35. Kali
CHAPTER 35
Kali
I’ve realized that life is predictable, no matter who you are or where you live. I’ve been in this vacation rental home for two weeks, hiding away. The first week, all I did was cry. The second week, everything inside became numb.
The house is in the middle of a suburban neighborhood in a small town, nestled between mountains and a river. My plan wasn’t to stop until I hit California. I needed space between me and Texas. And him. It wasn’t until I stopped for gas that the town’s tranquility at sunset convinced me to stay. It was quiet here.
I could finally breathe.
Back to predictability. While I waste away here, I’ve memorized my neighbors’ schedules by watching their lives through the lens of my front window. I glance at the time on my phone. Grace—her name isn’t Grace, but she looks like a Grace—is about to run out on the heels of her daughter. I always want to walk over and hand her a glass of wine. Even though her day is just starting, she looks like she’s been running hard and hung out to dry. Her daughter’s in middle school, according to the sticker on the back of her SUV, and by the usual sound of screaming between the two of them, it’s never a relaxing morning in that household.
I take a sip of my coffee and watch the morning unfold, watching everyone stick to their daily schedules.
“Right on time,” I whisper to myself, watching the white Honda pull up to the curb.
Mark—yep, he looks like a Mark—gets out. Short black hair, chiseled face, tan skin, wearing his typical tank top stretched out over his bulky muscles, and short gym shorts. He grabs his bag from the back seat. Most people would think he’s the wife’s trainer. He shows up exactly an hour after the husband leaves for work, two days a week. Heck, I thought he was her trainer, too.
Until today.
Sun. I need some vitamin D. I frown thinking about the humidity being negative one hundred. Or close to it. It doesn’t matter. You need fresh air . At least my subconscious is concerned about me.
“Hmm. What book should I read?” I walk to the small office. There’s an entire wall with built-in bookshelves, filled to the max with books. I was reading a lot when I stayed at Amy’s, but when school started, I didn’t have time. But if there was ever a time for me to start reading again, it’d be now.
“Definitely a rom-com,” I say to myself, running my fingers along the spines, reading the titles. I focus on the bright pinks and oranges. I don’t need angst, horror, or sadness. I’m living that. I pull out Worth It by S.M. Shade and C.M. Owens. It looks like a fun book just by the cover.
I haven’t flipped the first page, and I’m already deep-belly laughing. This is exactly what I needed. Thanks subconscious . I lift my head, irritated when I overhear the wife and Mark come out. She giggles. And then a splash. I imagine he dove in because women don’t jump into pools, they walk in. I would jump, but I’m a rebel. There’s no talking. After a few minutes, I wonder if they went back into the house, and I focus my attention back to my book.
“Does he make you feel this way?”
My eyes widen, and I fixate on the wooden fence between us, wondering if I just heard what I think I did because it wasn’t loud, but then an unmistakable moan follows. I cover my mouth, afraid they’ll hear me breathing as I continue to listen to them have sex. Not that I want to, but I’m afraid to move. I’m stuck listening to a live-action porn on the other side of my fence. Doesn’t she care that someone might hear them? Like me?
I make the gag gesture when he says, “That was a great session.”
Her response is equally nauseating. “We should add the pool more often.”
Poor hubby. He’s an attractive guy, if you like the nerdy type, who always leaves wearing a suit, has a friendly face, and you can tell he adores his wife. Just this past weekend, they were out for a walk, and he held her hand, his genuine smile shining at her as they strolled by my house. It’ll crush him when he finds out his wife is a lying, cheating bitch.
I drop my book to my side and groan after I hear her tell him goodbye, followed by a car driving off. I can’t even focus on my book now. This is the juicy gossip Pearl would’ve gotten a loud chuckle out of. If only I could call her and tell her .
Dammit. I need some friends. And I’m just getting antsy. I need to go somewhere. Do something. It’s time to figure out what I’m going to do.
Because it can’t be this.
