I swallow down the rising lump in my throat, choking back tears. “No. No, you haven’t. Not until now, anyway.”
“Exactly, and I don’t intend to. And I don’t see this as a violation of that trust either. I’m trying my damnedest not to let the fact that I’ve developed complicated feelings toward you compromise my professional obligations toward you. I have a job to do, and keeping you safe is one of them. I can’t let anything get in the way of that.”
Feelings toward me? I don’t know why, but hearing those words makes me want to cry even more. Why is everything so damn complicated? I shake my head and wave off the comment. “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s just been a weird night. We can get back to your questions.”
He shakes his head too, as if trying to remember where he was before I derailed the conversation.
Another thought enters my mind. One that I’d never entertained before. “Do you think Gerald had anything to do with my kidnapping? I mean, it’s hard to imagine, but he was there that night at the club, and now we find him breaking and entering into my apartment while I’m here, for crying out loud.” The intrusive part of the whole incident still has me on edge.
Tobin gives me an apprehensive look, while toying with the pencil in his hand. “We can’t jump to those kinds of conclusions. Yet. Although, I’ve wondered from the beginning and didn’t want to say anything that might influence you in any way or add to your anxiety. But given the variety of coincidences and circumstances, he is certainly starting to fit into the category of a likely suspect in the kidnapping. For now, he’s for sure going down for breaking and entering. They’re searching his home now. I have a feeling it won’t be long until we link him to your case. Maybe we finally have our guy.”
I take another sip of tea. The idea of closing the case once and for all should offer me a sense of closure, of peace. So why don’t I feel it?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
My clothes are soaked through to the skin. Chills course through my body in violent waves. It’s more than uncomfortable. It’s downright miserable and I desperately want to be home and in the comfort of my bed, sinking into the soft mattress.
Instead, I lurk in the shadows across the street from the building where my support group meets every week. Grace has come to the meetings black and blue almost every week over the past month, her mood dour and dark as opposed to loud and crass. Then last week she didn’t show at all. I know her husband’s abuse is escalating. It always does. I can’t watch in silence anymore so I wait outside the building and pray that she made it tonight. Shivering. Cold. Determined.
Last night’s revelations still haunt me. Tom and Tobin talking. Gerald breaking into my home, possibly linked to my kidnapping. My phone sitting in Tom’s home. Tobin retrieving it behind my back. Before he’d done that, I’d already decided to retrieve the phone. Even now that I have it back, I’m still compelled to take a look around Tom’s home. I’m not even sure why. Because he lied? Because he kept it from me? I’m not sure but I need to fulfill this compulsion, if even just to get back at him in some weird way. Maybe I’ll show up out of the blue, like last time, and catch him off guard. Maybe I’ll break in while he’s gone. Maybe I’ll call ahead and just tell him I’ve tracked it down to his house and demand it back. The incident with Gerald breaking into my apartment incited a restless agitation that I can’t seem to squelch. Even though I know he’s sitting in jail with charges against him, and likely more to come in regard to my case, I just can’t settle down. I feel off.
I’m jerked back to the present as everyone filters out of the building and disperses quickly to their cars in search of reprieve from the rain, I hold my breath and watch for her familiar form. When she finally walks out, she is moving slower than usual and she holds her left side. I wonder if she has a broken rib or two. Instead of heading toward a car, she turns and makes her way down the sidewalk. She’s mentioned before that she lives close by, so I wait until she’s a safe distance then step out of the shadows and follow her.
I also happen to know that her husband has bowling league these same nights. He typically waits for her to return home before he leaves so he knows where she is. He also thinks she’s at an AA meeting, not a battered-women support group. It pays to be the quiet one who always listens and takes mental notes. Three blocks down, she slowly ascends a few concrete stairs in front of an old apartment building that looks like it’s had its share of bad days. I can almost feel her pain as she carefully maneuvers her way up one foot then the other, one stair at a time.
