by Debra Lynch
I bit the cuticle on my index finger so hard it bled. “Yes.”
Levi slid the glass door a few inches and said, “We’re back in thirty seconds.”
I made a frantic go-away motion with my hands. “Jesus. Coming!”
Levi’s eyes grew wide. “What’s wrong?”
I covered the mouthpiece with my hand and hissed, “I said I’ll be right there!” Levi retreated, and I jammed the phone to my ear.
“Your voice doesn’t sound so good. Maybe you’re not over your sickness at all,” Dennis said.
“I need to know what you’re gonna do with that video,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Enjoy the rest of the show, Rachel. I know I will.” The line went dead.
I have no idea how I made it through the rest of the show as my makeup melted under the hot lights and my blood pressure spiked.
Finally, blessedly, the show ended.
I nearly burst into tears when I said, “This one’s for you, Daddy.” I kissed my fingers, and we signed off. “This is Rachel Goodman.”
“And Levi Swift.”
“Saying namasté.”
When we finished I race-walked out to the deck to call Dennis. It went straight to voicemail. I hit redial. Twice, three times, four times, and got Dennis’s annoying greeting every time. Finally, I slammed the phone on the deck, where the screen cracked into a spider’s web of broken glass.
“Are you okay?” Levi’s warm hand touched my shoulder. “Jesus, Rachel. You look like hell. Let me get you some water.” He sprinted into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of chilled Evian. “Sit down.”
I sat on the chaise lounge and held the cold drink to my forehead. “I’m … I’m fine. I must be coming down with some kind of bug. It hit me all the sudden.”
Levi towered over me, his face a mask of concern. “What can I get you? You need me to take you to Urgent Care?”
“No!” I took a deep sip of water and smoothed my hair away from my sweaty forehead. “I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
His green eyes bore into mine. “If you’re sure.”
“Just need some rest. I’ll call you in a bit.”
“Okay. But if you need me to drive you—”
“I’m fine!” I gave Levi a shaky smile. “I’m sorry. I think I ate some yogurt that was off.”
Levi didn’t deserve this. I had to get him out of there before I had a nervous breakdown. After much persuading on my part that I was only suffering a momentary bout of a stomach bug, Levi finally left.
When the door closed behind him, I rapidly transferred the footage from my phone and raced to my laptop to view the video. And there I was in sharp black and white. Breaking and entering. Vandalism. Theft. Anything else I should add to the list of sins? How about stupidity?
I slammed the laptop shut and paced the living room. I went back out onto the deck and drew in lungfuls of ocean air, my eyes scanning the multimillion-dollar view I’d worked so hard to be able to afford.
It was shaping up to be a gorgeous California day. A few surfers sat on their boards, bobbing and swaying, the majestic Catalina Island visible on the horizon. The glorious day seemed to mock my bitter mood. My fingernails bit into my palms. How could I have let this happen?
I whirled around and took in my beautiful living room with the furniture pieces I’d so carefully selected. The original artwork I had painstakingly collected from local Laguna Beach artists. My video blogging studio off to the right with all the best equipment to create the YouTube channel that had made us a success. I thought of Levi’s shock and disappointment when he would make the discovery that his partner was nothing but a thief, a liar, and a two-bit no-good jive.
No way was Dennis sending me to prison for felony charges.
No way would I let Dennis hurt Madeline.
My father would know what to do. I choked back a sob. Daddy was king of the con, but he was dead. What would he do? His blood coursed through my veins, and I knew exactly what he’d do. He’d murder the son of a bitch.
I rushed through the house and into my secret room feeling like that scared little girl who hid under the bed when things got really, really bad. “Daddy! Help!” I grabbed his urn, but what did I think? That he’d rise from the dead and kick Dennis’s ass?
Setting the urn down, I whirled around and spied my goal setting wall. Stupid, stupid stupid! Dennis would put me away for a long time.