I glance at a flyer laying on the counter that was stuck to the front door yesterday. It’s for a new coffee shop that opened in the small strip center at the front of the community. Even though I had a cup of coffee already, a latte sounds better. And different scenery.
The dry air here is no joke. My skin acts like it’s stranded in the Sahara Desert without a drop of moisture despite the bottle of Aquaphor that is almost gone. I even have to stick that shit up my nose so I don’t have a bloody mess later. The sun perches high in the sky, and the slight breeze brushing against my face is a welcome reprieve from the stuffy indoors. Cacti line the sidewalk, and I wonder how many people have stumbled into one of them. Who thought this was a good idea? They’re everywhere. I get to the coffee shop, free of cactus in my ass, ready to talk to an actual person. Besides a few brief conversations with Martinez over the phone, the only other person I’ve talked to is myself.
There’s only one person at the counter ordering, so I stand back to read the handwritten menu hanging above the barista. When I decide on a latte, the guy is still ordering. I glance around the cozy little shop. It’s warm and homey, but the TV hanging in the corner grabs my attention, and my heart stops. The sound isn’t on, but I don’t need it to know what’s going on. A reporter stands in the middle of an empty field delivering the news, a hole in the ground behind her, delivering news. The words on the screen confirm my fears: Shanna Clark has been found. It feels like a hand has closed around my throat.
My worst nightmare comes in full force, slamming into me like a tornado. She was buried alive. I somehow force my feet to take me home, everything around me a blur as I struggle to keep my panic from erupting. Once I’m inside the confines of the four walls of my living room, I turn the TV on.
They found her in a makeshift coffin in a county an hour away from where I was found. A torturous death was the end of her story. Her desperate screams break open all the scars that had begun to heal. They’re raw, and her torture is like pouring acid into the wounds. How can I be thankful for being alive with the guilt that my death might have prevented this?
Would he have found his release if I had died?
Tears stream down my face as I sit glued to the TV. Being a thousand miles away couldn’t stop this pain. She’s dead. Bile threatens when they refer to him as the Grave Killer. They gave him a name. Like his persona deserves a title. When my name and picture flash across the screen for the world to see, the lucky one, they say, I can’t hold it back anymore and dart to the bathroom to throw up my breakfast.
Why did they have to show my picture?
Panic takes hold next, and I rush to the fridge. Please let me have enough food to last me a few days. I’ll wait out the story, give it a week to die down. The picture is outdated. I don’t even know where they found it, but it’s an old one from when I lived in Blackburn, so I’m not too worried about someone noticing me. People here won’t be on alert since this is happening states away.
They don’t have to wonder if there’s a box waiting for them.
My phone rings, startling me. I stare at my purse, dropped on the floor from when I first entered the house. It’s probably Martinez telling me the news. Too late . I ignore the call, not having the energy to move. I need a minute to process this, anyway.
The phone rings again. Wiping the tears from my cheek, I push off the couch and grab my purse, figuring I should answer so he doesn’t worry about me. He has other things to focus on. When I see the name lighting up on the screen, I squeeze the phone in my palm with conflicting emotions. I haven’t talked to Paxton since I left. We agreed that if I was going into hiding we wouldn’t talk. Since I’ve done nothing to fill my time here, the regret of leaving him has solidified. It weighs on my chest. But everything that has happened today strengthens my reason for leaving.
With a shaky breath, I slide across the bar to answer. “Hi.”
“Shit. I can tell you already heard.”
“It’s all over the news here.”
“I was hoping you weren’t watching the news.” I hadn’t been. “I hate that you’re there by yourself.” He hesitates and then adds, “You are by yourself, right?”
I laugh once and realize it’s the first time I’ve laughed in a month. “Yes.”
“I wish I was with you.”
“Me too,” I whisper, a surge of emotions getting stuck in my throat. “How’d they find her?”
“Some people were out on a hike and saw a newly dug grave and called it in.”
But it was too late.
The line is silent for a long minute. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t escape anything by being here. No, I did. I escaped his reach.
