Dark Corners

The words took residence; I lost track of time and space. My days were divided by time spent writing and time spent not writing—and anything done during that latter time was irrelevant. I had found the zone again, and I wasn’t letting it go. Nothing could distract me, not flickering lights, not unexplained noises, not harassing phone calls. I fired away blindly, not bothering to take the time to read what I was writing. Exhilaration filled me. My skin tingled with life, my hands ached, and my mind was blessedly quiet as it listened to the words pour from my muse.

  Gabriel continued with his periodic stops by my house to “check on things.” Sometimes he brought dinner. Other times he came by late, simply walking through and leaving. Tonight was one of the latter. And as he was walked through the house I realized I was getting used to having him around. There was something lonely I recognized in him. That loneliness bonded us together in ways I could not explain. He didn’t drain me of energy or patience. He could simply be there, a rare quality in a person. He was about to leave when I impulsively stopped him.

  “Do you want a drink?” My offer surprised me more than it seemed to surprise him. He followed me back into the family room. I made a beeline to the bar, which was still better stocked than my kitchen, but I was getting there. I poured myself a drink and tried not to think about what I was doing.

  “Name your poison?” I said over my shoulder

  “Uh, scotch, neat”

  The detective sat on my couch looking tired and worn, but completely comfortable in my house. And now that he’d stayed, I had no idea what to do.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “You invited me,” he said, wariness in his eyes.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” I handed him his drink and started pacing. Why on earth did I feel so awkward all of a sudden? “The case has been closed for what, six months? Why did you keep coming by the house?”

  “The case isn’t closed.” He frowned, then added, “But it hasn’t been under active investigation for closer to a year.”

  “That long? Really? God, it doesn’t seem possible.” I felt a little melancholy at the notion that time was leaving me behind.

  “I’ve made a point to drive past your house on my way home from work every night since the murder—even the nights I didn’t stop.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know.”

  We were silent for a few moments, both of us lost in our own thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. “If you didn't do it, someone else did. I’m not convinced you’re safe and I can’t let go of this one. It’s always in the back of my mind.”

  “And you’re not convinced I’m innocent.” I was almost afraid of his answer. By trusting him, I let myself believe he believed in me. What would I do if I found out he didn’t?

  He shook his head. “I never really thought you were guilty. I was doing my job. Following the leads.”

  “And your investigation led you to me?”

  “No, but the spouse is always a person of interest. Had the investigation led me to you, you would have been charged. Instead it led me to one wall after another. Nothing makes sense in this case.” He sounded honest.

  “If it were to lead you to me now?”

  “I would arrest you,” he said, without looking away.

  I nodded. “Good.”

  “But it won’t, will it?”

  “No. I could have left ages ago, moved on with my life. I wish it were that simple.”

  He watched me for a moment. “I don’t.”

  The room felt like it was a thousand degree. My cheeks were on fire. I changed the subject. “You really think I’m in danger?”

  He nodded. “I wish I didn’t, but the killer is still on the loose and has to be feeling pretty confident at the moment. The perpetrator either had a key or was already in the house. He didn’t steal anything so it wasn’t about money. It could have been a random occurrence, but that’s unlikely given the level of planning and preparation that had to have gone into it. There have been no similar murders in the state, so we can rule out serial killers. It could have been about something else, something like you. You have a certain level of fame, but there were no other indications, so I’ve been waiting.... ”

  “For what?”

  “For signs that you’re not alone.”

  “Have you found any?”

  He simply shook his head.

  “You know what I think happened?”

  “I do,” he said, taking a drink of his scotch and looking doubtful.

  “So you admit that nothing makes sense and every possibility is just as remote as the next, yet you’re unwilling to explore my theory.”

  “I feel you may be too close to the situation.”

  “The situation is my life. Look, I know how it sounds, but it makes sense and given everything that has happened and what continues to happen, there are no other explanations. You think my mind created a story to make sense of the situation, or perhaps my newly rampant alcoholism has something to do with it. But I swear that isn’t the case.”

  “People aren’t killed by ghosts.”

