by Debra Lynch
After I deal with Dennis.
Swear to God. Promise. I swear on the lives of all our viewers, the wonderful people who’ve believed in me all these years. Honest to God, I’ll quit being such a swindler.
But what if they don’t love me anymore? I can’t think this way. They’ll understand. They have to. I square my shoulders, hold up my head and walk briskly down Ocean Avenue. I make a left toward Forest Avenue, past the gourmet chocolate store, the sunglass shop, and the ice cream parlor, allowing the warm sultry night to soothe my nerves.
Summer in Laguna is overflowing with tourists. As I pass surf shops and art galleries, I hear people speaking Italian, French, German, and what sounds like Portuguese. I smile at a woman holding a newborn baby in a sling close to her breast and cross the street to Main Beach.
I stop for a minute to savor all that I have, taking a deep breath of briny ocean air.
My life has evolved from the one I lived with Daddy, where all he seemed to know was how to con people. Kids don’t know any better. All I knew was that I was his partner, his sidekick and that after an especially fruitful con, he’d take me down to the bakery. He’d hold my hand and tell me I could pick out any treat I wanted. My favorite was the sugar horns—the puff pastry overflowing with decadent sweet cream filling and topped with powdered sugar.
After spending years in foster care and finally going out into the world on my own, I discovered that there was a whole other universe out here. One that included art, yoga, long stretches of pristine beaches, and people who love me. Community. Even if that community did come by way of Rachel Goodman putting on the biggest show of her acting life. What’s that line I heard somewhere? Oh yeah. Liars profit.
I readjust my bag over my shoulder and continue the half-mile walk home.
Twenty-Nine
Dennis
The paperclip almost slips in my hands, but I work it deftly until I hear the pop of Rachel’s fancy shmancy lock.
I’m just about to swing the door to Rachel’s secret room open when I hear the front door. My body freezes, my ears perk up, my hand on the doorknob. I could walk out into the living room right now and surprise her. My plan had been to have her drink ready, some candles lit in the living room for our reunion. I glance at my watch. It’s not even eleven o’clock. Why the hell is Rachel home? I thought I’d have at least another hour.
I cock my head and listen as Rachel throws something on the floor and makes a commotion on the way to the kitchen. Is she singing?
I quickly bend down and grab the manila envelope, tucking it under my arm, scurry into Rachel’s hidden room and crouch down. I shut the door, and the room goes black.
Thirty
Rachel
Standing on my front porch, I make a mental note to change the burned-out overhead lightbulb, insert my key in the lock, and enter the sanctuary of my beach home. The alarm beeps, and I punch in the code.
I can’t wait to shed my high heels. I unstrap the torture chambers, throwing them in the middle of the living room and rub my aching feet. What made me think walking home in strappy high heels was a good idea?
Leaning against the door, I take a deep breath. Ah, blessed solitude. For once, I wasn’t lying when I told Levi that I want to crawl into bed and sleep for a month. After I have myself a good old fashioned swig and smoke fest, that is. I promised Levi I would arm the alarm once I was home and I keep my word, stabbing in the code.
I run my fingers through my hair and take long strides toward the kitchen, singing a happy tune as I go. Flipping on the kitchen lights, I open the freezer where I keep my expensive vodka. I hold the bottle and kiss it. “Come to mama.” Not even bothering with a glass, I unscrew the top and take the first heavenly swig straight out of the bottle. Gonna have to slow down unless you want to sleep for two months.
I pour myself a hefty glass of cabernet, and I do mean hefty. I grab my bong, fill it with the fantastic weed one of my students sold me. The house feels oppressively warm, and I pick up a magazine, fanning my sweaty face.
Turning on the overhead fan doesn’t do much. Just blows hot air around. Those of us lucky enough to live on the California beaches love to brag that we don’t require air conditioning. And mostly, we’re right. The weather is some of the best in the world, the temperatures usually a delightful humidity-free seventy degrees. But summer is another story. It must be nearing a hundred degrees in here.
I disarm the house alarm, throw open windows. Sliding the patio door, I head out to the ocean view deck with my weed stretching out in my chaise lounge with a contented sigh.
An ocean breeze wafts over my body as the sea pounds the rocks below, and I take the first deep breath I’ve taken all day. No. Make that all month.
Ever since I left Dennis standing in front of my classroom with a forlorn look on his face, my body’s been sprung tight as a cobra getting ready to strike. I nearly laugh, thinking about his expression. Poor little Dennis. Didn’t know I had a brain in my head, did you? I tamp the pot down into the bowl and pick up my lighter.
Weirdly, I miss Dennis. Not because of the blackmail and the chance of going to jail. Hell no. It’s because I realize that the adrenaline rush I get from torturing Dennis is the highest high I’ve ever experienced. Way better than shoplifting those trinkets. Way better than the high from any substance. I light the bong and take a toke. The magic smoke hits my lungs and races through my bloodstream.
I navigate to the Sonos app and select my favorite. My high-end sound system fills the night with the staccato rhythm of Beethoven’s ninth. I take another puff, close my eyes, lean my head back against the cushion with a happy sigh.
