Keep Me In Sight Read online

  "Oh I love dogs. What kind do you have?"

  I perk up a little as I always do when the conversation turns to Jacky Baby. No need to be rude on account of my own hang-up. "He’s a rescue that I named Jack-O-Lantern because he has a big orange head, but I call him Jack for short. He’s some sort of Staffy-cross. I don’t know exactly, but he’s super cute."

  "Staffies are way cute," she says. "I can recommend a great dog walker if you want. Her name is Sarah. She’s a regular client of mine, and she’s super affordable."

  "Wow, thank you. I tried to line up a dog walker a while ago, but they’re crazy expensive. So I just dash home as often as possible and hope for the best."

  "Not Sarah. She’ll take care of you." Erin smiles, and I smile too. Maybe she isn’t spooky after all, but I can’t shake an ominous feeling. "Here you go." Erin writes down the phone number of the dog walker. When she catches my gaze and smiles, I feel a chill race over my skin.

  As Erin turns to leave, I open myself up a little more, waiting for more information to come through about the strange feeling I get from her, when the room suddenly tilts.

  A cold wind blows. My heart races with fear. There’s a blaring horn, bright, blinding light, and the train, all thundering though my mind. Tightness like an invisible hand clasps around my neck, making me feel slightly panicky, and the faint shrieking voice is back, calling for nine one one. What does it all mean?

  By the time the shop door swings shut, the answer hits me like a brick through a cut glass window.

  Erin is in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  "Closing early today, folks," I say to myself, locking the shop front door after Erin leaves. I think I’m losing it.

  I lean on the checkout counter, loaded up with plenty of aromatherapy pet items, and pull in a deep breath, waiting for the lavender scent of RelaxDawg to travel up my nostrils and calm my grey matter. But my mind won’t stop whirring.

  What did I just see?

  I saw that Erin’s in trouble. But what kind, exactly?

  I know that Nail Palace is struggling. But what does that have to do with a train, barreling down the tracks and the cold, biting wind? Is she on collision course with a terrible accident? My hand floats up to my neck as I recall the sensation of suffocation that I felt. Maybe someone is after her, someone dangerous . . .

  I was tentatively optimistic about having my house slippers back. Safe. Sound. But I have a long ways to go before I’m confident again with warp speed. I need to learn how to walk first, before I run. Trouble is, I feel like I’m still crawling.

  I put the day's earnings in a zippered pouch for a quick drop at the bank and double underline the final amount. Accounting all done, I close up the shop, thinking all the while about Erin’s problem.

  Specifically, what am I supposed to do about it? There are only two options. I can either a) forget about it, or b) try to help. B seems like the dangerous thing to do. It also seems like the right thing to do. I think back to my conversation with Mom. Maybe it came back for a reason.

  Maybe it has. Maybe I’m supposed to help Erin. So as I drive home, I think about what I can do to help her. I need to look into this thing called trouble without alarming her.

  And I have a good idea how.

  13

  BRYNN

  I need a drink. That’s not very zen of me. Paramahansa Yogananda, for example, wouldn’t approve, but this problem has ballooned far beyond the power of meditation. And you know what? There’s nothing wrong with a little wind-me-down glass of wine in the evening, particularly after a trying day. e

  Everyday, it seems, is very trying now. Well, at least I’m not popping pills. That’s something to be proud of.

  Wine, I reason, is a part of every civilized society. It’s the water of the gods, I tell myself, going to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I like this stuff. It tastes like zesty water.

  Okay, I like it too much, but if I give it up, I’ll rob myself of liquid relaxation, and that’s something I need in great quantities right now.

  I keep my phone charged and on high volume at all times, should Dan find the opportunity to call. I don’t want to miss his call. I need to get this festering wound of doubt to go away. I need to find some closure. I need to know for sure that he didn’t beat up Erin.

  The image of Erin’s damaged face is seared in the center of my mind. Everywhere I look, I see shadowy overlays of her bloodied lip. Her scratched temple. Her black eye . . .