I settle under the eaves of another building kitty-corner across the street. With my arms wrapped tight around my chest, I watch for him to emerge. It feels like forever, and I begin to wonder if I’ve made a mistake or heard her wrong. Maybe he’s not going anywhere this evening. The muscles in my lower back spasm from the cold, wet weather. If I don’t stop shivering soon I’m going to have to give up.
Then the front door swings open and a ginormous behemoth of a man steps out of the building. I know it’s him by the cocky swagger. I’ve seen him from afar before when he met her after a meeting. He’s been drinking. It’s in the way he moves, as if he’s having a difficult time coordinating his movements. I wonder how he bowls in such a condition. Then again, he probably does a lot of things in that condition.
He makes his way down the stairs and crosses the street. I avert my gaze and slink against the brick wall, hoping to remain unnoticed.
I watch him climb into an older Ford F150. I move quickly, hunching down and running until I’m close enough to read the license plate. BVZ 796. Color, dark blue. A dent in the back fender and the left tail light is out. Now I know what he drives and where he lives. That’s all I needed to know. For now. The rest of the plan will come soon enough. I need to be patient.
Fraught with nervous energy, I know I can’t go home. I’ll never sleep. I need an outlet for this frustration. I decide to move on to the second goal of my night. Tom’s house. I’m driven. Maybe part of me just wants to see him again. That thought is shameful so I push it away. I just want answers. I hop up and rush down the road to my car.
***
The entire house sits in complete darkness, except for a single porch light next to the front door. Even the lamp post by the driveway is out. The driveway is empty, but maybe the cars are in the garage. I sneak along the side of the house, looking for the best possible entrance to the home, keeping an eye out for an alarm system. I’ve never broken into a house before, or anywhere for that matter. I’m both terrified and thrilled.
I peek into the windows of the garage. It’s empty. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. I think he’s out for the evening. I need to be quick then. After circling the house, I decide to climb the tree on the right side of the home, as it sits close enough that I think I can make it to the second-story roof. There’s a window up top that looks open. With more effort and grunting than I thought I’d need, I claw my way up the tree and scale out onto the farthest limb. Fear wells up and threatens to send me back down and running home. I can’t do this. It’s too far. I’ve gone too far this time. It seems to be my pattern lately.
I picture Tom’s shitty sneer as he forced me to give him a blow job that night in the car. Then Gerald’s sheepish smile and perfect timing as I ran away and right into Jake’s trap. How had he known where to find me? These men in my life. How they’ve made such a fool of me.
I shake my head and reel in my wandering thoughts. Bending at the knees, I crouch down and crawl out further onto the branch so I can hang down from it and swing my body the extra two feet to the roof. It seems so much farther now that I’m up here and I’m not even sure I will make it. Carefully, I lower my body so I’m dangling from the branch, and gently kick my legs out so I can give it a little push. My palms scrape against the bark and burn. Fuck, I need to just jump and get it over with. So I kick back then swing forward, lurching my body toward the roof, praying to God I’ll make it. My feet thud onto the roof,
then slip. I lunge forward to regain my balance. Falling backward means falling off the house.
On my hands and knees, I hold still and listen to my surroundings for any sign of disturbance. All is silent. I crab-crawl on my hands and feet to the window and hunch close to the house. I was right. The window is completely open. I remember how Tom always had to have a window open when he slept, and I wonder if this is his room. Quietly, I remove the screen and slip inside. The room is quiet and dark, but the moon shines bright enough that I can see the silhouette of a king-sized bed, a television on a dresser along the opposite wall, and three doorways. I find that one leads to a bathroom, another to a closet, and the other to the hall.
Tom’s familiar scent wafts up, confirming this is indeed his room. It triggers a slew of memories that make me feel both ashamed and used. It’s odd how a smell can do that.