“Paxton, you guys have to find him. Before he does it again,” I urge with desperation.
“I promise you, we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this, working day and night. We have some new information we didn’t have before. For instance, those tire tracks we saw? They didn’t match any of our vehicles. It was a truck. I know it’s not much, but each piece of evidence we gather gets us one step closer to him. Just don’t…” He exhales into the phone, and I imagine him raking his hand through his curls. “Don’t lose hope.”
I’ve learned that hope is a fickle thing. It comes and goes in a blink of an eye. “I won’t.” I lie to make him think I’m okay. But I am anything but.
“So, where did you end up?”
“A small town in Arizona.”
The line is quiet, and I peek at my phone to see if the call dropped.
“Kalico,” he starts, breaking the silence, “I’m biting back a lot right now because this is already fucking hard, but damn it, I miss you.” There’s a shuffling noise like his phone rubbed against something, and then Paxton’s light chuckle follows. “That was Riggs. He says he misses you.”
A wave of longing washes over me. “I miss y’all, too.” More than I’d care to admit since I’m the one who left.
We end the call on a sad note. I sit alone on my couch, staring out the window that has more life than I do. This sucks. And now, I’m stuck in this freaking house for a week. By myself. I flop across the couch, my limbs flailing in a fit of childish rage.
“FUCK my life!”
As expected, one week was all it took. The world has forgotten about Shanna Clark. The headlines have moved on. I click off the TV, tired of watching the news, when I hear the thrill of my phone ringing out from the bedroom. I debate letting it go to voice mail. It’s probably Martinez with another update, of no updates . But I can’t let it go.
One of these times, it will be good news.
I run back, catching it on the fourth ring.
“Hey, Martinez,” I say, sitting on the unmade bed. I figured at some point I’d be crawling back into it today.
“Hi, Kali. Just wanted to give you an update.” Yep. I should’ve let it go to voice mail. He wouldn’t begin that way if they had found him. “We might be dealing with a copycat, or there’s more than one person we’re looking for.” My ears perk up. What the hell? How many sick bastards get off on burying women?
“Why do you say that?”
“The only similar thing between the two cases is that you guys look alike. Everything about the boxes are different. Hers, there wasn’t a chance of survival. The doctors say she only had minutes to live.”
“How do you explain the note to me?”
He hums. “We’re not sure. Maybe they’re partners. Maybe perp B knows perp A?”
That doesn’t help the sharp pain in my chest. I force my thoughts not to put myself in her place because I know how those last moments of her life were spent. I barely hear the rest of what he has to say as I stare down at my scarred fingers.
“You okay, Kali?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, fisting my hand and pushing off the bed. I will not go there .
“Hang in there, Kali.”
It’s his typical response because there’s nothing else to say. He can’t give me what I want, so he tries to assure me each time, but his words mean less and less each time we talk. Just like the note I used carry. The words have faded, the paper has worn down.
I called Dr. Betty last night. She’s the only one who helps me to see that my life isn’t defined by what he did to me. Or Shanna Clark.
That defines him. He’s the monster.
Or, in recent news, they are the monsters.
It’s up to me to define my life.
And I’m doing a lousy job defining anything these days other than my neighbors’ schedules and marital affairs.
This morning, I woke up determined to live my life. I’m young, healthy, and alive. I’m fortunate enough that I can do anything.
And I’m going to live for Shanna.
I peer out my front window and blow out a breath. I’m done living through you .
Facing my reflection after showering, I decide it’s time for a change. I open Pinterest on my phone, searching for photos of haircuts. I wonder what I’d look like as a brunette? I look down at the photo and then back up, contemplating the leap. It’d be drastic, but drastic is what I need.
When I walked to the coffee shop, I spotted a salon situated in the corner of the shopping strip. I double-check I have enough cash in my purse, as that’s the only way I’ve been paying before heading out. The receptionist, engrossed in her magazine, twirls a curl around her finger, lost in her own world. I clear my throat, and she looks up.