  “My husband was.”

  “Well, I can’t arrest a ghost, can I?”

  I rolled my eyes and jingled the ice in my glass. “Just admitting ghosts are possible would be enough for me. I know they aren’t supposed to be real, but …” I trailed off, seeing I wasn’t going to change his mind. There was no point in continuing this conversation. “I’m tired and maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” I waggled my glass to show him what I meant and stood up. “But I respect the fact that you are still looking for his killer, it means a lot to me.”

  Gabriel got to his feet too. “I’ll be on my way then.”

  I closed the door behind him feeling unsatisfied. I don’t know why, but I desperately wanted him on my side. Maybe I just needed someone to sympathize with me or maybe I saw a like mind and kindred soul in the weary, obsessed detective. I had another fitful night. The dream was always same.

  Getting off a plane, completely drained from my latest signing tour, I collect my luggage in a sleepy trance. I solicit a cab that was waiting in front of the airport, which was unusually quiet.

  Eerily so.

  I laugh at myself for being ridiculous. Obviously it was quiet, I took a red eye. But lecturing myself didn’t stop my stomach from back flipping or goose bumps from appearing on my arms. Obviously I am overly tired. I never could sleep on planes.

  The cab pulled up in front of the house. And as much as I hated the physical building, it is nice to be home. The idea that Danny was inside waiting for me filled me with happiness. I no longer feel so tired. I pay the cab driver way too much, because I don’t want to wait for change. I open the door, call for Danny.

  I’m met with silence. The feeling from the airport floods back ... and there is a smell, a sweet coppery smell. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I look upstairs first. There is nothing except an unmade bed. I come back down stairs and head towards the kitchen. The smell gets stronger, filling my nostrils, making me gag the closer I move towards it.

  My walk slows. I don’t want to see what is around the corner. I force myself to go around the corner, everything inside of me screaming not to.... I walk into the kitchen and what I see changes my life forever.

  Danny is pinned to the wall with every knife we own protruding out of him. Each is jabbed through his flesh up to the hilt. The floor is covered in an enormous pool of blood which still seems to be growing. The room spins, fades to black....

  I sat up, drenched in sweat and tangled in the sheets, tears filling my eyes. Why did that dream still hurt so damn much? The pain hadn't eased over the last year; it was still a knife, twisting away at my soul. My entire body ached for Danny, for just a moment of once more feeling the safety and security I had with him—

  My fresh mourning was cut short. A shadow blocked out the light beneath my bedroom door as something moved passed. My insi
des went cold and my eyes dried. Mustering up all my courage, I climbed out of bed.

  There was no noise from the hallway when I pressed my ear to the door. I opened it just a crack so I could see if anything was immediately on the other side. There appeared to be nothing. I opened the door far enough to stick my head out to look down both sides of the hallway. Again, I saw nothing. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door all the way and tiptoed in the direction the shadow moved. There was only one room that direction, the master bedroom. I had not been able to go into our bedroom since the morning I found Danny. The door was shut, just as it always was. I put my shaking hand on the doorknob. There was definitely something on the other side. I listened more intently, but couldn’t tell what it was: perhaps some sort of scratching or sliding.

  Fear locked my legs and choked out any sound I would make. I couldn’t move. I could only listen to whatever was in the room. My heart thudded so loudly in my ears that I worried whatever was there would hear it. Whatever was on the other side moved closer; a whimper escaped me. Everything went very quiet. I could hear what sounded like someone breathing on the opposite side of the door. I knew I should open it and see it once and for all. The handle rattled beneath my hand unfreezing my body and mind.

  I bolted back to my bedroom and grabbed the phone. My better judgment was telling me to call someone, but the more pragmatic voice in my head kept asking who I was going to call. I could trust no one. Nothing, however, was stopping me from getting the hell out. I put on shoes, hesitated at my bedroom door for a brief second, then flung it open and ran for the stairs. I couldn’t tell you if it was fear or panic that drove me more, but I have never moved so fast in my life. I was at the front door, fumbling with the lock when a ringing sound halted my feet.

