by P. J. Vernon
“Nathan.” The first thing I ever said, hand extended.
“Oliver.” He smiled nervously because Oliver had never met a man without an agenda. Not one that looked at him the way I did. He lied at first: “Mom’s on the sixth floor. Breast cancer so I’m here every day.”
It never occurred to him that cancer patients stay at cancer centers and this cafeteria serves exactly zero of those. But it didn’t matter; I’d already pulled his file from Psych. No admin questions a request from a white coat, stethoscope, and badge reading medical doctor.
“Let me know if there’s anything she needs that she’s not getting, okay?” I twirled my coffee cup on the table. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.” He was fidgety, nervy, and restless because his psychiatrist had tapered his methadone again earlier that morning. His body shrieked for drugs that weren’t coming. “I’ll do that.”
“You too.”
“Huh?” Like crushing a thumb to save a life, kindness doesn’t always look kind. The means might’ve been forbidden by every therapist or physician or review board ever. But the ends were binary: Oliver could struggle through this by himself and die like the millions of addicts just like him. Or Oliver could choose life. With me.
“If you need anything.” Our eyes met, my words steeped in intention. “Let me know.”
When I asked him for his number, the confessions came. He was sorry for being dishonest—his mother had already passed—but he was in recovery and his phone had been stolen by a halfway house roommate. There was no number to call and because Oliver was a bottomless pit of need and Oliver didn’t know better and Oliver repaid favors with the only currency he had, we drove to AT&T that night and he sucked my dick in the car before I bought him a prepaid phone.
Not exactly a meet-cute.
Something chimes. The bleeps and banter and squeaky gurney wheels and a vibration in the back pocket of my scrubs. Another call’s coming through, but not from any third-floor nurse asking how best to enable Jeremy Mackey’s sustained substance abuse. This call is from a number that pops with electric panic.
“This is…” My voice catches. “Dr. Klein speaking.”
“I’m with Vigilance Alarm Systems,” a rep says. “Please provide your security phrase to receive an urgent message.”
“It’s Tilly—what happened?”
Oliver’s careless, but he’s not currently at the house.
“We’ve detected unusual activity inside your home.”
His thoughtlessness can’t be behind this call.
“The glass-break detector at your rear kitchen door was triggered.”
Shit.
“Would you like us to contact the police?”
25
OLIVER
I take the running path at high speed. A meandering trail and paved with rubber that gives a bit underfoot. I’ve now left work early twice in as many days.
A leafy thicket rambles along on my left. To my right, a grassy bank rolls into the slow murk of the Potomac. Midday sweat beads on my brow, slips down my neck. My collar and pits, soaked. Most folks save summer runs for cool evenings or even cooler mornings, but not me. I want the heat, the sweat.
I need to punish myself.
I’ve heard nothing else from Detective Henning, or Kristian. The locks have been changed, the snuff film was an awful goodbye, and maybe it’s all over. I held on tight to Detective Henning’s doubts about both the USB stick and its alleged contents.
I think I just watched someone who’s similar to the man in your photo drug and murder someone, she’d said. I can’t know this wasn’t acting, a work of fiction.
She’s right about the scene transitions too; the clips are edited. Is my fear unwarranted?
Then there’s Hector. Hector and his clever little ploy to find me. I reported the second Blaire profile as fraudulent to the Facebook police—whoever the hell they are. Then I DM’d Real Blaire, who mistook it for a hello at first.
OLIVR!! Omg how are you??!?
I replied with a vague “pretty good” and got to the point. My circumstances might seem grand to her, but dig any deeper and she’d unearth a needy, kept guy who’s wildly insecure about it. I gave Blaire no chance to dig, but sure enough, minutes later a new post appeared at the top of her timeline. The expected public proclamation.
Hey guys, there’s a fake profile with my picture out there! Please don’t accept any requests from it. Report it if you can!!!
