Chapter 3 #2
As I run through the incidents in my head, the spaghetti I just ate gives a sickening lurch.
Tension draws my shoulders up.
My jaw clenches.
They could all be coincidences.
But do I really believe that?
A scared voice whispers silently to me, Could you be doing it? Despite all your hard work, all the progress you’ve made over the last three years, is it possible you’ve had a break with reality? And you’re actually the one responsible for everything?
“No.” The forceful tone of my voice startles Oscar from his doze. He looks around the room in alarm, searching for any sign of a threat. “Sorry,” I soothe, patting his head until he settles. “It’s just your mom talking to herself again.”
I really don’t think it’s all in my head.
Yes, I went through a period of time when nothing made sense.
When I made the worst mistake of my life, and hurt two people I like very much because of it.
But I’m better now. I’ve proven I can be a normal and productive member of society again.
I have a home. A job as a data entry clerk for a staffing agency in town.
Gage and his wife, Rory, forgave me. I have a dog.
I’m friendly with my neighbors. And until recently, I thought my coworkers respected me.
It’s not an easy thing, getting a second chance when you’re technically a criminal. Had Gage not refused to press charges and leaned on his connections with the police, it’s likely I would have been sent to prison. But he loved Vince like a brother, and he wanted to help instead of punish me.
“I don’t want to see you in jail,” Gage told me not long after my breakdown.
His arm was bandaged in the spot where I shot him.
“I just want you to get help. Rory does, too.” Guilt shadowed his gaze as he added, “I always told Vince I’d look out for you.
The last few years, I’ve done a shit job of it. But I’m going to look out for you now.”
Did I deserve his forgiveness? I’m not sure. But I’m thankful for it.
You could talk to Gage about the incidents, that scared little voice quietly suggests. He knows people who could look into it. Try to find out who actually ordered that delivery. Maybe he could even come for a quick visit. Give you some advice.
But as soon as the idea forms, I reject it.
Yes, I’m on decent terms with Gage and Rory. But do I really want to give them a reason to doubt me? For them to wonder if I’m really okay, or if I’m on the brink of losing it again?
What about the police, then? Could I go to them?
Just as quickly, I dismiss that idea. As soon as I give the police my name, they’ll look into me and find out my sordid history. In the two years I’ve been in Northville, I’ve tried to keep a low profile, and I’m not eager to draw unwanted attention to myself.
Frustration builds as I stare blankly at the TV screen. With it, a feeling of helplessness settles over me.
What if the incidents keep happening?
What if they get even worse?
What if I get fired? Then I won’t be able to pay rent, and I’ll get kicked out of the house. I’ll have to ask my parents for help.
“No,” I whisper. “I can’t. They’ve already done too much for me.” If not for my screw-up, they would have retired years before. They wouldn’t have stuck around North Creek to take care of me. I had to work at convincing them I was okay for months before they finally agreed to move down south.
Then who?
I wish I had a friend I could talk this through with. But I shut out everyone after Vince died, and I’ve been too scared of their judgment to reach out again.
Then another idea strikes me.
What about Tyler?
The very thought of him fills my chest with unexpected warmth. My stomach flutters. My pulse skips.
Tyler seemed to understand. Even when I confessed who I was and what I did, he didn’t judge me.
He could have left me at that table, but he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed. Not just for a few minutes, but until the pub closed.
For almost two hours, we talked about Oscar and his job with Blade and Arrow Security and our interests, like how he loves all things computers and shows like Ancient Aliens and Ghost Hunters.
“I don’t believe them,” he was quick to clarify. “I just think the shows are interesting to watch. I think if ghosts are real, they’re not going to let themselves be caught by some people creeping around with cameras.”
I actually watched a few episodes of Ghost Hunters, because of him. It’s not really my taste, but I just wanted to know what he was talking about.
That night at the Lakeside Inn, Tyler walked me to my room and even checked inside to make sure it was safe. He advised me to wedge a chair under the doorknob as an extra precaution, and he put his number in my phone with the instruction to call if I needed anything.
I thought about texting him to see if he wanted to share breakfast the following morning, but I chickened out. I talked myself into thinking that he was just being polite when he told me to call. And I convinced myself he wouldn’t want to see me again, even if I secretly wanted to see him.
His number is still in my phone, though.