I’d never amount to anything now. Why not just tear down the photos, my chart, my carefully planned life?
He’d ruin everything for me, for Levi, for Madeline.
I was out of practice. Dennis was smarter than I was. The only thing I’d accomplished was to make things worse. I had to figure a way out. Dennis would hurt me. And then he’d put me behind bars.
The room pinpricked, and just like that, my knees buckled. I fell to the ground, sobbing just like the baby I was. This time I didn’t even set my timer for three minutes. I just let loose with torrential tears until I was dry heaving. I was going to jail for sure.
How could I have been so idiotic? Why didn’t I check for cameras more thoroughly?
Between dry heaves, I ticked off my sins. They added up to one big fat reality: Felony sister. My attorney friend Karen probably wouldn’t even take my case. Maybe I could hire Johnny Freaking Cochran. Oh, that’s right. He’s dead. Just like you’re going to be. Or wish you were.
I had to pull myself together. I had to sweet talk Dennis, con him somehow, whatever it took. There had to be a way.
My heart pounded so hard that it sounded like a bass drum hammering in my ears. I stood up and violently kicked the wall and let out a guttural roar when pain shot up my leg.
I brought this on, I would deal with it. I picked up Daddy’s urn and cradled it. “I’m your daughter. I’ll figure a way out.” I kissed the vessel and replaced it on the shelf.
My hands clenched into fists, my jaw tight, an edgy, twitching feeling rushing through my veins.
I hated Dennis. I would do whatever it took to make him suffer and get rid of him.
After the meltdown in my secret room, I forced myself to wash my face and deal with Freakshow.
I strode through The Treasure Trove on a mission to find him. My fingers itched to throttle Dennis by the neck until his eyes bulged from their sockets, but I had to play it cool. I practically galloped toward the staff only door, and I jiggled the handle so hard I thought I’d break a nail, but it was locked.
One of the employees startled me out of my quest. “Can I help you?”
I whirled around in annoyance. “No!”
The woman flinched, her hands held up defensively. “Just trying to help.”
And just like that, my acting persona came alive. “Is Dennis working today?”
“He’s on surveillance and said not to bother him.”
“Can you—”
“He keeps the door locked.” The woman’s expression looked like she’d had a run-in with Dennis herself. She stared at the floor and flicked her gaze up to me. “I can get a message to him. After his shift, that is.”
I treated her to one of my megawatt smiles and she softened. “Much appreciated. Tell him to call Rachel.”
She went to the cash register, and I stomped to the back of the store, positioning myself directly in front of one of the cameras. Ten thousand bucks said Dennis sat in his easy chair, feet up on the desk, watching my every move. I gazed up at the camera and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
I shifted from foot to foot, ran my fingers jerkily through my hair, looking left and right. I dug around in my bag, pulled out my notebook and pen. I scrawled my message and held it up to the camera. Meet me at the kombucha bar.
He had to respond. If not, I may as well go in for my orange jumpsuit fitting right now. I stood there for several more minutes as several shoppers eyed me warily. I must’ve looked like a lunatic bent on robbing the place the way I examined the security cameras. With anger and irritation c
oursing through me, I finally left.
At the kombucha bar I nursed my second kombucha martini while speed-texting Dennis:
Let me explain.
Two whole minutes. No response.
We need to talk.
Nothing.
Please?
Utter silence.
I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.
Crickets.
Dennis was probably on the phone with the cops right that second. They’d track me to the kombucha bar, my class, my house.
I poured back the contents of my drink and slammed the glass on the counter. The bartender wiped the bar down and raised his eyebrows. “Another?”
“Much as I’d love to, I have a class.”
His brow knit in concern. “You okay, kiddo?”
I wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Can I get you anything? Food? A ride? An aspirin? A—”
“Frontal lobotomy? Yeah. That might help. You got one back there?”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Just asking.”
The poor guy was only trying to cheer me up. I gave him a shaky smile, gathered up my bag, and made for the door. “Thanks for the drink.”