Confident that the house is in fact empty, I move around the room more at ease and begin my random search. For what? I’m still not sure. Maybe I’m simply feeding the alter-ego I’ve developed lately. Feeding the adrenaline that comes with breaking the rules and facing my fears. After half an hour of senseless rummaging, I grow bored. An underlying anxiety is knocking at the door just behind that boredom. What if I’m caught? I’m frustrated and sweaty, and I’m beginning to fear he’ll come home soon.
Distraught but determined, I make my way down the hall, peeking into the remaining rooms upstairs. Another bathroom. One other bedroom that appears stark and lacking personality, like a guest room that has never been occupied. I get the sense that Tom rarely has visitors in his home and I wonder why he’s so private. It always hurt my feelings that he refused to invite me over, but then again, I was too meek to ask.
At the end of the hall, I open the last door to what looks like an office. Moonlight spills into this room directly, offering more visibility. A desk sits to the left. Cabinets line one wall. A recliner sits in the corner, facing a television along the opposite wall. This is where he hangs out the most. I feel it. I search through the desk and come up empty. Papers, file folders, a set of keys, and other innocuous items fill the drawers. I turn to see a mid-sized metal cabinet in the corner. About three feet wide, it stands as tall as me. It piques my interest. What secrets does it hold? Circular key holes stare back at me. Curious, I turn back to the desk and rifle through in search of those keys.
The first and second key I try doesn’t work, but the third slips right in. It sticks, but after a little jiggle, it finally turns. Disappointment fills my center when I open the doors and see that the contents are a boring let down. It’s full of DVDs. From one end to the other. Why would he have them locked up? I step forward and take a better look. They’re blank covers with only numbers on the side. Black and plain-looking. Homemade. Private, sexy videos, I wonder. Then I remember the time he begged me to let him record us when we made love. He’d rented a room in our favorite hotel and I’d agreed after he promised he’d never let anyone see it.
Mortified, I pulled out a few of the discs and wonder which one is mine. With my heart in my throat, I turn toward the television and slip one of the DVDs into the player. I take two steps back, waiting for the screen to come alive, while my ears strain for any outside noise that might alert me.
A room flashes into view. A single bed sits in the middle. A girl lies on the bed, still, as if sleeping. My soul turns to ice. I know this scene. It’s a different bed, a different room, a different girl, but it’s the same scene. My hands shake and my knees give out so that I fall forward, but my eyes never leave the screen. I hit fast forward then hit play randomly and watch as men I don’t recognize beat a frail, young woman. She screams and begs. I hit stop and scramble across the floor to vomit into a small waste basket by the desk, vile sour phlegm clogs my airway so that I choke and chortle. When I’m done I sit back on my haunches then fall backward. I’m shaking so hard I can’t stand. I’ll never get out of here.
I wipe sour bile from my lips and turn toward the other DVDs. Are all of them like this one?
I know they are. White heat sears up through the center of my core as revelation after revelation reverberate throughout my mind and set my core on fire. It wasn’t Gerald. It never was. Tom was at the club that night. He lured me out to his car. He knew I’d run off. Right into his trap. Fucking Tom!
I have to get the hell out of here. I make sure to put everything back where I found it, lock the cabinets, put the keys away. I pull the small trash bag of puke out of the waste basket and tie it up, taking it with me down the hall, through Tom’s bedroom and out the window. I can’t get down the way I came up, so I slide on my belly to the edge of the roof and dangle as far down as I can before letting go. I fall hard, my ankles jarring forcefully as I hit the ground and stumble backward to my bottom. Pain shoots up my legs but I ignore it and scramble to my feet, running as fast as my legs will carry me from this place.
***
Haven’t slept all night. After retreating to my apartment, I tried. Desperately, I tried to push away what I discovered for just a little bit so I could sleep. I might have dozed here and there, but mostly, I stared at the ceiling and processed the horror of it all. To say the least, I’m shaken up from what I found at Tom’s and I need to think over what to do about it. I roll out of bed and pace the house for hours, biting on my nails. I’m sick to myself. Just sick. But I’m paralyzed about what to do about my findings. Do I go to the police? Call Tobin? What if I’m wrong? Just because he has tapes like those doesn’t mean he’s to blame. Maybe he’s just a sick motherfucker. I shake my head. No, I know he’s to blame, somehow. I just do. It’s no coincidence.
