Someone Is Watching (33 page)

—

The phone rings, and I open my eyes to darkness. I check the clock as I reach for the receiver, see that it is almost midnight. I raise the phone to my ear, about to say hello when I realize there is no one on the other end. Just a dial tone. I return the phone to its charger.

My head feels as if it is weighted down with sandbags, and my throat is so dry I can barely muster up enough saliva to swallow. I get out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, pour myself a glass of water.
I think your brother could use a glass of water,
I hear Detective Castillo say. When was that? How long ago?

I have a sudden image of Heath sprawled out across my living room sofa, his head lolling back against its pillows, his beautiful face hidden inside a cloud of marijuana smoke. Everything falls into place. “Damn it.” What the hell was I thinking?

I return to the bedroom and grab the scissors from my nightstand, carrying them in front of me as I proceed down the corridor. “Heath?” I call out, flipping on the light when I reach the living room and looking toward the sofa where I last saw him.

He’s not there.

Nor is he on the other sofa or on the floor or in the kitchen, the powder room, or sprawled across the sofa bed in my office. “Heath,” I call again, even though I know he’s no longer anywhere in my apartment, that he must have slipped out sometime after I fell asleep.

Which means that he left the door to my condo unlocked.

Immediately I secure the lock, then do another search of my apartment, my heart racing, my legs shaking, my panic building, as I peek into every nook and cranny, all traces of my drug-induced
calm now gone, although the suffocating scent of marijuana trails after me.

I return to my bedroom, understanding full well that I won’t be able to sleep. Instead, I grab my binoculars off the nightstand and push the button that raises the blinds, knowing that the lights in Paul Giller’s apartment will be on. I’m aware I’m disobeying another police directive, that they have warned me against spying on my neighbors, but what the hell? I’m already in their bad books, and this beats staying up all night, wandering the halls and berating myself for my stupidity.

I see them.

They are standing in front of the bed and they are arguing. Even with no sound, I can hear Paul’s voice rising in anger as his hands wave theatrically in front of him, the index finger of his right hand jabbing repeatedly at the air. Elena is shaking her head and crying—pleading, interrupting, trying to get a word in.

I move closer to the window, adjusting the lens of my binoculars in an effort to bring these two strangers closer. If the expression on Paul’s face is indicative of the tone of his voice, he is only seconds away from losing control. I watch, helpless and spellbound, as he advances menacingly toward Elena, backing her against the window.

They remain in their respective positions for several minutes: Paul shouting, Elena cowering: Paul accusing, Elena denying. And then Elena has had all she can take. She tries to break away, getting as far as the bed before Paul physically restrains her, grabbing her elbow with his hand and spinning her around. Elena attempts to pull out of his reach, which only enrages Paul further. He slaps her hard across the face, so hard that she falls back across the bed, and when she tries to get up, he slaps her again.

And he doesn’t stop.

“No!” I cry out, my cheeks on fire from the force of his slaps, my ears ringing as he climbs on top of her, straddling her while continuing to pummel her with his fists. “No!” I shout as he pulls up her nightgown and unzips his jeans. “No!” I scream as he pushes his way roughly inside her.

I am sobbing as I stumble across the room and reach for the phone.

Feel free to call me,
Claire said.
As late as you want.
“Bailey?” she says when she picks up the phone. “What is it? Are you okay?”

I tell her what I’ve just witnessed.

“Call the police,” she says. “I’ll be right over.”

Twenty minutes later, Claire is at my door. She is wearing gray sweatpants, a rumpled gray T-shirt, and lime-green Crocs. Her face is devoid of makeup, and her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

“What’s happening?” she asks, heading straight for the bedroom and grabbing my binoculars off the floor where I dropped them earlier. “Have the police shown up yet?”

“No.”

“I can’t see anything,” she says, sweeping the binoculars across the side of Paul’s building. “All the lights are out.”

“What? No—they were on a minute ago.”

Claire hands me the binoculars for me to check for myself.

I shake my head. Paul must have turned the lights off when I left the room to answer the door.

“You
did
call the police, didn’t you?” Claire says.

“I told them that a woman was being attacked in her apartment. I gave them the address and apartment number.”

“What did they say?”

“I didn’t give them a chance to say anything. I just told them a woman was being attacked and hung up.”

“You didn’t tell them your name?”

I shake my head again, trying to shake away lingering feelings of guilt. I know the police aren’t always quick about following through on anonymous tips. I should have given them my name.

Claire takes a moment to think this through. “Okay. Okay. Let’s wait and see what happens. How are you doing? Are you feeling any better?”

“I don’t know.”

She reaches out and takes me in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Bailey. I should have been here.”

“No. I told you not to come.”

“I shouldn’t have listened. I could tell something wasn’t right.” She puts her hand on my forehead. “You’re feeling a little flushed. Do you have a thermometer?”

“I don’t have a fever.”

“I don’t know. You’re a little warm.”

“It’s nothing.” I look toward the floor as another wave of guilt sweeps over me. “It happens sometimes when I get stoned.”

“What?”

“I was stoned,” I whisper.

“What?”
she says again.

“Heath was here,” I add, as if this explains everything.

“You got high?”

I shrug. What is there to say? “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t owe me any apologies, Bailey. You’re a big girl. It’s just that …”

“What?”

“Are you sure about what you saw?” she asks, as direct as ever.

“You think I made it up?”

“No. Of course I don’t think that. But if you were stoned …”

“You think I might have been hallucinating?”

“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? We get all sorts of people turning up
in the ER who got a little more than they bargained for when they lit up a supposedly innocent joint. What Heath gave you could have been laced with some pretty potent stuff.…”

“But that was hours ago.”

“If it was laced with LSD, it could stay in your system for days. You know that. Is there any chance you might have been dreaming?”

