by P. J. Vernon
“So? What are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m trying to tell you that you lied. Maybe you bought them earlier, maybe you found them. How the hell should I know? But you lied about them.”
“I used cash—”
“You said eighty bucks was stolen?”
I nod yes.
“Well”—he scrolls—“here’s an eighty-dollar withdrawal. Plus a three-dollar fee for using a 7-Eleven ATM. But that’s it. No other cash transactions.”
“Is this goddamn 1984?” I slam both hands on the kitchen table and shove my chair out. “Nathan, for fuck’s sake!”
He cranks his voice to match mine. “Which means either eighty dollars was in your wallet when it was taken—sans the picture of your mother, oddly enough—and you lied about buying cigarettes. Or, eighty dollars minus the cost of cigarettes was stolen, and you lied about the amount.” Nathan’s face remains stainless-steel cold. Utterly and frustratingly unknowable.
“You’re really trying to litigate this, huh?”
“The cops might. If you lied about the amount to me, then you lied about the amount on a police report.”
Ire swells behind my chest bone, and I make a last-ditch effort to redirect. “I was robbed, Nat. Fucking robbed. And you want to nickel-and-dime me over how much was taken? You want to reconcile my story like receipts for fucking travel expenses?”
Nathan exhales, his tight cheeks relax by a hair. A narrow, razor-thin hair. “You never take this photo out of your wallet.”
“Nat, I—”
“One other thing.” He reaches into his pocket and slams a pack of cigarettes on the counter with all the force and anger and sadness in the world. “Trash these. Now.”
I open my mouth, but he’s already turned away. He’s abandoning me and my Marlboros in the kitchen to steep, and no way I risk pulling him back.
“Put up the posters for Tilly,” he calls out, vanishing down the hallway. Heavy steps up creaking stairs, then thump-thuds on the ceiling.
I drain my beer, start to place it on the coaster but hesitate. Instead I set it directly on the table like a petulant child. Ridiculous, the petty pleasure this conjures, but there’s no denying it: I revel in the watery circle it paints.
And I want a fucking cigarette.
* * *
• •
It’s too hot outside. I wipe sweat from my brow. A single beer down the hatch, but hops breeze off my skin nonetheless. The masking tape I’d brought didn’t stick to iron posts and wooden poles, so I’d gone back in for duct tape.
During this second trip, I listened carefully for Nathan upstairs, heard nothing, and pulled a single cigarette from the garbage bin under the sink.
Now I set my stack of papers on the splintering pavement and put a Marlboro between my lips a few blocks from the house. A side street Nathan has no reason to travel. Even if he suddenly decided to run errands in my absence. Certainly far enough from our neighbors and their goddamn open windows. The cherry on my cigarette glows like a tiny heartbeat when I take a drag. Smoke sweeps my lungs. The tension in my spine and shoulders unwinds.
Tilly’s photo at my feet is large in proportion to the text Nathan’s typed—missing across the top, our number and a cash reward of five thousand dollars at the bottom. Not lost like a dog but missing like a child. Because that’s what she is to Nathan. Tilly is mid-pant, her pink tongue hanging lopsided from wet jowls. Black eyes so damn eager to leap into the lap of the photographer. Nathan.
He’d snapped the picture on a grassy knoll in an off-leash park not far from the telephone poles now advertising that she’s gone. I whisper that I’m sorry, but something mean inside me says Tilly would never accept my apology.
She’s like her owner that way.
* * *
• •
At home, Nathan and I hide from each other. As far as city homes go, ours is enormous. The kind of place you only inherit. Imposing brick and elegant gables and a front door that seems to gag every time I pass through. Silver lining: it’s deep enough to avoid someone.
He’s staked out our bedroom for himself, and the door’s been shut ever since.
