling me. Then someone drove into the lot and parked really close to us, and he seemed to…I don’t know…come back to himself. He let me up, anyway, kind of dusted us both off. My cheek was scraped and bloody, all that crap from the pavement in my hair. He was really upset about that. Kept apologizing. I finally tried to get in my car and he went to stop me but then I told him I’d scream and that other car was parked just a few spaces away and…he let me go. He was crying, but he let me go.” A tremor rolled across her shoulders. “If that other person hadn’t showed up…I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”

  “At the clifftop,” Catherine said slowly, turning her head so Leyna could see the bruising at her temple, “he hit me. That’s how I got away. It was how he looked at me after he hit me. There was blood and he was…surprised by it. Like he hadn’t meant to do it. He actually said that: I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “This is awful, please forgive me,” Leyna said in a flat little voice. “Let’s just get out of here, get something to eat. You hungry?” She sighed bitterly. “I went to the police right after, shaking, like a total wreck. They did absolutely nothing, even when I showed them my arms—I don’t know, I’d wiped a lot of the blood off and the bruises weren’t that bad yet. But then I got kind of panicked and desperate—I wasn’t sleeping well and I kept seeing him around—and I remembered Henry was really involved in his church, super close with the pastor, and I thought that might be something. Not going to him directly, but to someone else Henry wasn’t friends with.”

  “Someone who could kick him out of the church?” Catherine asked, trying to understand.

  “No,” Leyna said. “More like…be aware of what was going on. Watch him. I think I just wanted people to know. And the church is so big here, I was hoping…Anyway”—another sigh—“I was on the church website awhile, trying to figure out who to go to. And when I Googled that guy Ken, I saw his wife was a therapist. It seemed like a good idea. I figured, they’re religious and know about stuff like this so they’ll feel compelled to do something….”

  “I think they tried,” Catherine said.

  Leyna looked uncomfortable at that. “He left the church. Because of me. Ken and his wife. They’re freaking moving out of town. I went to the cops after, tried to retract my statement, but it didn’t matter by that point. God, I feel like I messed everything up. I should have told you. I’d seen you with him at the store, and then I heard your name—Catherine—at Starbucks and you were talking to that girl about Henry….I almost told you. But I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just felt stupid, about everything.”

  “No,” Catherine said. “You weren’t stupid. That wasn’t your fault. None of it was. And there was more going on in the church than just Henry. Ken would have left anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was in a tree once. I heard things there.”

  Leyna was looking at her like she was insane, but Catherine didn’t mind. She stared right back at the other girl and thought she felt someone else, too, a smaller presence off to the side, just on the edge of her vision: a red coat and the smell of spices. It made her wonder if you had to be young to be believed, or if you had to have a certain number of bruises, a wide-enough bloodstain on the snow. Or maybe you just had to die. It made her think of that Bible quote, the famous one about the mustard seed she’d had to memorize for Sunday school all those years ago, how the smallest amount of faith could move mountains. She wondered if doubt was just as powerful—if it could cement everything in place, keep it exactly how it had always been, so that nothing ever changed.

  “I wanted to say I believe you,” Catherine said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. To say I’m sorry, and that I believe you.”

  Leyna burst into tears.

  She was released just shy of three days after what the papers were calling “The Clifftop Showdown: Attempted Murder-Suicide at Lookout Point.” Her parents tried to hide the paper from her, but she had the internet. Emails. Instagram and Snapchat. Dozens of messages she didn’t answer.

  Her parents hovered. Her mother seemed to want to talk about Amy. She was a nurse, after all, and she’d spoken to Minda Harper about what might have been wrong with Amy. But Catherine didn’t want to talk about Amy. She didn’t want to talk at all, most of the time. Her father was better. He sat with her in silence, and even though it wasn’t completely comfortable—nothing was—she could look at him now, and he at her. She kept the curtains open in her bedroom, watching the soft motions of the trees, the birds scattering pine needles and the last dustings of snow. She listened to the rain from the front porch. Saw a moving truck swallow furniture and boxes from the Porters’ house. She asked her parents about Amy’s parents, what was going on, if they’d talked to them. Their responses were sad and vague and that was fine because the answer was obvious, inevitable.

  She asked them about Henry’s parents too, and about Molly. She worried about Molly, pictured the dog dying at Henry’s house, forgotten in a room, Mrs. Brisbois stepping over her with an impatient, nasal exhalation. Catherine’s mother didn’t like when she asked about anything having to do with Henry, but her father shot her considering looks every time she said Molly’s name.