I’m also not entirely sure about how much I can trust Tobin these days. I hate to admit that to myself. I have feelings for him. But since the day I saw him with Tom, I’m just not sure who or what to believe anymore. What if he had something to do with the whole thing from the beginning? The only person I’m sure of these days is myself. And even that’s a little iffy. Frazzled and sketched out, I decide to take a walk to clear my mind. When I step outside, I’m almost shocked that it’s so late in the afternoon. I lost most of the day stressing about what I found. No wonder my mind is fried. I wander the streets, oblivious to everything around me as memories of my kidnapping come forth fresh into my mind. It feels like a whole new violation to think that Tom was at the core of it all along. It’s so confusing. Had he been vetting me to be his victim the entire time we were dating?
Well over an hour later, I’m freezing and wet. I’ve accomplished nothing. I want to go home. On the way, I pass a small internet café. The red ‘OPEN’ sign blinks at me and the warm yellow glow of the lights inside beckon me in. There’s nothing at the apartment. I haven’t shopped in weeks. It looks so warm and the sound of a hot cup of coffee is impossible to resist. I make note of my appearance: workout clothes, North Face fleece jacket, baseball cap. I look like any other Pacific Northwesterner, out and about in the dreary weather. Wet and looking for shelter.
I slip inside and make a beeline for the counter. I’ll be in and out.
The small café is even warmer than I anticipated, with a strong smell of cinnamon wafting over the humid air. Only three people sit inside, all of them distracted by laptops or cell phones, lost in the technological abyss of our world. Two look like students, probably studying for finals. The other is an older gentleman, hunched over his phone while sipping on something hot. The warm air embraces me and a wave of sleepiness washes over, as well. My lids grow heavy. I should go home and sleep.
A television hovers in the top right corner behind the counter, mounted high on the wall. A weatherman describes the next week of rain using as many different nouns as possible to seem interesting. Rain showers, drizzle, thunderstorms, mist. It’s all fucking rain. Who cares?
A petite redhead steps to the counter. “Good evening. What can I get for you?”
I drag my eyes off the screen and try to focus. “A sixteen-ounce hot cocoa, please.”
“Wi
ll that be all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Another Western Washington woman goes missing…”
My head jerks up to focus on the television as another reporter stands outside of what looks like a college campus. The background is dark, so I assume it was filmed the night before.
“Yes, Melinda. I’m standing in front of Bellevue Community College this evening talking with student Sarah Matheson, who has reported witnessing a possible kidnapping earlier this evening.”
More awake than moments before, I hold my breath, staring up at the screen, a deep ache settling in my chest as they cut to a college student. Her eyes are wide set as she stares directly into the camera, a look of fright supporting the fear she feels. “So, yeah, I’m taking night classes because I work during the day. I don’t get out until eight fifty, so by then the parking lot is pretty quiet. When I reached my car, I heard what sounded like a shout, like someone yelling for help, but it was muffled. I turned and at first didn’t see anything, but then I noticed there was a car at the far end of the lot, under a maple tree. It blocked the streetlight, so it was pretty dark, but I could see that there were two people and it appeared they were struggling. The larger of the two shoved the smaller one into the passenger door, then ran to the other side and hopped in. I’m pretty sure the smaller one was a woman, and she sounded female when she yelled.”
“So you actually heard the woman cry for help? Do you think it was a couple fighting? Did you hear what they were saying or get the make of the car?”
“I’m not sure if it was a couple arguing, but it looked as if the woman was really fighting him. It was scary. And it was pretty dark, and I’m not good with cars, but I told the police that it was either black or navy blue, and it was a two-door, like maybe a Prius, except maybe not that fancy.”