Fine by me. Let Nathan have it. It’s hardly a good spot to hunker down. The kind coveted by someone who’s never wondered when a meal’s coming. Never shut his five-year-old eyes and wished the malt liquor in the fridge would turn itself into bologna. Never ate ranch fucking dressing for lunch when it didn’t. I’ve claimed the kitchen. A second beer sits open on the table. Nathan’s wiped it down from earlier and returned the coaster to its drawer.
Where it’s stayed because I refuse to use it.
It’s well past five in the evening, which means Nathan can toss back the bourbon he loves so much. Except the bar cart’s downstairs too, and this drips a drop of pleasure. Which does he love more—his pride or his liquor?
I unlock my phone and open MeetLockr. I have messages, though a quick perusal tells me none are what I’m looking for.
Be patient, Oliver. Traps hinge on patience.
My restless mind leaps to something else: the app Nathan advertised when hurling his accusation—his correct accusation. Wealth Wallet isn’t mobile banking, and I pull it up.
A budgeting app. The sort of thing that would appeal to Nathan’s sense of fiscal responsibility. I skim the description. Manage your finances, from daily expenditures to long-term savings, easily and right from your phone. Set daily caps on spending by category. Earn praise when you meet your goals, and get instant notifications when you spend too much.
Instant notifications when you spend too much. I bite my bottom lip. The day’s second beer, and an empty stomach and heat exhaustion from taping Tilly’s missing posters all over our neighborhood renders a considerable buzz.
Instant notifications.
Pushing back from the table, I head for the hallway, pass through the dining room, the drawing room, the foyer. One hardwood step at a time, I stalk upstairs.
Instant.
We may be fighting, we may have divided the house into wartime territory, but ultimately, I have every right to enter my own bedroom. I turn the knob slowly, but the brass handle still whines.
Nathan’s asleep. I hadn’t heard him stir for quite some time and hoped he would be. His black iPhone is facedown on his nightstand, tethered to a wall charger. Careful steps take me close enough to reach it.
Nathan doesn’t move as it unplugs. He breathes through his mouth but hardly snores. His eyes twitch as though he dreams.
What do you dream of, Nat? I unlock it with his PIN.
I know his password because Nathan makes such a goddamn show of his own transparency. He advertises it—no, blasts it at full volume—nonstop. In the past, I suspected this was to undermine my own compulsion for secrecy. I chalked up this perception of a hidden agenda on Nathan’s part to my own paranoia. A guilty mind makes somethings out of nothings incessantly.
Sure enough, I find Wealth Wallet there. It asks for a PIN, and I simply repeat his phone’s. Ta-dah. It takes a moment to figure out the interface, but the designers have done a bang-up job. I make my way to Nathan’s budget settings.
And they’re each set to zero.
Daily budget for fast food: zero dollars. Daily budget for clothing and accessories: zero dollars. Daily budget for alcohol: zero dollars. Daily budget for recreation, for toiletries, for gasoline: zero, zero, zero.
Why use a budgeting app if you set daily limits to zero for every expense? It literally defeats the entire purpose.
Unless keeping a budget isn’t the purpose. Something cold tickles the back of my neck.
In Settings, I scroll for a list of accounts. Only one is linked. Most of the numbers are masked, but the last four digits send gooseflesh up my arms. I recognize them as my own.
Instant notifications when you spend too
much.
Nathan’s linked my credit card—and only my card—to Wealth Wallet with daily spending limits at zero across the board. He gets notifications sent directly to his phone each and every time I spend money. On anything. The room sinks further into eerie coldness. Nathan’s been tracking me in real time by my spending.
Sheets rustle and I spin.
“Why are you on my phone?”
28
My heart thrums and I swallow something dry like cigarette ash.
“I wanted to see if anyone had called about Tilly.” My voice shakes. A cracking tone that screams dishonesty. “You listed both our numbers.”
Nathan falls back on his pillow. “Did you put all the posters out?”
“I did.” I draw closer to the bed.
His eyes find mine, and he offers a tiny smile. I drink relief like ice water and accept his invitation to lie beside him. His hand crawls under my tee; his palm traces a circle on the small of my back.
