Obsessed

by Aleatha Romig

  That first visit had been out of necessity. I couldn’t recall the details, but something had happened with one of my mother’s patients and she was needed at the hospital. Ally was at a friend’s house. If my father hadn’t taken me along with him, I would have been left home alone. Although I proclaimed that I could handle it, my father decided otherwise.

  For as long as I could recall, it had been my father’s practice to visit different locations, counseling youth. Later, I’d learned that the people from the various YMCAs, Boys and Girls Clubs, and after-school programs would call my father whenever something significant occurred or if there was someone they felt would benefit from his assistance.

  As we drove the fringes of the city, the landscape of the different Chicago neighborhoods was lost on me. The diverse population of Wicker Park was my norm. I didn’t understand that as we traveled to various locations, potential dangers lurked beyond the walls of the centers.

  Now, reminiscing as an adult, I marvel at the innocence I possessed and credit my parents for raising us to see the person beneath the surface.

  Maybe that is why I have difficulty seeing the man Kader claims to be.

  Curled on my side as my gaze went beyond the large windows to the night sky, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever see my father again. Those were thoughts I tried to avoid as I blinked away the tears teetering on my lower lids.

  Had I told my dad how meaningful those visits were to me?

  Perhaps Kader was right and the other children saw me as an outsider. That wasn’t how I felt or how the others made me feel.

  Why hadn’t I done more in Indianapolis to help others like my father had?

  I’d always been too busy with work and our research. No, I’d seen my way of helping differently. It was my belief in our compound. Creating it had been my way of contributing.

  The reality hit me.

  The compound may never go to market. My dreams of helping others were dying along with my reputation. Sighing, I closed my eyes, allowing my mind to drift back to the memories my dreams had revived.

  That first visit with my dad came back to me.

  With my dad leading me, we approached the big brick-and-limestone building. I recalled the blue sky and orange and yellow leaves swirling in mini cyclones that danced across the parking lot. With my hand in his, Daddy and I entered a big gymnasium. Waiting inside at a tall desk was a woman with a pretty smile and bright fingernails.

  Those may be odd qualities for a girl of about eleven years old to recall, but I did.

  Her name was Miss Betsy. After we’d visited a few times, she’d come around the desk and greet me with a hug. A smile came to my lips, recalling how she always smelled of vanilla, like the kind my mom added to chocolate chip cookies.

  Maybe it was Miss Betsy’s initial response that made me feel welcome.

  On that first visit, my dad apologized to her for bringing me along. Coming around the desk, Miss Betsy’s friendly smile never wavered as she told my dad that I was welcome anytime.

  Dad and I both glanced into the expanse of gym. There were multiple basketball rims hanging from the tall ceiling. The wood floor was lined, dividing the greater court into smaller courts. The height of the baskets on each smaller court seemed to be dictated by the height of the players. Both boys and girls were playing, bouncing and shooting orange balls.

  “Betsy,” my dad said, “you have enough children to watch.”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing as too many children, Dr. Carlson. Besides, we have help today.” Crouching down, she looked me in the eye. “Honey, are you a basketball player?”

  Shyly, I shook my head as my gaze scanned the children of all ages.

  Some were tall, others short, some heavy while others were thin. Dark hair and light hair. Long hair and short hair. There were some with pale complexions like mine and others in all shades of brown. No one was the same and together they were moving, playing, and having fun.

  “Dr. Carlson,” Miss Betsy said in a low whisper, “Willie is waiting in 101. I told him I called you.” Her volume rose. “Now, you just leave Miss Laurel with me. I promise she’s no trouble.” She smiled my way. “We’ll have fun, won’t we?”

  I nodded.

  After my dad gave me a hug and made me promise to be good, I turned to Miss Betsy and pointed to a raised stage area across the gymnasium. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s our craft center. Today, Miss Jean is helping, and oh...” Her voice grew high. “...she loves sparkles and glitter. Do you like crafts?” The way Miss Betsy spoke boosted my enthusiasm.