Hector now knows that I know. Hector, who’s presumably on his way back to Indiana. Not only did he fail to accomplish whatever it was he planned, but his bullshit’s been exposed online.
The path follows the bending river and DC looms. A sandstone silhouette beneath a high sun. A rotunda and an obelisk and a skyline of mid-rises where important people like Nathan and Tom do important things.
Industrial rock screams from my headphones. Nine Inch Nails to outpace my pulse and stay a step ahead of anxiety. A release valve for fear. The vacuum emotion leaves, filled by endorphins. Neurochemicals that are structurally related to opioids. They act on the same receptors, and this is a high Nathan doesn’t mind me chasing.
The pounding beats break for an incoming call; my phone reads Nat.
“Hey,” I answer in a breathless gasp and sidewind off the trail.
Nathan’s out of breath too, but unlike me, he hasn’t been running. Something else has stolen his air. In fact, he might even be crying.
“Tilly is gone.”
* * *
• •
I don’t remember the time it took to get home. I lost it all in the ensuing explosion after Nathan’s call. A detonation in my brain blowing everything to pieces. Searing heat consuming all reason and sensory detail.
Two marked patrol cars are parked out front. A cop sits inside one, typing on a dash computer. The flashers of the other are on. Muted in daylight, but the strobes still scream that something horrible has happened in a corona of red-and-blue light. An unmarked Dodge with city plates might be a third.
The front door’s wide open. I slow my pace as the icy foyer AC swallows me. Resisting forward momentum, I want to hold off whatever truth I’m about to learn. Several sets of eyeballs stare from the drawing room.
Nathan shakes on the couch, tissues twisting between trembling fingers. His face is swollen, his eyes yellowed. His skin, almost bloodless under seafoam scrubs.
I leap to him. “What’s happening?”
“She’s gone.” I fold Nathan into a tight embrace, and he cries into the crook of my shoulder: “Tilly’s gone.”
The room blurs, fragments along invisible faults. That’s when I notice Detective Henning in an opposite chair. She brushes her jeans and stands.
“Oliver.” She holds out a hand, but her voice is cold. Devoid of all empathy. She motions to a tall man who enters from the dining room. “This is my partner, Detective Bowerman.”
“Detective-Sergeant Lucas Bowerman.” When this new investigator shakes my hand, his firmness bends my entire arm. I’ve spoken to Detective Henning more times than I care to count. Why hasn’t she mentioned a partner during any of them?
My thoughts streak by at light speed. No processing or interpretation. No unpackaging of feelings, just comets hurtling by. I snap meaning from the debris:
Tilly’s gone.
Detective Henning’s in my house. She has a partner.
What have they told Nathan?
Nathan, who pulls me closer and into a cloud of latex hospital reek.
“A break-in.” His eyes scream for help. As if I can do something when I don’t even know what’s happening. As if he’s not the one who helps me. Always. “That’s why the police are here.”
“Tilly—”
“She’s gone.” Nathan coughs into a fist, pulls his shoulders back. He’s des
perate to regain control. Of himself, if nothing else. “Someone broke a glass pane in the kitchen door to undo the lock. They left the door open, and Tilly escaped. At least I hope she—”
“The back gate—”
“Open too.”
“Oliver, I’m concerned this is related to your other incident.” She says other incident like it’s coded language. Is she still speaking in euphemisms? It’s Nathan’s house, after all. My name’s in no way attached to it. Legally speaking, I have no rights here whatsoever.
An uncomfortable—if odd—thought blossoms: If Nathan wanted to, he could tell the police I’m trespassing, that maybe I broke in. They’d have no choice but to arrest me; I own nothing in my life.
“This is related to my mugging?” I prod Detective Henning. She arches an eyebrow, but I need to know what Nathan does and does not know. My question perks his ears and my pulse climbs.
“Mugging?” Detective Henning asks. Rhetorically, and I hold my breath. Can Nathan hear her sarcasm or is it a dog whistle?
