I speak too. Murmur some exclamation of surprise. But all I can hear is the staticky whoosh of panic beneath the throbbing beat of my own dark heart.
Chapter
Three
The parking lot is deserted. “Crazy Train” is blaring on my radio. And I’m slouched in the back seat of the Jeep, taking a hit of Sawyer’s medical marijuana, my blouse disheveled from round one of our post-group make-out sesh. This isn’t a midlife crisis. It’s a no-holds-barred breakdown. The sort of thing that happens when your reservoir of healthy coping skills goes bone dry.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Sawyer asks, running a hand through his scruffy hair. He keeps it a little long because he can. No more army regulation haircuts. Or as he had put it: I answer to myself now. The same reason I stay in my sweatpants most days and eat all my meals from the processed food group.
“What is there to say? He knew Dakota. His sister took AP English with her freshman year. It’s no biggie.”
Sawyer cocks his head at me. Apparently, I’m not a convincing liar when I’m stoned.
“You freaked out in there, Mollie. You went blank for about thirty seconds, and then you just acted like nothing happened. Business as usual. I’m no psychologist, but I’m sure as hell an expert on PTSD. And that was dissociation.”
I laugh, and I hate how it sounds. Petulant and pathetic rolled into one. And high. That too. “My whole life is an exercise in dissociation. How do you think I get through this damn group every week?”
“Ouch.” He stiffens and looks away from me. His discarded prosthetic rests on the floorboard. It turns out you don’t need two arms to fool around.
“You know what I mean.”
“Why’d you agree to do it if you hate it so much? I’m sure Sandy could’ve found someone else.” When the answer doesn’t come to me right away—did weed get stronger since the nineties?—he levels another blow. “Why do you come here at all?”
“Why do you?”
He sighs, and I feel guilty. I’d never let a patient get away with that. Answering a question with a question. A total cop-out.
“Because it helps. And because my ex-wife voluntold me to. Also, I’ve got a crush on this gal, misguided though it may be, and she refuses to see me outside of the confines of this parking lot.”
“That sucks.” I sling one leg over his lap and kiss his neck. His blond stubble prickles under my lips in a good way. I rub my cheek against it.
“Yeah. But you know what I learned in the Rangers . . .”
“Embrace the suck,” I repeat Sawyer’s motto.
He pulls me closer, flush against him. “Roger that,” he whispers.
****
This is an all-time low. That’s my first thought when the cop car pulls up alongside us, its lights casting a strange blue glow on Sawyer’s bare chest. My second thought: Where’s my top?
Sawyer swears under his breath and tosses me his Blue Rose work shirt. I slide my arms inside and do up a few crucial buttons as the officer raps on the back window. The shush of the opening window is the official anthem of my shame.
“Good evening, folks. Officer McGinnis, Napa PD.” As if sitting in the back seat of a car, half-dressed, is a perfectly respectable way for two forty-somethings to spend a Monday night. “You mind turning down the radio and stepping out of the vehicle?”
I do mind, but I’m fairly certain a polite no, thank you is not an option, so I slide out, bare feet to the pavement with Sawyer behind me. I instantly register the barking dog in the back of his cruiser. I have a sinking feeling I’m about to set the bar of my all-time low even lower.
“Whose vehicle is this?”
I raise my hand, head hung.
“You two been smoking tonight?”
“No.” As soon as it’s out there—my blatant lie—I flash to my first year at Napa State Hospital when I’d caught a patient drinking pruno in the laundry room. The odor of alcohol had wafted from him even as he’d shaken his head and insisted I was wrong. But I understand it now. That childish knee-jerk reaction. I guess a man with a badge turns us all into three-year-olds.
“Look ma’am, this can go one of two ways. You can be honest with me, and I’ll do my best to work with you. Or you can keep right on lying. I smelled marijuana as soon as you opened the window. My dog will find it whether or not you fess up.”
“Officer, I’m not—”
Sawyer stops me with a touch and gently moves me aside. “It’s mine. I was the one smoking. I have a prescription.”