  I stood at the door, frozen and listening. It took me a few seconds to realize it was the phone, not some supernatural force stopping me. I felt like I should answer it. The fear momentarily lost its grip on me as something new took hold. Butterflies danced in my stomach.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice cracking.

  I was met with silence.

  “Hello,” I said again.

  The person on the other end still said nothing, though I could hear breathing. A creaking noise from upstairs cracked the silence like a thunder.

  All my original fear came rushing back. I tore the front door open to find a person standing in the frame. My body seized, my legs stopped moving. I couldn’t even scream. I tumbled backwards, but even once sprawled on the floor I continued to push away from the door in full survival mode.

  “What’re you doin,’ girlie?”

  Mr. Sexton stood shadowed in the doorway. Sexton! I had no idea what to say to him. He looked like hadn’t showered in weeks and smelled worse. I struggled to calm my breathing. He stared at me, but did not come any closer or say anything further. I scrambled to my feet in case he decided to rush at me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Heard something.” He craned his neck to look around the door frame.

  “Well, you’re trespassing and it’s late, I mean, early. You should go home.”

  Mr. Sexton walked away mumbling. The only thing that I made out clearly was his favorite insult, “Bitch.” I shut the door, no longer wanting to go outside. I looked up the stairs and knew I didn’t want to be inside either. I was running out of options and had no idea what to do. I picked up my cell phone from the floor and dialed Gabriel.

  His voice was raspy and muted when he answered. The full realization of the time struck me; it wasn't even 5am. Immediately, I regretted calling him. I started with an apology then briefly ran through what happened. I tried not to exaggerate or underplay it. I just told him the facts. I wasn't sure what I exactly expected from him, but he was suddenly alert and taking charge, which made me feel the tiniest bit safer.

  “Lock yourself in your bedroom. I’ll be there in moments.”

  I did as he said without argument.

  The next few minutes seemed liked years. Every sound, no matter how familiar it should have been, seemed terrible and foreign. My skin crawled with anxiety and my stomach churned. When my bedroom’s doorknob jiggled, I yelped, almost keeling over from sheer nerves. Then I heard Gabriel’s voice come softly through.

  “Which room?”

  “I’ll show you,” I said opening the door.

  “Just point.”

  “There’s no way I’m staying here any longer.” I stepped out of my room and pointed down the hallway. We quietly walked toward the master bedroom. Gabriel listened for a moment then did something I couldn’t do.... He turned the handle. My disappointment showed, despite my best efforts. There was nothing there. The room looked just as it had the morning Danny died, except it was very cold.

  I couldn’t remember whether the window was partially open that morning and had therefore been open for a year, or if this was something new. Gabriel found small scratches on the door and the wall near the window. He studied the window for a few minutes. He searched the room for a bandit animal that could have made its way into the house. I couldn’t get past the bed. I wondered if it still smelled like him. The memory of his smell was fading; I wanted to collapse on the bed and inhale deeply.

  Gabriel didn’t find the animal, but, with effort, he was able to shut the window. He said something, but whatever it was didn’t register through the fog I was falling into. Eventually, he took my arm and led me out of the room, securely closing the door behind him. He searched the rest of the house, while I sunk to the floor in the hallway, my head resting on my knees. What had I expected to find? The killer? The ghost? Stupid, stupid me. I should have known better.

  In the midst of wallowing in my new surge of pain and guilt, Gabriel came back.

  “I didn’t find anything.”

  “I’m sorry.” I felt miserable. I wanted to scream, shout, cry. Maybe Susan was right. Maybe I should consider the hospital.

  “Did you see someone walk past the door?”

  “I think so.” I now doubted everything. I just didn't know anymore.

  “I believe you.”

  The words I’d been waiting to hear for so long almost brought tears to my eyes. “Don’t humor me. I don’t even believe me.”

  “Ella, I have looked through this house more times than I can count, including just a few hours ago. That window wasn’t open. So unless you went in there...”

  I shook my head.