  The phone rings. I dive for it. Dan. Finally.

  "Hello?" There’s a long distance buzzing sound, as if the phone line is plugged into an electrical socket. I can hear echoes of Dan’s voice.

  "Brynn . . . can you hear me?"

  "Yes. I can." I say, loud and clear. And I wait for the connection to clear up. After a long fuzzy pause, I ask, "Can you hear me now?"

  I take another sip, waiting for him to reply. "Connection is shit," comes his distant voice.

  "Yeah. I know." The pops and whistles fade away. "Dan? Are you there?"

  "Yeah," he says, clearer now. "Yeah I am."

  I sigh and sink down on the couch. "I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you doing?"

  He says he’s doing good. It’s going to be tough to talk to him while he’s away, if his training trips are anything to go by. He’s most likely in close proximity of thirty other smelly dudes, listening in on his conversation, hoping to overhear little nuggets of tenderness so they can humiliate him when he hangs up.

  And if he’s alone, there’s always the threat of a sudden dropped call, so we can’t settle into a deep conversation. We have to keep it light and sweet, waiting for the executioner to cut off the call, meanwhile savoring the essence of each other like fine Riesling. Except, I’m not feeling very light or sweet. I’m feeling angry, scared, and slightly buzzed.

  "Dan, I need to talk to you about something."

  "Okay, go." He’s in military mode. He wants the bare bones facts, not dramatic embellishments.

  I pull in a deep breath, overcome with emotion. I’m about to imply he’s guilty of beating up another woman, just by asking him about it. How can I do that to him? Don’t I trust him?

  Trust or not, he needs to know what sort of nuclear bomb his ex is holding.

  "Go," he repeats.

  "Babe, Erin came to my yoga class the other day."

  "Did you tell her to beat it?"

  "No, I didn’t actually. I went to a cafe with her."

  "She your best friend now?"

  Well that’s a little insulting. Here I am trying to soften the blow, and he wants to make stupid comments.

  "No, she’s not my best friend."

  "So what else is new?" he asks, clearly disinterested in the topic. If he beat her up, wouldn’t he poke and prod a little bit, trying to determine if she ratted him out?

  I don’t know how to broach the subject of my boyfriend potentially pulverizing his ex-girlfriend’s face.

  I find myself trying to reason through this again. In my effort to thoroughly leave no stone unturned, I circle back to the first one, thinking that maybe Erin beat herself up. But the human body is biologically programmed to preserve itself, even if the owner has other ideas. And—is that even possible?

  I recall a news report that I’d seen a while ago. It was grainy CCTV video footage of a psycho chick, who punched herself in an elevator and later blamed her boyfriend. I guess it is possible.

  If Erin did this to herself, she’s living on a whole new level of crazy, way beyond us mere mortals. And Dan needs to know about that, too.

  "Dan," I begin. "I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it the best way I can."

  "OK."

  "Remember that night we all went out? The night of your farewell party?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well . . ." I hold my breath. "Basically, Erin says you beat her up."

  Dead silence.

  Finally he speaks, "I can’t beli
eve this. I can’t—not on the hard line. This call might be monitored, Brynn."

  "I know," I say in a calm, conciliatory voice. "I’m so sorry to bring it up here. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t get through to you on your cell phone and I just feel like you need to know what’s going on. She says—"

  "That’s bullshit. She’s lying. She’s a fucking bald-faced liar! She—"

  "She has a picture . . . and a recording."

  "What?!"

  "Yeah. She showed them to me. The picture, I mean. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to the audio accompaniment."

  "She showed you a—a picture and says she has a recording?" His voice reaches the high pitchy tone of total incredulity.

  "Yes. But I mean, Dan, think about it. They could both be fakes." Or not. I slowly twist my wine glass left and right by the stem, trying to puzzle this out. "I don’t know how you fake an audio recording exactly, but the photo would be relatively easy to pull off . . ."

  "Of course they’re fucking fakes!" he shouts. "For God’s sakes, Brynn, do you think I’d do something like that?"