“None of our material possessions seem to be out of place,” Nathan says. “A mugger would steal, right? And how would a random mugger know where we live?”
“Oliver’s wallet was taken,” Detective Henning replies, and I nearly gasp in relief. “Even still, you both need to go through everything, make a detailed list. The coincidence doesn’t sit right with me.”
“What about Tilly?” Nathan teeters on a fresh round of tears. He loves Tilly. She’s his dog. Same as everything else in this house. “Are you going to canvas—”
“In all likelihood, she ran off,” Detective Bowerman says, his accent full-blown Boston. “Dogs are never the target of break-ins. They’re an obstacle, a nuisance. It’s quite common to get ’em out of the picture as soon as possible, and there’s no blood so—”
“We don’t canvas for pets, but she’ll turn up,” Detective Henning interrupts. “It’s summer. People are out and about. She’s probably with a neighbor.”
Tilly has always been a runner. She’d bolt any chance she got, and it’s one of several things we have in common.
“They got Facebook groups you can check. Missing pets and stuff…” Detective Bowerman starts, but his voice trails off as my heart falls deeper in my chest.
Detective Henning’s reassurance is hollow. She knows this isn’t just a break-in. She knows this is personal. She’s the one who suggested changing the locks! That’s exactly what we did, and now Kristian’s let me know he can get me whenever, wherever, however he wants. He’s never stopped toying with me, and I’m a fucking idiot for thinking otherwise.
“Can I speak with you in the kitchen, Oliver?” Detective Henning asks. Her tone is even, but still cold like stainless steel. There’s nothing to hang on to. No trust, no benefit of the doubt. Only slippery metal.
I stand. When Nathan looks to follow me, Detective Bowerman holds out a hand. “Mr. Klein, I’d like to run through a few things with you.”
“Doctor Klein,” Nathan corrects. Even in the midst of catastrophe, the innocent slight irks him. But again, Nathan’s comfortable in catastrophe because that’s where trauma surgeons thrive. Maintaining a steady footing is as important to him as it is to Detective Henning. And Detective Bowerman, who’s cleverly wedged himself between Nathan and me.
A dynamic between Detective Henning and her partner crystalizes as they successfully separate us. It’s manipulative, but I appreciate it. It gives Detective Henning space to question me without Nathan’s rapid-fire mind to contend with.
They know I can’t tell the truth around him.
* * *
• •
I see the broken glass and a pressure drop plugs my ears. Jagged triangles and curved shards cover the floor beneath the back window. The all-too-familiar vinegar bubbles up from a well in my stomach. A sour spring tickling my tongue.
“If you don’t tell him, I will.” Detective Henning’s razor words cut deep; she intends to do exactly that.
“I get it,” I interrupt. Of course, I don’t get anything. Except the fact that Nathan can’t know. “I know I need to tell him. Can you give me time? My dog’s missing, I’m going crazy. I just need some time. Please.”
Detective Henning’s eyes stay fixed on mine, but she hesitates like she’s tussling with something.
“Please!”
“The man we’re dealing with is dangerous.”
“Then you’ve found something?” I ask. A muffled conversation drifts in from the drawing room. Nathan’s tenor and Detective Bowerman’s baritone. He’s doing his job—effectively keeping Nathan distracted. Or maybe that’s not his job at all. Maybe he’s plying Nathan for information about me. The drug addict. My arrest record. Details a liar like myself can’t be counted on for.
“Haus revised their story. A ‘sudden recollection’ puts you and a man matching Kristian’s description on the premises Saturday night. They’re corroborating your allegations.” The Cheshire Cat—Theo—he’s come through for me. The relief such a revelation should stir is canceled out by the glass on the floor. It changes nothing and now Tilly’s gone.
“Okay.” I palm my face. “What else do you know?”
“The flash drive is FBI jurisdiction, so they’ve got it. What happens next, how seriously it’s taken, is out of my hands. But I’ll tell you this: I’m worried for your safety. It’s possible this break-in’s wholly unrelated, but I don’t buy it.”