Why does he have to do that? The gallant hero thing. The shirtless gallant hero with the body of an Army Ranger. Which he is. Was.
“That’s not exactly true,” I say. “I smoked too. I’ve had a bit of a rough night.”
Officer McGinnis nods, pleased with the results of his interrogation. A full confession. “Alright. See. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, let me get your IDs.”
He shines his flashlight on the front seat while I paw through my cheap bag—Louie’s antithesis—and produce my driver’s license. Before I hand it over, I glance at the photo. It’s me but not me. It’s the old me. The me who had a husband and a daughter and a plan.
“Mollie Roark.” Officer McGinnis reads my name aloud and frowns. “Doctor Mollie Roark?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Mollie Roark who lost her little girl a couple years back?”
I feel like I might be sick. “That’s me. We were here tonight for a support group. Grieving Parents.”
He returns the license to me, and I tuck it in my pocket. I don’t want to look at her. “You probably don’t remember, but I was there that day. We canvassed that whole road, that whole neighborhood. I thought for sure we’d find her alive. What a goddamned shame. Are they still thinking she’s one of the Shadow Man’s?”
What can I say? Certainly not what I want to. Dakota is not a number. She’s not just one of the gang. A notch on the bedpost of a serial killer. She’s my daughter. “That’s the working theory.”
“Listen, I’m real sorry about your loss. I hope we finally catch that SOB. It’s been way too long. His time is up.” Officer McGinnis waves Sawyer back to his pickup and turns to me, reaching into his pocket. “Take my card. If you ever need anything, give me a ring.”
“So we’re free to go?” I ask.
“If that happened to my kid, I’d be doing a helluva lot worse than weed and heavy metal. Just get home safe—and consider this a warning.”
I wait until he’s gone to tug on my flats, retrieve my crumpled blouse from the back seat, and head to Sawyer’s truck, his work shirt and metal arm in tow. He chuckles when he sees me. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Mollie, you sure are handy in a sticky situation. Without you, I’m half a man . . . well, three quarters I guess.”
I give him a playful shove. “Thanks for trying to take the rap.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me toward him.
“Thanks for not letting me.” His voice is light and teasing, his hard kiss anything but. “Maybe next week we can grab dinner before we get arrested.”
My skin buzzes with an inexplicable jolt of panic that sobers me up. He must sense it, because he doesn’t wait for my protest or my lame excuses. “Alright then. At least let me pick the music.”
****
My lips still taste like the minty smoke of Sawyer as his taillights linger at the exit. I wave him on, suddenly eager to be completely alone. To make the lonesome trek across the parking lot back to the Jeep. To remind myself I don’t need rescuing.
It’s almost peaceful the way the asphalt shimmers in the glow of the lampposts. The distant hum of traffic reminds me of a mother cooing to her child. Probably the weed, I tell myself. Even though I know it’s Sawyer. Somehow, he unloosens the knot inside of me, the one that’s been twisting and tangling and snarling since long before I l
ost Dakota. Cole had only made it tighter with his perfect hair and his God complex and his mountainous expectations. And that’s why I’d married him. To prove something to somebody. Maybe my mom, though she’d been dead ten years by then. Or my dad, though he’d hardly cared, mailing the invitation back to me. Return to sender.
I sidestep a puddle of oil pooling in the spot where Luciana had parked Boludo hours ago. She’s going to be muy furiosa since she paid a pretty penny to overhaul the transmission last month. I touch a finger to the spot, and it comes back sticky black. Another bad sign.
Then I see it beneath the Jeep. Even from here, I know exactly what it is, and I shiver. One of Luciana’s tarot cards from the deck she keeps stashed in her purse just in case. Because there’s a sucker born every minute. Or as she says, a la ocasión la pintan calva.
I walk to it, dread curdling in my stomach like sour milk. It lies faceup just inside of my front tire. A pale horse with a skeleton rider wielding a sickle, the word DEATH printed black as the oil on my fingers. I can’t bring myself to pick it up, to claim it. So I snap a photo of it instead and fire off two back-to-back texts to Luciana.