The world goes fuzzy around the edges as a smile plays upon my lips. Beethoven’s explosive music thrums through my veins, exhilaration filling my core.
I laugh as I once again relish Dennis’s expression the night I busted him with the video in my class. I’m giddy with excitement from my cons, the successful anniversary show, and the high from the weed.
I take another toke and blow out a perfect smoke ring. Job well done, Rachel.
Thirty-One
Dennis
The tiny room feels dank and hot as I lean against the wall taking deep breaths. Loud music, something classical and glaring filters through the house with such violence, I have a hard time hearing my own thoughts.
I flick on my flashlight to get my bearings. The room is small, and the only thing it contains is empty shelves, a bunch of photos on the wall. Tacked next to that is a big ass piece of butcher paper with writing in bold black marker.
It looks like some kind of goal setting thing. Probably one of those deals people like to put together at the start of a new year. Plans they make with great intentions, but their lazy asses never follow through.
I move closer to the pictures. At first, my mind has trouble making sense of what I’m seeing. My heart pounds, and the flashlight feels slippery in my sweaty grip.
What the fuck? It’s a crap ton of eight-by-ten photos of me. Some in color, some in black and white.
Goosebumps break out on my arms, and the back of my neck feels so hot I have to lift my shirt away from my body to try to get some air flowing.
There must be at least fifty photographs of me. Moving the flashlight quickly from one picture to the next, the room sways, my legs trembling like I’m watching one of those old-time cartoons where they take the drawings and flick them so fast that it makes a whole freaking film.
For a split second, my breathing stops. I blink rapidly, squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. There are pictures of me taken as I walk into work. Pictures taken as I leave work. Some of me driving my car through the Taco Bell drive-thru. Some of me getting out of my car in front of my house. Others of me standing in my kitchen window were taken while the photographer must’ve hid in the bushes at night.
My head jerks back, and a coldness hits my veins. My fists clench. Had Rachel been stalking me?
The part that really makes my blood
boil are the witty little captions written in Rachel’s handwriting below a few of the pics:
Dennis looking especially corpselike today.
How about washing that shirt once in a while? Oh that’s right. You like the smell of week-old laundry.
Haven’t had time for a haircut? I’ll cut it for you. Oops! The scissors slipped.
I grit my teeth. Scissors slipped? Rachel doesn’t have it in her to come after me with a pair of scissors. What’s she plan on doing after that? Meditating over my body while the cops come and haul her away for her orange jumpsuit fitting? Not likely.
But that’s okay. Let her vent all she likes. I love everything about Rachel, especially her spunk. We challenge each other. That’s a true relationship in my book. Passion beats sitting around waiting for your partner to finally, after umpteen years, say something stimulating. Rachel matches me step by step, and I love that about her.
Plus, she has pictures of me plastered all over the walls! If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.
I fling my flashlight to an enlarged Google map image of my house, more pictures of my car, and then try to make sense of the notes Rachel has written on the butcher paper.
Monday July 8 —> 5:30pm arrive at Treasure Trove —> Program phone to ring in fifteen minutes —> Place phone into right pocket of cargo pants —> Enter Treasure Trove at 5:35pm —> Browse items in store —> Select an interesting low cost item that’s close to the surveillance camera —> Phone rings at 5:45pm—> Reach into pocket for phone and replace phone with stolen trinket —> Glance up at camera —> Saunter to exit —> Wait for Dennis to place his slimy hand on my arm.
My mouth hangs open as I read.
Rachel wanted to get caught.
She wanted me to catch her.
But why?
Thirty-Two
Rachel
I’m going to have to give up on getting high unless I want to start a new YouTube channel. How To Become an Addict with Rachel Goodman. And let’s not forget my companion channel. How To Slam Your Slime Ball Stalker to the Ground and Have Him Beg For More!
I pad into the kitchen to pour another glass of wine, but when I look down at the dress Dennis gave me, I shudder. Gotta change out of this rag.
I thought I’d receive a text from Dennis saying something about how great the dress looked on the show, but so far nothing from Prince Charming. The dress feels tight, and no matter how many sedatives I’ve consumed over the past couple of hours, my chest feels constricted, like someone’s squeezed a vise around my body.
I trek past my video blogging room, and something catches my peripheral vision. Entering the room, I notice the door to my closet is open, and the safe is ajar.
And empty.
I stand stock-still, chills racing up my spine as I inhale the scent of Dennis’s cheap cologne. Eyeing the lock to my secret room, I can’t tell if it’s been jimmied.
I hold my breath, and above the din of Beethoven, I hear rustling inside the room.
Alarm bells thunder through my blood.
I steady myself with deep breaths.
This is the moment I’ve dreamed of.
Calm and steady. That’s the way to win the game.
Dennis is here.
He’s in my secret room.
He knows.
Thirty-Three
Dennis
My mind races, the thoughts jumbled together. The room closes in on me, making it impossible to breathe.
My eyes land on one line that Rachel wrote on her brainy things to do today list for the day I’d caught her breaking the law to the tune of felony theft: Select an interesting low-cost item.
My lips curl into a smile. Rachel planned to steal a low-cost item.