  “I think you need to get out of the house. Why don’t you leave? You could live anywhere, why stay?”

  “I can’t leave until it’s over. I need to know what happened.”

  He looked empathetic. “You could leave for a couple days at least. Get some sleep, come back with a new perspective.”

  “But I’m afraid,” I wasn't sure how to express myself so he would understand, “afraid if I leave I may never come back.”

  “Okay then.” He nodded. “Well, at the very least I think you owe me breakfast for getting me out of bed this damn early.”

  I tried to smile. “I suppose I do.”

  “Let’s go. Do you want me to speak to your neighbor before we leave?”

  “No. It won't do any good. Honestly it will probably make him hate me more. He's a misogynist and I doubt he has any respect for authority, I think the best thing to do is to ignore him. Give me a minute to get ready.” Gabriel went downstairs while I dressed. We left the house as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon.

  Being out of my routine was refreshing. I felt different, less like a prisoner in my life and more like I had some control. We went to a small café on the outskirts of town. The pressure I normally felt in public was mysteriously missing. Detective Troy twirled a straw in his fingers across the table from me and I found myself studying him.

  I’d seen him a thousand times, but never truly looked at him. It was impossible to place how old he was. He looked as tired as I felt, but he was still handsome, a bit worn looking with his unshave
n face and dark hair slightly graying along his temples. His face was lean with intense brown eyes that somehow managed to be both kind and probing. A tattoo on his wrist peeked out from underneath his shirtsleeve, which made me think he was a bit wild at one time too.

  “Force of habit,” he said sitting the straw back on the table.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Fidgeting. It clears my head.”

  “Oh.”

  “That's not why you were staring at me is it?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking.”

  “Don't hurt yourself,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “Why was the window open?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In Danny’s room? Why was the window open?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said there was no sign of forced entry. Could someone have come through the window? Was the window open that night?”

  “The window is on the second floor. There’d be no way to get there without a ladder. Someone surely would’ve seen it.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “There were no prints on the window except Danny’s and yours. There was no sign of forced entry on the screen. I don’t think it’s very likely.”

  “So the window was open that night?”

  “Yes.” A frown creased his forehead.

  I nodded, no longer wanting to talk about Danny. “So, detective, do you have a family I’m dragging you away from?”

  “No, I was married once, but it isn’t a good fit with the job.”

  “What happened?” I asked before it occurred to me just how personal that was. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. My job took over a lot of my life. I hadn’t learned how to make room for her and the job, so she took the back burner. The more I saw the worse it got until we were two strangers who once knew each other.”

  “I find it hard to believe you saw a lot happening in Montgomery.”

  “I was in Chicago. I transferred up here around year ago. Your husband was my first case.”

  I hadn't realized Gabriel wasn't from Montgomery either. No wonder it was easier to be around him. “Rough start.”

  “I had more experience than the other detective with homicides,” he said with a shrug, but he didn’t really seem comfortable talking about this aspect of his job.

  “And why did you choose Montgomery?”

  “My grandparents live here. They’re getting older and someone should be nearby. I also needed a change. The job was eating away at me and it was time to take a step back. I was in vice and just finished a lengthy undercover op. It was as good a time as any to leave. A now or never sort of deal.”

  “Is that where you got the tattoo?”

  Gabriel tugged on his sleeve self-consciously so the tattoo was no longer visible “Ah, yes, this ... a souvenir from another life. Maybe you should've been a detective.”

  “Right, ‘cause that would suit me so well. It’s much better to write about murders and detectives than it is to live it. Besides, I’m crazy. I’d never pass the psych profile.”

  He laughed, took a mouthful of coffee. “I’ve met some seriously disturbed people in my life. If you’re insane, you’re the most lucid ‘crazy’ person I’ve met.”

  “Well, we come in all shapes and sizes. Straightjackets don't discriminate.”

  “Do you really think that way about yourself?” Detective Troy asked.

  His question threw me off slightly. “Sometimes, maybe not ... I really don’t know anymore.”

  “Sometimes we all feel like that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had my fair share of those moments.”