  Nodding quickly, I told her that I did.

  Taking Miss Betsy’s hand, we walked along the perimeter of the gymnasium. The air around us filled with the squeals of tennis shoes on the hardwood floor, as well as whistles, grunts, complaints, and laughter.

  In this unfamiliar neighborhood, within the gym, it was much like my own school.

  “Miss Jean,” Miss Betsy said as we arrived onto the stage, “we have a new friend.”

  Miss Jean, a bigger woman who waddled when she walked, flashed me a welcoming grin. “Well, hello, sweetie. What’s your name?”

  “Laurel,” I replied, aware the other children had stopped their work on crafts to look at me.

  “Welcome, Laurel.” Miss Jean turned to the tables surrounded by chairs holding both boys and girls. On their surfaces were colorful pieces of construction paper, glue, scissors, glitter and sparkles. “Let’s all say hello to our new friend Laurel.”

  “Hi, Laurel,” came softly and repeatedly.

  A pretty girl with red hair lifted her hand.

  “Yes, Lorna?” Miss Jean asked.

  “Miss Jean, Missy and me got room over here if Laurel wants to sit with us.”

  Miss Jean pointed a finger toward the girl and after pursing her lips, she said, “Missy and...” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Lorna smiled, her big front teeth reminding me of mine. “Missy and I...” She paused. “...we have room,” Lorna said proudly.

  “That’s very nice of you, Lorna.” Miss Jean looked down at me. “It’s up to you, Laurel. You may sit wherever you’d like.”

  Thrilled to have received an invitation from a girl about my age, I nodded energetically toward Lorna and Missy as my smile grew. Lorna had big green eyes, freckles on her cheeks and nose, and curly red hair that reminded me of Annie from the musical. Missy, on the other hand, had dark hair like me but her eyes were big and brown and her skin was a light shade of brown, almost gold.

  “Where do you live? Why are you here? Is Dr. Carlson really your dad? Do you have a sister? How about a brother?” The questions continued throughout the afternoon as we worked together on our creations.

  Taking their lead, we created bright and colorful butterflies covered in all shades of glitter.

  My new friends weren’t the only ones to ask questions. I asked my share too, learning that Lorna and Missy were sisters and that they had an older brother.

  The memories stirred around my thoughts as I tossed and turned, fading in and out of sleep.

  I didn’t want to think of those three little girls growing up. It was easier to recall a simpler time. As Kader would say, the story of all three didn’t have a happy ending. Missy disappeared a few months after we met. I was now declared dead.

  That only left one—I hoped—the girl with red hair, freckles, and big front teeth.

  The last time I’d seen Lorna was before leaving for my freshman year of college. Petite and athletic, she’d grown into her smile. Though she had one more year in high school, college wasn’t in her future.

  A random tear slid down my cheek onto the pillow.

  I couldn’t fathom the rabbit hole my memories had taken me down.

  These were thoughts I hadn’t had in years.

  Though I hadn’t seen Lorna since that time long ago, she’d been the one who reached out to me, informing me that her brother had died. It was sad to think
that she’d had two siblings and she’d lost both.

  Was that an unusual statistic for the South Chicago neighborhood?

  Where were the other children in that gym today?

  My thoughts returned to Ally, my sister.

  Did she think I was dead?

  Kader said I can’t search myself on the laptop he’d set up for me. I hadn’t done anything today—yesterday—other than load the two flash drives.

  My memories made me wonder if I could search my sister or maybe my childhood friend.

  I’d ask him in the morning.

  Kader

  Laurel’s comments had me thinking as I clicked and pulled up the old footage. It was the scene she’d talked about, well, had started to tell me. Yes, I may now be a bit obsessed about Cartwright’s motivation for showing up at Laurel’s house after the gathering.

  Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my arms above my head and pushed up my sleeves. Lifting my chin, I took a quick glance at the screen above, the one where I could check on Laurel in real time. It was nearly two in the morning and I’d yet to go to bed, much less to sleep. There were too many facets of this case I couldn’t grasp. It wasn’t like me to fail. The fucking answers had to be right in front of me, and I was too blinded by the woman sleeping in my house—in my shirt—to see them.

  She’d been tossing and turning, but it looked like she’d finally fallen asleep.

  It shouldn’t please me that Laurel wore one of my shirts to bed. It should be the opposite. I should be upset. After all, I’d done my best to show her the real me.

  Then why after her bath had she donned my shirt?

  Knowing she’d been in the bathroom for a while had me thinking about my cameras. I’d told her the truth. I didn’t have one in the bathroom, but when she came out, her exposed skin pink, I was considering adding one.

  Laurel Carlson had me distracted and asking more questions than I could find answers.

  No matter her motivation for wearing my shirt, I couldn’t deny that she looked hot as hell as she climbed onto the mattress, her round ass barely covered by white panties peeking out as the shirt pulled upward and she crawled forward.

  Granted, it was only a few scoots of her hands and knees, but it had my mind imagining more. Her on her hands and knees...

  “Fucking get your shit together, Mason.”

  My neck straightened at my audible use of the name I’d been told was mine. The one that held no past and I gave no future.

  This was out of hand.

  Laurel Carlson shouldn’t be on her knees. Fuck, I should be.

  My chest expanded and contracted as my breathing deepened.

  Happy.

  Sad.

  Upset.

  Horny.

  Angry.

  They were emotions that up until Laurel’s blue eyes stared at me through the fucking screen, I’d successfully compartmentalized away. I’d let them die along with the rest of me. I had no need for them, no motivation to cultivate feelings that no longer existed. Before her, I’d been the job, an assignment. I’d been satisfied.

  And now, somehow and without my consent, Laurel had raised emotions from the dead, bringing them to life inside me.

  To life or back to life?

  I didn’t know.

  Shaking my head, I concentrated on the scene from last week, bringing my eyes back to the screen before me. It was Laurel’s home the night of the gathering. I began the feed as Laurel threw a canister of pepper spray onto her kitchen table and opened the outside door.

  Was my obsession with Laurel affecting the way I saw this unfold?

  Was there more to see that was right in front of me?

  Hitting fast forward, the feed sped up until I slowed the footage. Laurel was standing on her stairs, her long black dress dotted from the rain. Cartwright was near. I’d watched this particular footage before and knew this was where she and Cartwright discussed a possible price for the R&D. With a click to the volume, their voices came from my computer.

  “Laurel, I wanted to talk to you about Sinclair Pharmaceuticals someplace without ears.”

  “So...not at work.”

  “We can talk here, but with our heads on a pillow would be another option.”

  Yeah, motherfucker, nice try.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Laurel said. “The decision isn’t ours. It’s up to Eric if he accepts their money.”

  So get the fuck out.

  “Is it?” Russ asked. “Eric told me that Dean Oaks was the one who invited Damien.”

  “Yes, he told me the same thing.”

  “We’ve worked too damn hard for them to come in, take the credit.” Cartwright said. “Damien had another offer, one to hire us, moving the research to Sinclair.”

  “I’m not for sale.”

  Hey, don’t take it personally, I thought with a scoff. She’d told me the same thing earlier that night.

  “Do you have numbers?” Laurel asked. “Did he make a specific offer?”

  “Hell no,” Cartwright replied. “I told Damien to stick his offer up his ass. We weren’t interested.”

  “Would you...?” Her plump lip disappeared under her teeth.

  Seeing it there made me want to bite it, tug it free.

  Fuck, my commentary wasn’t helping me learn clues. Concentrate.

  I hit pause and rewound a few seconds.

  “I mean...” Laurel said, “...is there a price that would make you sell.”

  “To Sinclair?”