“But it is possible.”
“How long have you and Nathan lived here?”
“A few years.”
“How many break-ins have you experienced?”
“None.”
“What are the chances your assault and your first break-in go down side by side? I don’t have to remind you the man’s been inside this house once already.”
“Give me a few days,” I say. She’s right, though. This is Kristian’s doing. “A few days to tell Nathan. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“What do you really want, Oliver?” Detective Henning’s question flies in wild from left field. Heavy and loaded and it hits me behind the eyes.
“I want this to end.” Deep down, a fire catches and the heat pulls tears from me. “Kristian. Tilly. All of it.”
“So end it.” She crosses her arms, and I gird for wherever the hell she’s going. Someplace not good, that’s for sure. “Tell Nathan the truth and confront this with him.”
“I can’t.” A sob gathers, swelling and coming fast.
“What scares you so shitless that the lies are worth it?”
“Because if he knew…” I lower my voice to a choking whisper, search for a better way to put it, and come up empty. “It could kill me.”
“You’re scared of him.” Her eyes sharpen. She’s silent for a beat, then: “Are you in physical danger?”
“Of course I’m in physical danger!”
“Not from Kristian.” Detective Henning’s agenda starts to take shape. “At home. If Nathan knew the truth, are you afraid he’ll hurt you?”
“Jesus Christ. No,” I scoff. “Nathan only ever helps. His savior complex is annoying, but he’s a surgeon, so I deal. Not to mention I owe him for my life and literally everything else. For taking me out of Indiana. For quitting the oxy and the bullshit.”
“Oxy?” Her question brings blood to my face like I’ve been caught. Detective Henning’s kicking over logs and no telling what truths might slime their way out. The heat behind my sternum burns hotter. “You answered no to drugs on your report. Both of them.”
“I’m in recovery. Five years,” I say. She purses her lips like nothing about the shivering man before her suggests he’s recovered.
“Huh.” She squints. “Five years with Nathan. Five years in recovery.”
“Yeah, and if he finds out about Haus I’ll lose both.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“It would destroy him.” My eyes widen, and I’m squeezing both my arms. “And us. He wouldn’t get it. He grew up different and privileged and me cheating would destroy everything.”
“You’re doing a bang-up job of that already,” she mocks. “Admitting infidelity has nothing on losing your life.”
“They are the same goddamn thing.” The sob finally crests, and I break. I see that future as plain as if it were projected on the wall behind Detective Henning. “If Nathan kicks me out, I have nowhere to go”—I wipe my face, teeth chattering—“and nowhere is exactly where recovery goes to die.”
“If Nathan loves you that much, don’t you think he’s got a heart to forgive you?” she asks, but all I feel is the rush of air as Nathan slams the front door behind me. The walk to a motel. The hours I’d spend sweating up the courage to tell Kristian exactly where I am because he’ll kill me way faster than I’d passively kill myself.
“Nathan saved me once.” I squeeze blood from my biceps, so tight my knuckles whiten. The blowtorch inside me cooks my flesh from the inside out. “He won’t do it twice.”
Silence settles as Detective Henning considers my case. I tighten my jaw and wonder if she appreciates the power she holds right now. My death warrant already drawn up, and she need only sign it.
“Three days,” she relents, and I want to collapse or scream myself hoarse or both. “No promises. If something happens to force my hand, Oliver, I’m going to do my job. I have a responsibility to report to Nathan that he’s in danger.”
Detective Henning’s setting a timer. I’ve got until it reaches zero to find a way down from this window ledge.
“Tell me, Oliver. Tell me you understand what I’m telling you.”
“I understand.”
“You’ve committed a crime.” Unblinking, she’s not one for empty threats. “You’ve filed a false police report. Perhaps lied about drugs on both. Maybe obstructed justice. I don’t want to use that to force you to do the right thing. But I will.”