“Oh, hi. You snuck in here like a mouse,” she says, smiling. “Do you have an appointment?”
I glance past her into the salon, regretting I didn’t call first, but there are only a few chairs filled with customers. “I don’t. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely. It’s a slow day. What would you like done?”
Moments after sharing with her that I’d like a cut and color, I’m whisked away to a sink for the most incredible hair wash ever. The woman massages the shampoo in with magic fingers, and my eyes roll back into my head as she continues massaging.
When she finishes, I ask, “Can I hire you to wash my hair every day?”
Her laughter rings out. “I get that a lot.”
I follow her to a chair and wait for another person, Lucy, to get there. I pull up my saved Pinterest pins to show her what I want. While waiting, I overhear the woman in the chair next to me talking. I can’t help but listen when she mentions she’s a flight attendant. She’s not quiet, so I catch every word. She just got back from Paris a few days ago and is now recounting how her night in town ended in bed with a handsome French man.
A lady with bright pink hair and matching lips walks up behind me. I glance at her through the mirror. “Hi. I’m Lucy. I hear we’re trying a darker color today.” She picks up a section of my hair, inspecting it.
“Darker and shoulder-length. Maybe some layers?” I show her my saved pictures.
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of hair coming off.” I nod. Her lips twist as she plays with my hair. “Light brown, dark brown, or black?”
“Dark brown?” I didn’t mean to make it sound uncertain, but there was a brief hesitation.
She eyes me, giving me a chance to back out. But I smile and nod again. “Dark brown and a lob coming up.” There’s excitement in her voice, which is reassuring. “This is going to look amazing. You have such thick hair.”
She pulls out a swatch of hair colors. I stare at the multiple colors of brown. Why are there so many? I point to a chestnut brown. Lucy agrees the dark reddish brown will complement my complexion and blue eyes.
While she mixes the color, my attention drifts back to my neighbor. Her stylist asks her about her upcoming trips, and I can’t help the envy creeping in. It all sounds like the perfect life. Jet setting, seeing the world, and getting paid to do it.
“How hard is it to become a flight attendant?” I blurt out, catching both of their attention. My cheeks burn in embarrassment as they both stare at me.
Her stylist chuckles before asking, “Where are you from? You’ve got the cutest accent.”
“Texas. Never thought I had one until I moved here,” I reply.
“Oh, you have one,” the flight attendant adds. “There’s a job fair at the beginning of next month for flight attendants in Phoenix. That’d be the time to apply.”
I looked into the community college in town, but every brain cell I have was screaming at me not to do it. This sounds way more exciting. As soon as she tells me I don’t need a degree to apply, I think about postponing going to school.
Sorry, Mom. It’ll happen. Just not right now.
Instead, my focus shifts to planning a trip to Phoenix. We talk for the next hour about things I should say and what to expect. Excitement builds by the minute. The highs and lows of my life are that of a roller coaster. Right now, I’m stuck again, but I just need that little push to keep me going. This is it. This is what I needed. We’re chatting so much, I haven’t paid any attention to my hair until it’s finished.
“Ready to see the new you?” Lucy asks, swiveling my chair around.
My eyes widen at the stunning woman reflected in the mirror. There is no way that’s me.
“This is not my hair,” I exclaim, running my fingers through the dark, silky locks, marveling at the luxurious, shiny brown. The stylish cut and waves meld into a sophisticated hairstyle.
I’ve never looked sophisticated.
Lucy claps her hands. “Girl, you are gorgeous. Ready for the next chapter.”
She has no idea how right she is. I am ready. It is time for my next chapter to begin.
I can do this.
My cheeks hurt from smiling so big. “I hope so. Thank you for making the new me!” I say to both her and Sadie, the flight attendant. She passes me her number and tells me to call her with questions. The second I get home, the first thing I work on is my resume.
It’s time to make my dreams come true.
Try hitting a moving target, Mr. Grave Killer .