  “To anyone.”

  It was probably my imagination, but as I watched it again, I believed Laurel was feeling Cartwright out, trying to learn if he’d been made an offer like the one I’d made her. My gut said it was more than that. He was feeling her out too.

  Just not the way he fucking wanted.

  I hit play again, wondering what he knew.

  “Is there a price you’d sell?” Cartwright asked.

  My eyes narrowed.

  Did you have a price?

  Who was your contact?

  Who double-crossed you?

  “I didn’t think there was,” Laurel replied. “As you said, we’ve worked too hard and for too long. The potential for this drug is far-reaching. I want to be around to see it come to fruition.”

  Fucking do-gooder. Laurel’s good intentions blinded her to what was happening around her.

  Cartwright nodded. “Then we’re on the same page.”

  I doubt it.

  “We’ll tell Eric on Monday that our vote is for no,” Cartwright said.

  “Damien essentially offered me a job in front of Eric,” Laurel said. “I think we should make it clear to Eric and Damien that neither of us have intentions of jumping ship.” Her grip of the banister shifted. “I mean, I’m sure Eric’s worried. He knows the university can’t possibly offer us the kind of money Sinclair would offer.”

  “I agree. We’ll tell him where we stand and let him handle Dr. Oaks.” Cartwright reached for her hand.

  Don’t touch her, douchebag. I don’t trust you. Well, you’re dead. It’s a good thing I don’t believe the saying that dead men tell no tales. Fucker, you have a story, and I’m going to find out what it was.

  “I’ll see you Monday,” Cartwright said.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  Yes, he does. Let him go.

  “I do because if I stay here, I won’t stay on that couch.”

  My teeth clenched as he wavered, not leaving, not moving.

  She’s not kissing you goodbye. Leave.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t watched it numerous times. I knew the way it ended.

  Kicking my boots against the shiny surface, the wheels on my chair spun as I rolled to another keyboard. Much like other cities, the city streets of Indianapolis as well as the state highways were constantly monitored by traffic cams. Local news crews used the cams for traffic reports. Weather crews used them to display road conditions. The city and state police had access to them to determin
e circumstances of accidents and incidents. Most of the time, the footage was retained on a cloud for thirty to sixty days before disappearing.

  Nothing truly disappeared. The older recordings were simply more difficult to access.

  As my fingers raced across the keyboard, I knew I was still within the accessible time period. It was only a matter of finding the right cameras and time stamps.

  Within a few minutes, I found the right system of feeds, carefully labeled by intersection or highway exit. “Well, thank you for not even trying to make this difficult.”

  On another screen, I pulled up the map of Indianapolis proper and studied the streets. The quickest route, especially late at night, from Laurel’s house to Cartwright’s apartment on the north side would be Forty-sixth Street to North Meridian until he reached Carmel.

  The neighborhood streets were tougher. Not all were monitored, only major intersections.

  Forty-sixth and Meridian was an option. I pulled up that feed entering the time Cartwright left Laurel’s house. It didn’t take long. “There you are,” I said aloud to the grainy image. Cartwright’s black truck was easy to spot.

  My back straightened. “What the fuck?” Cartwright didn’t head north on Meridian after visiting Laurel. He went south. “Where the fuck are you going?”

  Pushing off, my chair rolled back to the screen with the footage of Laurel’s house. Clicking that off, I pulled up Cartwright’s apartment.

  Why had I never verified that he’d gone home?

  A quick glance upward at the sleeping woman wearing my shirt was my answer.

  I hadn’t given a shit about Cartwright.

  Laurel was my only concern.

  Pulling up the coverage of Cartwright’s apartment, I rewound to the night in question. Once there, I sped up the video. It didn’t take watching in real time to show me that the fucker never made it to his place, not until the sun was rising. And then it was a quick shower and a change of clothes before he was out the door again.

  “You’re on your way to that coffee shop. Where had you been?”