  “You have,” he said. “It will get better, you know.”

  “Detective Troy, I would've never pegged you as an optimist.”

  Gabriel smiled as if no one had ever accused him of such a thing, and looked down at his hands uncomfortably. Awkward silence filled the space between us until I broke it.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do whatever gets you by, and hope for a good outcome.”

  “I think I lost my faith along with everything else.”

  This new revelation hit me like a sledgehammer, just one more setback to add to the list. Gabriel reached over and touched my hand, jolting me back into reality. I pulled my hands off the table before I even looked up.

  “I’m sorry.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye as I pretended to inspect the cafe. “It’s a reflex. I know I brought it up, but can we stop talking about me?”

  Detective Troy looked at me steadily with the kind eyes I was beginning to become accustomed to seeing. “Of course.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Eleven years.”

  I raised my eyebrow hoping to encourage him to dig deeper.

  “We were young, met while I was a beat cop. Got married too quickly. Rebecca constantly worried about me when I was at work, which was all the time. My career moved along almost too well; I was promoted to detective quickly. I couldn’t see how unhappy she was being alone so much. I was gone for a long periods at time and didn’t know how to deal with what I seeing day in and day out. I shut myself off to protect her. It shouldn’t have been shocking when she left me.”

  “But it was?”

  “I was floored.”

  “Was there someone else?”

  He nodded. “It took me a long time to understand.”

  “That’s terrible.” For the first time in ages it didn’t feel like I was just going through the steps of pretending to empathize, I actually meant it.

  “She’s much happier now. She wanted a family, a home, a husband who comes home at a reasonable hour every night from a boring job—all things I couldn’t give her. I’m honestly happy she found what she is looking for.”

  “Do you ever regret not transferring here sooner? It could have saved your marriage.”

  “No. If I had, what about the things that happened between then and now? Would they have happened? Sometimes there’s a reason for things, good and bad. As much as that job drained me and losing Rebecca hurt, I helped people. I made a difference in people's lives.”

  “If things happen for a reason, where’s our choice in the matter? Maybe bad things happen that are really, really shitty for no reason at all. We accept them because we have to, because they’re our reality, whether we like it or not.” I cracked my knuckles and sipped my coffee. “We learn from the mistakes that brought us to this point so we are less likely to make them again. And then other times life just sucks and there is nothing to learn. You just get used to it sucking until something else happens to make it worse. Maybe nothing ever gets better, you just grow accustomed to constantly increasing levels of bad.”

  “Life does suck.” He smiled making me smile in return. “I'm amazed you've been able to maintain such a sunny disposition through this past year.”

  “Well, I try.” It felt so foreign to smile so many times in a row. “Damn, I should be allowed to skip therapy. I don’t think I’ve spoken this much or this honestly in the last year.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “I have to go. Dr. Livingston could cut off my meds.”

  “Are they helping?”

  “The therapy or the drugs?”

  “Both.”

  “I can’t tell anymore. The numbness makes it hard to write, but I'm working through it.”

  “About your husband's family?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Livingston has been trying to get me to return to my normal routine for a while. So he will feel like this is his breakthrough, maybe he will let me go earlier than usual. Writing is about as normal as I get.”

  “It can’t hurt, right?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  The server brought our food over, and for the rest of the meal we spoke about books and Gabriel questioned me about my career with genuine interest. Unknowingly he accomplished something that no one else had been able to do sin
ce Danny’s death. He allowed me to feel like a normal girl.

  After breakfast I headed over to my weekly meeting with Dr. Livingston, though part of me wished I could do what Gabriel suggested and just not go to therapy. It seemed to validate everyone’s impression of me. It did not help matters that my doctor treated my account of the house as a figment of my imagination. I even had doubts about my medication—it was supposed to keep me from becoming a basket case, but really it just kept me coming back to him. And how could he possibly know I needed them? We’d never tried me without them.

  It was clear I needed to reevaluate my therapy and perhaps find a doctor I liked better. I would speak with Dr. Livingston about weaning me off the prescriptions.

  Chapter Eight