He saluted me, and I race-walked the two blocks to the community center for my afternoon video blogging class. As the warm air hit my face, thoughts pinged through my brain. All I could think about was what Dennis was planning to do with the video and how I could retrieve it.
A plan began to form. Just the outlines. But I knew it had potential.
Before I entered the building, I called Madeline. “Hey, precious!” she said.
I whispered into the phone. “Are you okay?”
“Finer than a frog’s hair. Whatcha got?”
I tapped my foot. “Just heading into class and wanted to check in.”
“Well quit acting like Chevy stopped makin’ trucks. You sound worn slap out.”
Madeline always could make me laugh. She loved her Southern phrases, and her tone told me that she was okay. If she weren’t, I’d be the first to hear about it.
I glanced at the time. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Good lord. Will you quit worrying about me? Call me later.”
I promised her I would, and we signed off.
I went through the motions as I instructed my students on how to create a compelling script for their video, answered questions on lighting, fielded queries about purchasing the best microphone.
The whole time I kept an eye on the door. What if the police showed up to question me? To apprehend me? What would I do? Kick them in the shins and run out the door?
When class was finally over, I scurried down to the beach. I thought about walking out into the ocean until the massive waves covered me. Thought about inhaling seawater until my lungs filled with salty liquid and there was nothing left of me.
The fantasy was stupid. I wasn’t going to do that. I’d started this drama with Dennis, and no way was I going to back down. I’d have to eat some humble pie, and the thought made me nearly consider drowning as an option.
When the sun set and I thought Dennis was finally home from work, I sped to Costa Mesa, parked in front of his house, strode up to the splintered front door and rapped sharply three times. No answer. I knew he was there; his heap of a car was parked out front, and I heard him rustling around.
“Dennis!” I knocked again, harder. “Open up. Let’s talk.” I was met with silence. I peered right when I saw movement from the next-door neighbor’s kitchen window. I quickly turned my head. Shoot. What if he recognized me from the other night? My body coiled tight, ready to fight Dennis and the neighbor if I had to.
I crouched down and opened the letterbox. And Dennis was sitting at his tiny kitchen table eating some kind of slop. He’d made a weak attempt to clean up the place, but no amount of industrial-strength abrasives would accomplish that task. The graffiti remained on the wall. “Dennis! I can see you. Open up. I know I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” I pounded on the door for emphasis as my throat closed up. He didn’t even glance my way, just kept shoveling whatever he was eating into his mouth, staring straight ahead like a zombie.
“Fine. Finish your dinner. I’ll wait out here in my car. As long as it takes.”
I trudged back to the Tesla and waited, one eye on Dennis’s front door as my mind churned with my next plan of attack, the next con. I knew it could work. But first, I needed to get back in Dennis’s good graces.
I tapped the steering wheel. I listened to music. I texted Dennis. Please, let’s talk.
No response.
I scrolled through Facebook, then Instagram and then Twitter, glancing up every few minutes. No sign of Dennis. I rolled the window down and up again. I practiced my deep breathing exercises. I played more music, singing along while using the steering wheel as a drum. I texted Dennis. Again.
No response.
I repeated my routine of striding to his front door, banging with force, and begging him to listen to reason. Told him I’d wait in my car. All I got was crickets.
As I changed the channel to a reggae station, a police car pulled up next to mine. My throat went dry, and I held my breath. The police officer motioned for me to roll my window down.
Oh good god, I was busted.
I braced myself. They’d drag me out of my car, smack me down on the hood, slap cuffs on me, and read me my rights. They’d lock me up. Tonight. I’d be fingerprinted and spend the night in a smelly jail cell. Should I make a break for it? But to where? I swallowed over a lump the size of a golf ball. “Good evening, officer.”
She nodded. “Everything okay?”
“Why … yes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “We’ve gotten a report. You’ve been parked here for a while.”