You know I don’t believe in this crap, but you lost one of your cards. Should I be worried?
BTW Boludo has sprung a leak.
I leave DEATH where I found him. But I look both ways once and then again before I merge into traffic, the bloodshot eyes of the cars in front of me glowing as they lead the way.
****
I’m nearly home when I realize. Gus. I totally forgot about him.
Shit. Literally. Shit.
Eyes already tearing, I speed down the dirt road. My wheels spitting gravel as I make a hard turn into the driveway. Of everything that’s happened today, this is the worst. Because it’s indisputable proof. I am a bad mother. Hell, I’m not even a mother anymore. I lost my child. How can somebody lose a person? But not just any person. The most precious one.
And now, I forget my dog. Her dog, really.
Dakota had begged for years until Cole finally relented on her twelfth birthday. We’d spent the entire day at the pound, because picking a dog is a lot like adopting a baby or buying a purse. That’s how Dakota had put it.
This one, she’d announced, pointing to a yellow Lab making sad faces at her from the front of his cage. She’d christened him Gus while Cole and I’d exchanged a private whoop of relief that she’d finally made her selection. He looks like a Gus, doesn’t he?
And he did. With his warm eyes and his easy canine grin. His tail that seemed to never stop wagging.
I hear him whining through the door, and I hurry to fit the keys in the lock. I’m already crying.
His head is lowered, half shamed, half confused, his urine puddled near the door. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “It’s okay. Go on out.”
Permission granted, he darts straight past me and into the yard. I swear I can feel her there with us, chiding me, telling Gus he’s a good boy. That he’d held it as long as he could.
My tears pick up steam, but I manage to soak up the puddle with a handful of paper towels from the kitchen before I slide to the floor, sobbing. Gus is back there in an instant, nudging me and licking my face, my gross neglect instantly forgiven.
An excellent choice, the woman at the shelter had told Dakota. Labs make great first dogs.
The first in our pack, Dakota had said, grinning at us mischievously. What would she say now if she knew I’d nearly given him away a hundred times, a surrender by owner? That I’d blamed him, reviled him. Barely tolerated the sight of his lolling tongue and his smooth white belly. I’m embarrassed to admit I’d even thought of dropping him on the side of the road. Because Gus didn’t save her. He didn’t save our girl.
“I forgive you too,” I tell him, rubbing the sweet spot behind his ears. He leans in as if to say, it’s about damn time.
****
Three hours later, my brain is back on the job, and I’m staring up at the ceiling, Gus in the bed and curled at my feet for the first time in two years.
I reread the texts from Madame Luci—they’d come in rapid succession, seconds apart—as we wait for the clock to show midnight. For this cursed day to be over.
¿Muerte? He’s not as bad as he looks. He’s a man of transformation sent to tell you a part of you must die so another part can live.
Besides, don’t you think you’re due for a change?
I thought you didn’t believe in this crap anyway.
Damn Boludo.
I imagine DEATH standing over me with his sickle glinting in the moonlight. Lopping off the festering parts of me—all the bad memories—with one clean slice.
This is where I’d start:
I’d been in the cereal aisle when I’d gotten the call from Cole. Because even when your kid goes missing, you can’t just lie down and die like you want to. You have to buy milk and bread and laundry detergent.
Come home, Mol. Already I’d knew. I knew they’d found her. I knew it was bad. Probably, I’d already known in some deep-down part of me. In that underbelly of the brain where unspeakable truths spring up like poison weeds. But the whole drive back, I’d clung to that shiny box of hope anyway, cradled it on my lap eager as a kid at Christmas. Until Detective Sharpe ripped off the lid with four words, each innocent in their own right. We found a body.
At 12:01 a.m. I release a shaky breath. I made it. It’s already tomorrow. It’s already not the anniversary of the day they found my daughter.
Chapter
Four
(Tuesday, September 25, 2018)
At 12:02 a.m. I swing my feet off the bed, determined. My brain has its own agenda, and it’s useless to resist. So I traipse down the hallway to Dakota’s room, Gus at my heels.