He actually texted me a few days after the night in Long Lake, just to check on me.
I’m embarrassed to admit the hopeful jolt I felt when I saw his name appear on my phone.
Not that things could go anywhere between us; not with Tyler in Oregon and me in New York, but still.
I liked him. He made me feel things I gave up on after Vince died.
Tyler would listen. He wouldn’t immediately dismiss me.
But would he really want to get dragged into my drama?
Would he read my text and wish he hadn’t given me his number?
Would he feel obligated to help when he doesn’t want to?
“Ugh,” I mutter. This time, Oscar is fully asleep, so he doesn’t stir.
Picking up the remote, I search through the menu until I find Parks and Rec.
Maybe that will do a better job of relaxing me.
Then I can make a cup of Sleepytime tea, read a little, and head to bed.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll call the company that sent those toys.
I’ll demand to know who placed the order. And I’ll solve the mystery myself.
Decision made, I click through the episode list until I find one of my favorites. Shifting on the couch, I cross my legs, pretzel-style, in front of me. Then I grab a throw off the back of the couch and cover my legs with it. Not because I’m cold, but because it’s cozy.
About ten minutes into the episode, there’s a heavy knock at the front door.
I jolt in surprise.
Oscar’s head jerks up.
My pulse leaps to double time, tripping unevenly.
I’m sure it’s nothing, I assure myself. Probably just a delivery driver at the wrong address. Or it’s possible the UPS guy is running late, and he just knocked to let me know my delivery is here.
But Oscar’s food isn’t supposed to arrive until Saturday. And the tracking for the bandana said it’s currently somewhere near Chicago. I haven’t ordered anything else. Unless…
Could someone have sent another unwelcome package, this time to my house instead of work?
I’ve been trying to convince myself the sex toy incident was all some weird misunderstanding. Maybe my name was on a mailing list that the company purchased, and somehow my name got swapped for someone else’s.
Do I really believe that? No. I’m hopeful, but not stupid. Someone sent that stuff to me on purpose. I’m just not sure who or why.
A heavy thunk sounds at the door again, sending my pulse somewhere into the stratosphere. I’m not typically this easily unnerved—ventriloquist puppet museums notwithstanding—but with everything that’s been going on at work…
Shoving the blanket off my lap, I reluctantly cross the living room to the front door. Now I wish I’d gotten one of those doorbell cameras installed, but I never get any visitors, so I didn’t think I’d need one.
Instead, I have to settle on peering through the tiny peephole, which isn’t particularly helpful considering it’s dark out and the porch light isn’t on. So, with only the moonlight to go by, I can’t tell much about my visitor other than it looks like a man wearing a baseball cap.
Taking a deep breath for courage, I call out, “Hello? Can I help you?”
There’s a long pause.
Then a deep voice replies, “I’m here for the package.”
My mind is still stuck on deliveries, so I say, “You can just leave it on the doorstep. Thanks.”
“No.” Irritation roughens his tone. “I’m here to get the package. Not leave it.”
My heart trips again. He doesn’t sound like Daniel, the UPS driver who usually does this route. Or a bored delivery guy who just wants to get on with his night. This man sounds… angry. Possibly dangerous.
“I don’t have a package for you,” I reply. “You must have the wrong house.”
Though the door is securely locked—I check the doorknob quickly just to be sure—I can’t help feeling a little freaked. Rationally, I know it’s just because of work—
“It’s the right house,” he growls. Then something heavy rattles the door. “And I want what I paid for.”
What he paid for?
Trying to keep my voice steady, I say, “I don’t have anything of yours. You must have the wrong house. Now, please leave. Or I’ll call the police.”
There’s another long, silent pause. Then he hits the door again, this time hard enough to make the small glass panes at the top rattle. “Fucking bitch.”
I’m about to race for my phone—which is inconveniently still lying on the coffee table—when he makes an abrupt turn and heads down the porch steps. As he leaves, I hear another pissed-off, “Fucking bitch!”
Heart thundering in my chest, I lean against the door, watching through the peephole until he gets into a dark sedan idling at the side of the road and drives away. Tears prick behind my eyes. It’s hard to take a full breath.
Frantic questions spin in my head.
Who was that? Why was he here? And what of this package he was talking about? Could it have something to do with the one I got at work?