I had to play it cool. But as I gripped the steering wheel, I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake her and tell her that the man inside the house was a filthy blackmailer and worse. “I was just leaving.”
“You do that ma’am.” Her piercing eyes appraised me. “Why are you sitting here? What’s so interesting in Costa Mesa?”
“I… It’s part of my meditation practice.” I started talking too fast. “It has to do with putting myself in unfamiliar locations and being comfortable anywhere in the world through mind control.” Anywhere? Like a jail cell? Maybe you can pretend you’re Gandhi, Rachel. Because that’s where you’ll end up if you don’t play nice.
“Practice that technique somewhere else. Got it?”
“Thank you, officer. You have yourself a nice evening.”
“You do the same.”
I drove to a nearby strip center parking lot and wrote a note to Dennis: I’m sorry. Please let me make it up to you. Let’s meet. Rachel. My fingers nearly froze when I forced myself to sign off with an XO.
I returned to Dennis’s, slipped the note through the letterbox, and got the hell out of there.
I hoped to God the note would be enough to rouse his interest.
Eleven
It was the longest four days of my life while I waited for Dennis to respond.
Levi and I worked on The Namasté Getaway, I taught my video blogging class along with teaching vinyasa and hot yoga classes. But I barely slept and couldn’t eat. Every time I tried to gag down a green drink or a powerhouse salad with quinoa and organic veggies, my throat closed up and my stomach constricted. I couldn’t get the image of his threatening photo of Madeline out of my head. After calling her a zillion times and texting her twice that many to make sure she was okay, she finally told me to give it a rest. But I still worried.
Also, what would Dennis do with the B&E video? I could see it plastered all over YouTube, my hand gripping the spray paint can as I scrawled the obscenities that would end my career. What kind of yogi does that? Everyone would hate me.
Levi noticed something was wrong when I couldn’t concentrate or eat. I told him the stomach bug I’d contracted turned out to be worse than I thoug
ht. “Nothing a round of probiotics can’t cure,” I told him with a shaky smile.
Finally, at the end of day four, Dennis called. When I saw his name on the caller ID, a shockwave coursed through my system, and I could barely breathe. “Hello?”
His voice sounded faraway and meek. “We need to meet.”
“Sure. Name the place.”
“Doheny Beach. Meet you there at sunset.”
I kept my voice modulated. “Eight o’clock?”
“See you there,” he said, and the line went dead.
Doheny was a popular spot for family picnics, surfing, biking. I had to wait thirty whole minutes for Dennis as the sun set, and the last of the surfers packed up their gear and drove home. Finally, Dennis appeared, his lanky body slogging toward where I sat at a picnic bench.
He looked awful. His beard had grown out to a scraggly mess, his skin appeared unusually pale, and his glasses were smudged. He stood in front of me, hands in his pockets, and looked at his feet. “Let’s walk.”
I had to play this cool. The creepy picture Dennis had taken of Madeline in her kitchen still haunted me. But I decided not to confront him about it lest it made me appear weak. Let Dennis think he had the upper hand. Which he definitely did not.
He’d lead the way, I’d follow, and he’d play right into my hands. And believe me, I had plans. The rough outlines were forming, and I felt confident it could work. “Sure.”
He bent his head and took off at a fast clip on the bike path. “Come on.”
I scampered to keep up. We wound our way inland toward the river bed where people ran and rode bikes, the railroad tracks visible before us. A few people seemed to recognize me, and I gave them a polite nod and wave as Dennis reamed me out, his voice hissing from between clenched teeth. “What the hell were you thinking? I told you I’d keep the thumb drive safe.”
Dennis practically jogged at this point as he veered off the path. “Answer me, Rachel.”
The blare of the locomotive in the distance made it difficult to hear his mumblings, but it sounded like Dennis was close to tears. He whirled around and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Why’d you break in?” He wiped at a stray tear. Dennis was either one hell of an actor, or he had some bats in the belfry. I think we’ve already established the latter.