  She slept a lot, but not well, falling asleep on couches and chairs and rugs. Her doctors weren’t worried, though, said it would help the healing. She wondered if that was actually true. She found herself waking at intervals with a start, feeling first panic, disorientation as the nightmares faded—then guilt.

  Because she was literally doing nothing. And there were things she had to do.

  Three days after she got out of the hospital she called Amber, who swore fluently over the phone before crying for a minute straight. The next day, she lis
tened to the voice mails Andrew had left her. She didn’t answer them, but she didn’t delete them either. She responded to her professor but didn’t do any actual work on the paper, and the day after that, the doorbell rang and her mother asked her if she’d like to come to the door.

  Catherine got up from the couch, a blanket wrapped around her, and slowly walked with her mother to the entryway.

  Bob was standing on the front porch. With Molly.

  “Hi,” she said, dumbfounded.

  Bob had a sheepish look on his face and Molly was struggling on her leash to get to Catherine.

  She knelt down, blanket still around her shoulders, and stroked Molly’s face. “Hey, girl,” she said. She looked directly into the dog’s eyes, even though she knew you weren’t supposed to do that. Molly looked back at her, panting a little, and licked her neck, just to the side of her wound, now covered with just a large Band-Aid.

  Catherine stood back up. Bob was watching her closely, his normally pink-white skin almost red at the cheekbones.

  “Thought I’d stop by,” he said. “Hope that’s okay.”

  “Why do you have her?” Molly was standing closer to Catherine now. She could feel the dog’s body heat against her legs.

  “I, uh, might have overstepped a bit.”

  Catherine was very aware of her mother watching her. “It’s okay,” she said, still looking at Bob. “I’m fine.”

  Her mother nodded, then went to the kitchen. Catherine heard the water running, and she returned a moment later with a bowl, which she sat at Molly’s feet. The dog sniffed the water, then turned, knocking it with her tail. Catherine’s mother made a noise and went back into the kitchen, presumably for paper towels.

  Catherine rubbed idly at the Band-Aid, then made herself stop. “You overstepped?”

  “Somewhat,” Bob admitted, tugging Molly back from the spilled water. “Though with Celia Brisbois, I’m not sure how that can be avoided.”

  She gazed at him curiously as her mother returned to mop up the spill.

  Bob sighed, pulling Molly back again. “From what you told us, Henry planted James’s hair on Amy Porter’s body, but when we submitted it for DNA testing, the lab let us know some of the hairs weren’t human. Along with the hairs that ostensibly belong to James—though the DNA will take weeks to confirm—there were microscopic dog hairs.” He nodded at Molly, who was trying to sniff the paper towels; Catherine’s mother shooed her away.

  “So you wanted to see if those belonged to Molly,” Catherine said, watching her mother’s futile attempts to push away the Labrador.

  Bob nodded. “It would definitively link Henry to the killing. But when we came to collect the hair, I believe the exact words were, ‘If you want her, take all of her. Get her out of this house.’ Bear in mind, the Brisboises’ house has been searched thoroughly, and that can be fairly…disruptive. I guess the dog was the last straw.” His eyes softened, and he looked past her. “And I got word you’d been asking after her.”

  She turned to see her father leaning against the wall just by the stairs, his arms crossed across his chest, looking pensive.

  “Richard,” her mother said, rising to her feet, damp paper towels dripping from her hands. “You can’t be serious.”

  “She doesn’t have much time left,” Bob cautioned. “From what I understand. We can always take her to the shelter—”

  But Catherine had already held out her hand for Molly’s leash.

  “Richard,” her mother scolded, now walking past her, to her father. “A word, please?”

  Catherine heard their footsteps recede to the living room, caught her mother saying something like didn’t even bother to consult me on this?

  Smiling, she watched Molly lap up the remaining water in the bowl.

  “Thank you,” she said to Bob.

  “Still think I’m overstepping a bit. I was surprised to hear you wanted her, to be honest,” he admitted. “With her previous owner being, ah…”

  “I want her.”

  He nodded. Bounced on the balls of his feet. “You know, Andrew never told me how you all knew about Pechman.”

  “What?”

  “John Pechman. Andrew asked about him. His son as well.”

  Catherine said nothing.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware,” Bob said, “but Ken Itoh came to us after the…incident. At Lookout Point. Very keen to talk to us about Henry, and John Pechman.” He gave her another searching look.

  She wondered if Pechman had discovered his books all out of order, the shelf no longer screwed into the sides. Though maybe he had more pressing matters on his mind now.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” she asked.