“I shouldn’t have come after you earlier,” he says. “I’m crazy over Tilly. And other things.”
“I know. Kimberly said you’d fought with your mom.”
“I’m sorry.” He sighs and ignores that last bit, which is fine by me. “Tilly going missing, it’s pushed me to the edge.”
“Me too.” My reply’s ambiguous. I could mean that I’m sorry too. Or I could mean that Tilly’s absence has also pushed me to the edge. It’s not that I’ve meant it to come out this way, it’s simply habit. A survival technique I’m too good at. Equivocating. Focusing on the literal meaning of my words the way a child might.
“She’ll come home.” Nathan gazes at the ceiling fan. “The detective’s right. Lots of people are out. She’s collared and microchipped. We’ll find her.”
“The chip!” I say. “You can track—”
“There’s no GPS. Someone has to scan her,” he interrupts. “A vet or a shelter. It’s not a hookup app. It’s not Grindr or MeetLockr.”
“Sure,” I whisper as heat flames up my body. He was joking, of course. His word choice coincidental like all the other coincidences I’ve collected. I grip his hand; his fingers are cold in mine.
What he can’t know is how dangerous this situation is. Why we experienced a break-in. Kristian knew about Tilly before he punched through the back glass. He heard her barking while he worked with Darryl’s crew. Saw her crated as he hid his sick movie in my underwear.
His long fingers, the very same that wrapped so tight around my neck, that squeezed it, might’ve reached inside the crate. Tilly might’ve licked them.
I shut my eyes. She might’ve escaped like I had. But if he’s taken her? My throat tightens, and the room darkens with metastasizing shadow. How many boxes will he use to mail her pieces back to us, and over how many days? I drag both hands down my face. Then what will he do next? My shoulders shake because that last he applies to both Kristian and Nathan.
“It’s okay.” Nathan sits up again. “It’s gonna work out.”
“Nat.” I squeeze his hand, wade deeper into those sad eyes. In my head, I confess. I cheated. This is my doing. All of it. I betrayed you. But my lips whisper another thing entirely: “Would you ever leave me?”
“We’re stronger than this,” he says as if I’m silly. “Assaults and Tilly and parents.”
He could mean anything by parents but I say something honest for a change: “I need you.”
“I know.” Nathan blinks. “That about Tilly?”
“What?”
“Check your phone.” He gestures to my lap. “It vibrated.”
I don’t check it. Not in front of him. Instead, I tell him to go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke him, but this message is a “work thing” and I leave the bedroom. If Nathan finds this odd, I don’t have the luxury of caring.
When I’m down the hallway, I flip my phone over. A notification from MeetLockr. I’ve got a message.
I pivot into the guest bedroom, past the four-poster bed, the framed black-and-whites from Nathan’s favorite art gallery in Frederick, Maryland. I close the bathroom door and take a seat on the toilet. My gut clenches and my pits dampen. My palms itch because it’s never Kristian until it is.
Our home is old and our walls are thin. I let the toilet lid fall hard against the porcelain tank for Nathan’s benefit. I open MeetLockr and scroll for my in-box.
My pulse spikes.
Oliver?
The profile pic is a man’s chest. Fit, but not cut. Another headless torso among dozens like it. The distance reads 4.5 miles away and the piano wire around my neck loosens. My username is now Oliver P. It’s not weird that someone might greet me that way, but what’s up with the question mark?
A face pic comes through. His arrogant smirk taunts me because I’ve seen it and felt it dozens of times. In restaurants and cafés. In bars like Trance. In my own house.
Tom Vogt has dropped me a line on a hookup app.
I leave his question and his photo unanswered while the cogs in my mind spin. How will I play this? Why the hell didn’t I consider this could happen?
Instinct says to lie. No, this isn’t Oliver. You must be mistaken, you pretentious dick. But of course it’s me. My face. My name and last initial.
He’ll correctly interpret silence as panic. I must answer him. Say something.
