A Flicker in the Dark(63)

I stare at the key, fighting the urge to pick it up, walk outside, and push it back into his hands. Instead, I grab it and the Xanax and toss them into my purse before walking over to the door and setting the alarm. Then I grab Cooper’s wine bottle, still mostly full, and pour myself another glass before picking it up along with the salmon, now cold, and walking back into the living room, settling in on the couch, and turning on the TV.

I think about everything that has happened today and immediately, I’m exhausted. Seeing Lacey, my meeting with Aaron. The scuffle with Daniel and the interaction with Bert Rhodes and going to Detective Thomas, telling him everything. The argument with my brother, the concern in his eyes when he saw those pills. When he saw me, alone, drinking at the kitchen island.

Suddenly, more than exhausted, I feel lonely.

I pick up my phone, tap the screen until the background illuminates in my hand. I think about calling Daniel, but then I picture him at dinner, ordering another bottle at some five-star Italian restaurant, the roars of laughter as he insists on just one more. He’s probably the life of the party—cracking jokes, grabbing shoulders. The thought makes me feel even lonelier, so I swipe up at the screen and open up my Contacts.

And there, at the very top, I’m greeted with another name: Aaron Jansen.

I could call Aaron, I think. I could fill him in on everything that has happened since the last time we spoke. He probably isn’t doing anything, alone in an unfamiliar town. He’s probably doing the same thing as me, as a matter of fact—sitting on the couch, half drunk, leftovers perched between his outstretched legs. My finger hovers over his name, but before I can tap it, the screen goes dark. I sit for a minute, wondering. My mind is feeling a little foggy now, like it’s been wrapped in a thick, wool blanket. I put the phone down, deciding against it. Instead, I close my eyes. I imagine how he might react when I tell him about Bert Rhodes showing up on my doorstep. I imagine him yelling at me through the phone after I admit to letting him in. I smirk a little bit, knowing that he’d be worried. Worried about me. But then I would tell him how I got him out of the house, called Detective Thomas, went to the police. I would relay our conversation, word by word, and smile again, knowing that he’d be proud.

I open my eyes and take another bite of salmon, the drone of the TV sounding more distant as my mind starts to focus instead on the sound of my chewing. The clank of the fork against the Pyrex. My heavy breathing. The image on the television is starting to grow fuzzy on the screen, and I realize that my eyelids are feeling heavier with every subsequent sip of wine. Pretty soon, my limbs are tingling.

I deserve this, I think, sinking deeper into the couch. I deserve to sleep. To rest. I’m just exhausted. So, so exhausted. It’s been a long day. I turn my phone off—no disruptions—and place it on my stomach before pushing my dinner onto the coffee table. I take another sip of wine and feel a little bit dribble down my chin. Then I let myself close my eyes, just for a second, and feel myself drift into sleep.

It’s dark outside when I wake up. I’m disoriented, my eyes fluttering open as I lie on the couch, the half-empty wineglass still propped between my arm and stomach. Miraculously, it didn’t spill. I sit up and tap my phone, looking for the time, until I remember that I turned it off. I squint at the television—the time on the newscast says it’s just past ten. My pitch-black living room is partially illuminated in an eerie blue glow, so I reach for the remote and turn off the TV before pulling myself off the couch. I look at the wineglass in my hand and down the rest of the liquid before placing it on the coffee table, walking upstairs, and collapsing into bed.

I sink into the mattress immediately, and pretty soon, I’m in a dream—or maybe it’s a memory. It feels a little bit like both, somehow strange yet familiar at the exact same time. I’m twelve years old, sitting in my reading nook, my bedroom pitch-black, with the glow of my tiny reading light illuminating my face just slightly. My eyes are skimming the book in my lap, engrossed in the words on the page, when a noise from outside breaks my concentration. I look out the window and see a figure in the distance, moving silently across our yard in the dark. It’s coming from the trees just beyond our property, the trees that line the entrance to a swamp spanning miles in either direction.

I squint at the figure, and pretty soon, I can tell it’s a body. A fully grown adult body dragging something behind it. The sound begins to drift across the backyard and leaks through my cracked-open window, and soon, I recognize it as the scraping of metal against dirt.

It’s a shovel.

The body walks closer to my window and I press my face against the glass, dog-earing my book and putting it down. It’s still dark, and I’m still struggling to make out a face or features. As the body inches even closer, almost directly below my window now, a floodlight turns on and I find myself squinting at the sudden brightness, my hand shielding my face as my eyes try to adjust to the light. I remove my hand and confusion washes over me as the person below my window is finally illuminated enough to see. It isn’t the body of a man, as I had originally assumed. It isn’t my father, the way the memory should have actually played out.

This time, it’s a woman.

She turns her head to the sky and looks at me, as if she knew I was there all along. We make eye contact, and I don’t recognize her at first. She looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t know how or why. I look at her individual features—eyes, mouth, nose—and that’s when it finally clicks. I feel the blood drain from my face.