  There’s no way I could ever have fallen in love with a man who beats up women. Right? See, that’s the problem. I drain my glass and set it down on the coffee table. I don’t know, exactly. "Well, I—"

  "Oh great! You think I’m capable of beating up my ex-girlfriend. Just great. You know what? You always wanted to know about our relationship. You always asked, and I never told you. I never told you because she’s completely nuts. Like beyond unstable. And when she showed up the night of my going away party and you two started singing that stupid party pooper song and drinking and laughing, I just thought oh what the hell. It’s only one night. What could possibly happen?"

  "It was such a crazy night. And we were all so hammered."

  "And—and this. This fucking happened!"

  I feel ashamed for asking and even worse for talking about it on a potentially open phone line, but I don’t have a choice. None of my messages sent to his cell phone were acknowledged. I have no other way of talking to him. And the fact that Dan is continuing to talk about it tells me that maybe the phone line isn’t so open after all.

  "I believe you, Dan. I want you to know that. I would never take her side over yours. It’s not like that. I just—it’s just that I feel like I need to go over the details with you and come up with something concrete, you know, in case she decides to take this to the police or something."

  Cold, hard silence. If she goes to the police, there will be an official inquiry, and they’ll go straight to Dan’s commanding officer. I’m not sure about the exact protocol, but he could be pulled out of active duty with an investigation of assault and battery hanging over his head.

  If she presses charges, moves forward with a criminal case, and wins, he’ll be looking at a dishonorable discharge, a black mark that would carry over to the civilian world, rendering him unemployable. His life would be ruined. I don't even want to think about jail. The only problem is that I can’t be his alibi because I lost that personage at the bottom of a bottle.

  "Dan . . . what happened that night?"

  "We talked, like I said. That’s it. That’s all I can remember."

  "Can you try and remember something else? Because you said nothing happened, and then Erin showed up with a photo of her smashed face, saying that you did it."

  After a long pause, he finally speaks. "Brynn, I’m out here trying to concentrate so I don’t get my ass filled with shrapnel, and you want me to remember some drunken night? I’m sorry for Erin. I really am. But I didn’t do it."

  "But how do you know? I mean, if you can’t remember . . ."

  Silence.

  "Yeah, you know what? You’re going to have to decide for yourself if you think I’m capable of doing something like that. Because I—"

  "No, I—"

  "Brynn, I’m putting my life on the line every single day. I need to focus, okay? I can’t be bothered with Erin’s flights of fancy. I did not do it. As for the rest, we’ll have to discuss it when I get home seven months from now."

  I sit up straight. "Seven months from now? But I thought it was only a six month deployment."

  He hisses out a long breath. I listen to the static on the line, my heart aching.

  "Maybe, I don’t know. If I make it home. You never know," he says, sounding tired and worn out.

  "Dan . . ."

  And the call drops.

  14

  GIA

  How am I going to help Erin? I’m going straight to the source. Nail Palace is very girly, the type of ‘girly’ that makes my skin crawl. There’s a pink Louis Vuitton wallpaper accent wall and two black kitsch chandeliers hanging from the mirrored ceiling. And don’t get me going on the sparkles.

  "Hey," Erin says, walking toward me from the back of the salon, squiling at me. Mom likes to do that in photos—the squinty smile. She thinks it makes her look mysterious. I think it makes her look ridiculous. "I’m so glad you stopped by."

  "I’m glad you’re here." One of Sia’s club songs plays in the background. It’s good. Upbeat. Makes me want to tap my foot and get my nails done. Speaking of, "My nails need help."

  "Well, you’ve come to the right place. What are you thinking?"

  "How about a mani-pedi?" I’ll have to splurge for a double nail procedure because I’m not sure how long it will take my superpower to boot up, if at all.

  She shrugs. "Sure. Gel or polish?"

  "Just some polish."

  "What about the deluxe package? It’s a little more expensive, but so worth it."

  "Sure," I say, focusing on the still small voice in my head that’s going to tell me straight up what’s the problem so I can stop with all this nail malarkey. But nothing comes to me.