I pause at her closed door, studying the PRIVATE: KEEP OUT sign she’d decorated with glittery pink skulls. That’s my Dakota. Skulls and glitter.
The knob feels ice cold in my palm. But the oak slab behind it seems to throb with warmth. With life.
Once, before he’d swam for open waters, Cole had caught me knocking on it. My face burned when he’d regarded me with the same wide and wary eyes that he usually saved for stories about my Napa patients. Total nutjobs, he’d pronounced them. And maybe I was a nut job too. Because I’d half-expected the door to open, for Dakota to answer.
Gus nudges his wet nose against my leg, and I startle, opening the door before I lose my nerve. I wait for the obnoxious click of cheap plastic: The Mardi Gras beads from Dakota’s New Orleans–themed freshman dance she’d slung on the coat hook and forgotten about. Those beads are a relic of my real daughter. The girl with the friends and the grades and the swim team and the dream of being a writer. An investigative journalist, Mom. Like Lisa Ling. Not the smartass rebel she’d turned into that summer she’d gone missing.
I enter the darkness, welcome it. Let it envelop me. I feel at home among the shadows. I’d live under their cover if I could.
A thin blade of moonlight cuts through an opening in the curtains, spotlighting the photo on Dakota’s nightstand, and I’m drawn to it the way I always am. The three of us at the Petrified Forest, perched on the trunk of a giant Redwood turned to stone by a volcano long ago. Thirteen-year-old Dakota sits between Cole and me, leaning her head slightly toward my shoulder. Cole’s arm is wrapped around us two. And I look unabashedly, stupidly happy.
I pity myself in that photograph. Because I’ve got no clue what’s coming. I’m a deer in the forest, frolicking, even as an unknown stranger sights me with a rifle, godlike. Just the way my father and I had done at Putah Creek when I was a girl. Wait until he’s broadside, Dad had said, coaching me through my first kill. A six-pointer. Then aim for the shoulder and take your shot. Steady. Steady now.
I don’t touch the picture’s sterling silver frame. Or imagine Dakota unwrapping it on her birthday, the photo alread
y carefully inserted. I don’t linger, gazing at it with longing. Because I could sit—I have—for hours with the irony. Our family, frozen, preserved just like the fossils around us. The victims of a massive eruption. A cataclysm.
Instead, I turn away from the photograph toward Dakota’s Great Wall of Books, a massive shelf stacked from floor to ceiling. I crouch down to the third row and run my hand along the well-worn spines of her favorites. Harry Potter and Hunger Games. Pride and Prejudice and Catcher in the Rye. Down, down, down I go, to the end, where the covers are as black as the night sky.
The third shelf is also a timeline. A timeline with a hard stop at the end. A bright blue Post-it, folded and pressed between pages fourteen and fifteen, marks the very last words Dakota had ever read in Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs. Cole hadn’t approved, but what the hell did he know? By Dakota’s age, I’d already read Lolita, the beat-up paperback copy I’d smuggled out of the Allendale Public Library while my father had waited in the truck. Dad didn’t believe in things like library cards. Don’t want nobody from the government knowin’ our business, he’d said. Which was just as well because that meant I could keep it.
Dakota’s last book beckons to me, and I answer its call, tugging it free, holding it tenderly. I scan the bookmarked page. The start of chapter three, where six-fingered villain Dr. Hannibal Lecter meets noble heroine Clarice Starling. Surely, I’d read that page hundreds of times now, not counting the last time with Detective Sharpe when he’d asked me to show him Dakota’s room again. Or the first, when I’d holed up in the UC Berkeley library stacks, devouring it straight through. Or the time in-between, when I’d left the book on Dakota’s desk with a note tucked in-between those pages: Do not read at bedtime.
Returning Lecter and Clarice to their resting place—a perfectly sized tomb between Mindhunter and The Stranger Beside Me—I shake my head at the memory. My old clueless self again. Imagining I could protect her from the world. That the only monsters who could get to her were the ones she conjured in her head. Not mere mortals like the men I’d therapized every week.
Shadows Among Us Page 3