When I’m back home, I shower, then thumb through my phone while munching on the leftover sandwich from yesterday. I can’t help noting that even though we haven’t run into each other today, he’s taking care of me. If this isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is. I need to quit overthinking what I saw after work.
A headline catches my eyes, and I stop scrolling.
MAN DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE.
I start to thumb down, then pause again. The street…and the house… The mailbox in front lying on the ground, the totally wrecked lawn…
It’s the place Tolyan went to last night.
I click on the headline. My hands shake as the implications hit me.
According to the article, someone named Rick Owen died in an apparent suicide. His body was found in a bathtub, which probably means he either tried to electrocute himself or slashed his wrists. No signs of struggle or forced entry. A new mother in the neighborhood found him because his car alarm started blaring endlessly in the morning, which woke her baby up, and Rick Owen didn’t come out to do anything about the noise.
He appeared to be upset over the impending divorce and the possible loss of custody of his son. He even kidnapped his own child two days ago, but the police didn’t arrest him because he seemed distraught rather than dangerous.
I shake my head. Harmless men do not kidnap their own children. Something about the way the cops treated him feels wrong, but then, these are the same people who said their hands were tied when it came to Roy’s threats against me. Apparently, unless and until he actually physically harms me, there’s nothing they can do. So it could’ve been the same with this guy who committed suicide.
Although…my gut says different. Tolyan was in that house for about half an hour. If the man was already dead, why didn’t he call the police?
Apprehension runs its chilly fingers down my spine. But how could Tolyan have had anything to do with the man’s death? And how could he have killed this Rick Owen without leaving any marks on him?
I realize my teeth are chattering and clamp my mouth shut. I’m being ridiculous. Tolyan couldn’t have killed the man. I might even be wrong about the house. It isn’t like there’s only one house in this entire huge city with a mailbox knocked on the ground and a messy yard.
Because it’s one thing to give off a danger vibe, quite another to actually kill a human being, especially so up close and personal. The article makes it clear that if this was a murder, the killer had been close to the victim.
I Google for more articles. But it’s like they were all written by the same reporter, because they repeat the same facts.
“Argh!” Frustrated, I drop the phone next to the sandwich.
What I wanted to know was how that man supposedly killed himself. I want proof that Tolyan wasn’t involved in his death. The man was found in his bathtub. Tolyan’s clothes were dry last night…I think. But it was dark and I couldn’t see that well.
And if there was blood…
Tolyan’s outfit was all black, which means it wouldn’t have shown, not in the dark. It’s like he knew he’d need the camouflage.
Stop it! You’re being paranoid.
But I can’t stop. Paranoid has been my middle name since my parents died. And paranoia is what’s kept me alive for eight years.
I go back through the articles, looking for the dead man’s address. One has it. I look it up…and realize it’s the place I followed Tolyan to. There’s no question about it.
I suck in air. This is the kind of stuff I’m supposed to call the cops about. That’s what society says is the right thing to do.
But if I do the right thing, are they going to keep me safe from Roy?
The fact that I’m even asking that question—like doing the right thing is a matter of tit for tat—makes me want to smack myself. It’s selfish and terrible and a whole bunch of other very bad adjectives. But for God’s sake, whose fault is it that I’ve become this awful? Why should I do the right thing when the world doesn’t want to do the right thing back in return? All I want is to feel safe.
Contradic
tory and shameful thoughts swirl in my head. My temples throb, and my skull hurts, like someone’s got it in a vise.
After swallowing four ibuprofen, I go to Coffee Heaven for my shift. Eric and Sean are already there. Sean waves, but Eric barely glances my way as he tilts his chin in an arrogant, half-assed greeting. I smile like nothing’s wrong, but know I failed when Sean gives me a weird “what’s up with you?” look.
Nothing. Everything. I don’t even know anymore.
My insides are wound so tight I feel like I’m about to snap. The universe is no longer satisfied with throwing rotten lemons at me. Now it wants to play mind games. How long will it take before Angelika goes insane?
Never, bitch. Never. Never giving you the satisfaction.