Hi Tom.
Not nearly enough of a reply, but it buys time and keeps my options open. No matter how I spin this, a simple hello is as good a start as any.
What are you doing on here?
So much for stalling.
Think. What am I doing on here? I have no defense. Offense won’t work either. Earlier, I worried Nathan had discovered this account and pictured Mormons in a liquor store. My metaphor doesn’t apply here. Tom’s single; I’m not. Neither of us is Mormon.
Open relationships are a dime a dozen these days. Nathan and I might plausibly have one. Not quite polyamorous or open romantically, but solely for physical gratification. A step removed from casual porn consumption. Masturbating with the body of a stranger. But wouldn’t Tom know this already? Wouldn’t Nathan have mentioned it during the literally hundreds of times they’ve been drunk together?
I won’t tell.
I can almost hear Tom’s voice as he says this, and it riles my pulse. Cherubic, taunting Tom in playground pigtails and smacking of entitlement.
My secret’s safe with Tom, he assures me. Bullshit. He’s never arrived anywhere without an angle. A bouncing ellipsis says he’s typing something.
Oliver??
Tom—who’s never fucking patient—is growing less so. I’m out of time.
Hey, sorry, got distracted with something. How are you?
I brace for his reply. I will him to simply tell me how he is in a casual sense, but I know he won’t let me go so easily.
As if reading my mind, Tom says exactly what he’s getting at: I’ve thought of you before.
Me?
I pretend to not know where this is going.
When I play with myself.
Why does this surprise me? Coming from someone like Tom, someone with the principles of a Capitol Hill staffer. The moral resolve of a soggy sandcastle at high tide. The thought summons a glitter of guilt. Am I really taking the high ground here? Even for an audience of one, it’s laughable. Still, Tom’s willingness to betray Nathan—his best friend—is uncomfortably surprising.
Really?
A stupid response, but what am I supposed to say? Great, Tom. That’s great. Glad I can be of service during your coveted toilet time.
Yeah. I think of you a lot. You ever wonder what it would be like? Me and you?
No, but I’m reminded of Kristian, of why I’m back on MeetLockr in the first place. I’m taking control. I’m confronting. I’m finding out what happened to Tilly. I’m finding what
I can about the man terrorizing me. I’m going where Detective Henning cannot. Now is not the time to unfurl angel wings.
You’re no fucking martyr, Oliver.
If this ruse—this plan I’ve deluded myself into thinking is clever—is to succeed, Nathan’s ignorance is vital. And now I have my first loose end. If I become sanctimonious, there’s no stopping Tom from tipping off Nathan. He’ll have screengrabs just like mine of Kristian. No room for debate when Nathan sees hard evidence. Only cold truth.
Tom must be engaged; he needs something to lose.
I reply: I haven’t. But I am right now.
Nice. You’re so fucking hot.
Go on.
Tight ass. Let’s do something about it. I do discreet really well.
He’s lying. Nothing about the man suggests he does discreet well. But then again, he works for a Republican. A family values pro-lifer who paid for a staffer’s abortion because he already had one family he valued. In politics, the ability to keep secrets is the difference between pillar of the community and prison. Besides, I must secure Tom’s absolute discretion.
I write: To tell you the truth, I haven’t met anyone from here. I’m just figuring this app out.
You exchanged pics?
I lie: No.
Boys on here expect pics you know.
Guess I do now haha.
LOL. So what are you wearing?
I draw in breath. This is good. Tom’s focusing on the present instead of any possibilities the future might offer. I encourage this new direction.
Jeans. T-shirt.
Underwear?
Briefs.
I hesitate, then for good measure: Andrew Christian. Backless. You?
I’m in bed. Naked.
Of course he is.
You said you think of me when you play with yourself.
;)
You playing with yourself right now?
Yeah. Want to know what’s in my head?
No, Tom. Not in either of them.
Tell me.
You on all fours. Back arched. Ass up like a bitch in heat.