  "Go ahead and sit down." She motions to a white plush recliner with a sink at the bottom. "I’ll warm up the water and get everything ready."

  While she runs the water, I take off my shoes, sit down, and slip my feet into the warm sudsy water. Hey this isn’t so bad. I can get used to a little pampering while on detective duties.

  Erin grabs a plastic storage caddy full of implements from the next station over, wearing a smile that doesn’t carry up to her eyes.

  "Are you the only one working today?" I ask, glancing around at the empty nail salon. Didn’t Erin say something about nail art girls?

  She takes a seat on a wooden stool, fetches my right foot from the warm soapy water and presses her thumbs into the arch of my foot. "We tend to be short-staffed until the weather gets warmer so I step in."

  Does the owner step in too? Maybe Erin’s worried about losing her job if the business goes under. Maybe that’s the ‘trouble.’

  "So what got you into doing nails?" I ask.

  "Oh, I’ve been doing them for years. My mom always said that your nails say the first thing about you, so you should get a manicure every two weeks. Three if you’re lazy."

  I must be catatonic.

  "But that can really add up, you know? So I started experimenting on my own. Buying little nail art stickers and crystals and stuff. It was really therapeutic for me." She finishes up the foot massage, cleans up my cuticles, and puts my right foot back in the sink. "Besides, a penny saved is a penny earned."

  Financial trouble for sure. Then she starts on my other foot, shooting me a bashful look. "That’s what Daddy always said."

  A jolt of alarm races down my arms. Daddy? Seems to me that any adult woman who still uses the word ‘Daddy’ needs help, and fast. But if they’re so close, why isn’t he helping her?

  "Your dad sounds very wise about financial matters." There. That ought to get us going in the right direction.

  "He was," Erin says, looking at me wistfully and blinking a few times.

  My stomach drops. "Was?"

  Oh dear.

  "He passed away . . ."

  "I’m so sorry," I mumble, feeling awful that I brought up the topic. But she doesn’t reply. She’s working i
ntently now, probably trying not to cry. She seems so determined to help make this business a success. Whatever misgivings I had about opening up full throttle on my psychic ability is fading. Erin needs help, and I want to help her.

  "It happened a long time ago," she says, picking up my hand. "What color are you thinking?" She’s done with the prep work on my feet, which are both back in the tub, soaking.

  Well, if she doesn’t want to dwell on the topic, then neither do I. "Whatever you recommend, Erin. You’re the expert."

  "Red it is then. That’s my favorite color."

  While Erin cleans and tidies all my fingernails, filing them into a nice shape and laying down the base coat, I stay focused within. Fumes of acetone stab my nostrils. I welcome the sharp jolt. Maybe that will prod my psychic ability into action.

  Erin starts applying the deep red polish on my fingernails. She works at a quick pace. I gently open myself up further, waiting for Superpower 2.0 to fire up, but it’s silent on all counts. She finishes up both hands. Time is running out.

  She moves down to the sink, pulls out my left foot from the water and starts drying my toes. In about ten minutes, my window of opportunity is going to close. Then what will I do?

  Dr. Keating’s voice comes to me. Just relax. So I settle into the plush chair, close my eyes, and pull in a deep breath, trying to relax. I’m breathing in and out, trying to clear my mind—

  Chugga-Chugga-Chugga.

  My power. It’s back. I hold my breath, listening. My heart beats like a drum as the rushing train transitions into the deep driving base of club music. It’s a dark place, the place that I’m seeing. It’s a club. Hands in the air. Dry ice fog wafting over the crush of dancing people.

  I get a sense of someone. My throat begins to tighten as I see a man, named . . . Stop Dan, Stop!

  I open myself up a little more, trying to get a feel for him. I sense that he’s tall, nice build, athletic and strong, with dark hair and eyes like iron. Then my sense of him tapers off. I wait a little while longer for more information about this new person to come to me, but nothing else comes except for a lasting impression of anger. Fury, even. Is he an angry person?