Seems my princess wasn’t counting on the fact that the letter opener she lifted was worth over nine-hundred-fifty dollars. Bingo! Felony! We have a winner.
First week on the job, I had caught a dude stealing eight slim wallets he’d stuffed into his pockets. They added up to over a grand in value, and I’m happy to say he’s now part of the razor-wire-enclosed gang.
Oh, Rachel. What would’ve become of your precious reputation as a pillar of the community if I wasn’t here to save you? It would’ve been shot to hell. Then who’d take care of the wheelchair-bound ninny?
I touch a finger to my lips, my eyebrows scrunched together in thought. What the hell had Rachel been planning? I blow out my cheeks and release a breath. My mind races as I fidget, picking at a loose thread on my shirt. Whatever her plan was, it went wrong from the start.
That annoying classical music blasts so loud it vibrates the walls. There’s no chance of Rachel hearing me, and if she does happen to pound on the door, I’ll deal with her.
But before our evening’s happy reunion, I’ll get as much information as possible.
I sit down against the wall and tear open the envelope.
Photos of a young, dark-haired girl posing with a man spill out of the package and onto the floor. I spread them out, recognizing them immediately. There are around twelve in all.
Pictures of the two of them taken at the beach. Snapshots of them at a fair, the man with a grin plastered on his face as he holds the girl’s waist while she rides the merry-go-round. A couple of them when she’s a bit older, holding the hand of the man as she clutches a bakery treat, her face smudged with frosting.
My heart races as I pull out the rest of the envelope’s contents.
News article clippings scream variations of similar headlines: Notorious Grifter Ends Up on Wrong Side of a Knife.
An official-looking document sits at the bottom of the pile. My fingers tremble as I shine the flashlight on the form from the state of California. The heading of the legal paper announces, Form NC-100 - Petition for change of name.
I scan the paper until I reach the line that says:
Present name: Ruby Bradley
Changed to:
Proposed name: Rachel Goodman
I slam my hand down on the carpet as the full weight of the revelation hits me.
Light flashes in my vision and the room tunnels. Rachel duped me!
My heart races so hard I think my chest will explode. A feeling of increased strength charges through my blood as anger shoots through me. I stand up so fast the blood rushes to my head, and in a fit of rage, I tear all the pictures off the walls and rip them to shreds.
I’ll kill her! Rachel planned this all along.
I snatch the butcher paper off the wall and wad it up, ripping and tearing as I fly into a crazed rampage, pounding my fist against the walls.
I glance around wildly looking for something to break, but there’s nothing here other than a sealed vase of some sort. My pulse booms in my ears as a sudden explosion of energy bursts through my body.
I snatch up the container, hoist it over my head and smash it against the wall. It flies apart in a million shards and what looks like human remains—ashes—litters the floor.
Damn it! Rachel outsmarted me.
My nostrils flare as I try to catch my breath.
A few moments pass where all I can hear is Rachel’s thunderous classical music and the clamor of my heart thrashing in my ears.
And then I burst out in a fit of laughter so hard The Joker can’t compete. My uncontrollable hysterics make my body go weak, all my limbs loose. Leaning my back against the wall, I slide to a sitting position.
I slump against the wall, and a slow smile spreads across my face. This is good.
No. This is great.
Adrenaline charges through my veins, and I stand up.
Thirty-Four
Rachel
When I enter my bedroom, the first thing I notice is the burning candles. The second thing I see are the framed photos, rose petals, and the sharp scissors stabbed into my designer comforter. I let out a tisking noise. What? No spray-painted slogan over my bed? Where’s your imagination, Dennis?
The next surprise Dennis has deemed fit to grace me with is
the complete and total annihilation of my underwear drawer. I pick up a pair of silky panties that I’d paid two-hundred and fifty dollars for at a boutique in Fashion Island and shake my head. Dennis will never get anywhere in life with this kind of emotion.
No. The key is to remain calm. Learn about the opponent. Find out what’s important to them. Stick the knife into their soft spot and twist.
I light a scented candle in my bathroom and inspect my likeness in the mirror. My makeup could use a bit of touching up, and my hair is a mess.
Glancing at my bathroom reflected in the glass, I recall the scary movie we’d seen and wonder what I’ll do if Dennis appears behind me with a weapon.
Oh, I know what I’ll do. I’ll use every ounce of strength to fight the bastard like this was a zombie apocalypse. Back off, Freakshow!
But Dennis is not in my bathroom.
As far as I know, he’s still in my secret room. My fingers itch to have a go at him. If he stays locked in there will I have to haul him out?
No.
Patience is the key.
I brush my blond locks until they shine. I reapply blusher, redo my eye makeup, making sure it looks camera worthy. Not too much eyeshadow, just enough to make me look like a California surfer girl. I can’t resist the red lipstick, though, because I figure it will piss Dennis off. Dennis enjoys the Stepford Wife look, which means bland, boring, and muted colors.
The dress Dennis gave me looks great, though. I line the buttons up perfectly, making sure everything is in place, check my iPhone, look in the mirror, and smile. “Showtime!”
Dennis wants to talk? We’ll talk.
Thirty-Five