  “The case has been transferred to the higher-ups. Seems people thought it best, on the whole, to leave local law enforcement out of Pechman’s dealings. I believe there’s an audit of the church going on as we speak.” A pause. “I’m sorry,” Bob said. “I don’t know if I’ve said that to you.”

  Catherine looked up at him. “You did kill him. You did save me.”

  “That was Andrew,” Bob said. “All Andrew. He says he’s been trying to get in touch with you.”

  “I haven’t…really been up for it.”

  “No, of course not. I’m sure he understands that.”

  “Can you—?” She broke off.

  “What?”

  She swallowed. “Tell him to give me some time.”

  “Catherine,” Bob said. “I think that boy would give you several lifetimes if you asked him.” Then he cleared his throat, looking awkward. It made him seem younger somehow. And in that moment she saw him in a way she hadn’t been able to that night: standing across the clearing in the gently falling snow, aiming past her, elbows locked, waiting for an opening, his heart racing just as fast as hers. She wondered if he had nightmares like she did, if he woke up breathless at strange, dark hours, his mind full of how it might have ended.

  “Well,” Bob said, taking a small step back from the doorway. “You sure your parents are going to be okay with this?”

  Catherine looked at Molly, who was now belly-down on the hardwood, head on her paws. She could just hear her parents in the living room:

  “…a reason for being, for getting up in the morning. Ikigai, they call it—”

  “I swear to God, Richard—”

  Catherine smiled and put her hand on the door. “Yeah,” she said. “We’re good.”

  * * *

  —

  It took Molly all of twenty-four hours to completely exhaust her. She went to the pet store and set up a vet appointment and her parents bickered over what the rules should be, where Molly should be allowed to go in the house. Catherine’s mother thought Molly shouldn’t be let in the living room, but by nightfall she was reading on the couch, absentmindedly stroking Molly’s head, which lay on a pillow in her mother’s lap.

  “Told you,” her father teased.

  Her mother pretended not to hear.

  The next morning Molly woke her up at seven to go outside. Catherine stood shivering in the cold, sleep still in her eyes, as Molly leisurely made her way around the front yard as though this was a very important decision.

  “Oh, come on already,” Catherine said.

  A bark sounded in the distance, high-pitched, almost a yowl.

  Molly whirled and ran out of the yard.

  “Molly!” Catherine shouted, watching her disappear down the sidewalk. Why didn’t I put her on a leash? “Molly!”

  Catherine ran, finally catching up to her a street or so down. Molly was wagging her tail furiously at a small white dog as a teenage boy looked around with a bewildered expression on his face.

  “This your dog?” he called. Then he recognized her, and she, him.

  She froze on the sidewalk, not sure
what to do, but Molly was circling the smaller dog, who clearly did not share her enthusiasm, and she didn’t want the situation to escalate.

  “Molly,” she said, and walked forward. She took hold of the collar, her breathing fast. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Matt wiped his nose. “Ours isn’t really trained either.”

  “She’s trained,” Catherine said, a little defensively, though she actually wasn’t sure that was true at all. Silence fell as they looked at each other; then Matt cleared his throat nervously.

  “How’s Hannah?” Catherine asked finally, realizing as she said it that she genuinely wanted to know.

  Matt shrugged. “Okay, I guess. School started, so she doesn’t think about it as much.”

  “And you?” she asked before she could stop herself. “You think about it? About her?”

  Her heart was beating very fast and Molly was whining and the small dog was growling now, little teeth bared.

  “I didn’t do anything to her,” Matt said, tugging at his dog. It leapt up at him and dragged its way down his arms, pulling at the sleeves.

  “You knocked me down, though.”

  His eyes darted to hers. “I fucked up. Seriously. I just…I freaked. Getting called down by the cops, asked all these questions. My parents yelling at me, looking at me like it was possible I actually, like, killed someone. Thinking about going to jail. I mean, I watch the shows. It doesn’t take much, does it? To send someone away? Then you came to my house and you were starting it all up again, saying what the cops were saying, and I just…lost it. After, I felt like shit about it, about everything. Then I heard what happened, at the clifftop. I thought I should apologize or something, but I figured you probably didn’t want to talk to me anyway.”

  “Why were you even talking to her? Why? She was twelve years old. Can’t you see how bad that looks?”

  “She…was nice to me.” His voice was quiet, his eyes wet. “That was all. I liked it, that she was nice to me. How is that so bad?”