Is there? The only thing I know for certain is that for the first time, I see doubt in Claire’s eyes. And I hate it. “I don’t know. I was asleep. The phone rang.…”

“The phone rang?” she repeats. “Who called?”

“I don’t know. There was just a dial tone. Maybe it didn’t even ring. Maybe I
was
dreaming.…”

“Where is Heath now?” Claire looks toward the hallway, as if he might be lurking in the shadows.

“He was gone when I woke up.”

“So he wasn’t here when you saw …” Her voice trails off. The question remains unfinished.

“No. He wasn’t here. He didn’t see anything.” Did
I
? I can’t help wonder, knowing Claire is thinking the same thing. “He can’t back me up.”

Claire’s cheeks redden, as if I’ve physically struck her. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that …”

“You have doubts,” I say, finishing the sentence for her.

She opens her mouth to speak, but only a sigh escapes.

The phone rings, and we both jump at the unexpected sound. “Okay. This is definitely no dream,” Claire says, plucking the phone from its stand. “Hello?” Her shoulders stiffen, then relax. “Okay. Thank you. Yes. You can send them up.” She hangs up the phone. I realize I’m holding my breath. “That was Stanley, from the concierge desk. The police are here.”

“They’re
here
? What does that mean?”

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

The two uniformed policemen notice the smell of marijuana as soon as I open the door, their noses sniffing at the air like dogs after a scent. One officer nods knowingly toward the other as the
two men enter my foyer. Immediately I recognize the younger of the two from various cases I’ve worked on, although I can’t for the life of me remember his name.

“Bailey,” he says in greeting.

“Sam,” I hear myself say, his name appearing out of the blue and landing on my lips just in the nick of time.

“I heard about what happened,” he says. “I’m very sorry.”

It takes me a few moments to realize that he is referring to my rape.

“This is my partner,” Sam says. “Patrick Llewellyn.”

“Officer,” my sister and I say at the same time.

Patrick Llewellyn is several inches taller and at least a decade older than his partner whose last name, I remember now, is Turnbull. He is as white as Sam is black, his hair as fine and red as Sam’s is dark and curly. Both are handsome in that rough, offhand way that cops often possess, their uniforms enhancing their appeal. “You are …?” Sam asks Claire.

Claire introduces herself as my sister, no halfs or hyphens attached, for which I am beyond grateful. “What can we do for you, officers?”

“I think you know why we’re here,” Patrick Llewellyn says.

Sam clears his throat. “Maybe we should sit down.…”

“Of course.” Claire leads them into the living room, motioning them toward the sofas.

I follow, the distinct scent of marijuana becoming stronger with each step. I wince as Officer Llewellyn lowers himself into almost the exact spot where Heath lay puffing languorously away a few short hours ago. Sam lowers himself to the seat beside his partner while Claire and I perch on the opposite sofa.

“Can I get either of you something to drink?” Claire offers, as if it is perfectly normal to have two policemen sitting in your living room at this hour of the night, the lingering smell of weed circling everyone’s heads like a noxious cloud, strong enough to induce light-headedness, even now. “Some water or juice?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Llewellyn says as his partner nods. “Do you want to tell us what exactly happened tonight? You called
the precinct to report a woman being attacked,” he clarifies when I hesitate.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t leave your name.”

“No.”

“Mind my asking why?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“You know better than that,” Sam says, and I feel the sting of his rebuke. “What exactly happened?” he asks again, notepad in hand, pen poised and waiting for my response.

I describe what I saw take place in Paul Giller’s apartment, careful to keep my eyes on the floor so that I don’t have to see the looks on the officers’ faces.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve reported Paul Giller’s behavior to the police, I understand,” Llewellyn says, flipping through his notepad, as if making sure of his facts.

“Did Paul Giller tell you that?”

“Is it true?”

“Yes,” I admit.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Claire asks impatiently. “Surely what’s important here are the events Bailey witnessed tonight.”

“Which are what, exactly?” Sam asks again.

“That a woman was beaten and—”

“Were you here?” Sam interrupts Claire to ask.

“No. I—”

“So you didn’t actually see anything?”

“No, but—”

“Then, you wouldn’t mind letting your sister answer the question.” Again, more an order than a request.

Claire sits back in her seat, covering her nose with the back of her hand when the motion results in a fresh current of marijuana-laced air.

“I saw Paul Giller beat and rape his girlfriend,” I tell the officers.

“You’re positive about that?”

I look toward Claire. Am I?

“How do you know the woman you saw is his girlfriend?” Sam asks.

I decide it is best not to tell them about my earlier exploits, understanding that I am likely to be viewed as a stalker. “I just assumed …”

Sam’s attention is suddenly diverted by something on the floor. He bends over and reaches underneath the coffee table. When he straightens up again, he is holding one of Heath’s errant, suspiciously hand-rolled cigarettes between his fingers.

Claire rolls her eyes and I close mine, picturing the joints flying from Heath’s shoe and watching his mad scramble to retrieve them. Clearly, he missed one.

“Look, I know you’ve been through a pretty hard time lately, and I understand your needing a little escape, I really do,” Sam says, “but if you were stoned at the time you made that call …”

“I wasn’t stoned.”

“You’re saying you hadn’t smoked a little weed—”

“More than a little, by the smell of things,” Patrick Llewellyn interrupts.

“Okay, I might have been a little high earlier. But I wasn’t when I saw Paul Giller. You don’t believe me,” I state, unable to ignore the looks on their faces any longer.

“What we believe isn’t important,” Sam says. “What’s important is what happened.”

“Which was, apparently, nothing,” Llewellyn says.

“We went over to Paul Giller’s apartment and questioned both him and his girlfriend,” Sam continues. “The bedroom shows absolutely no signs of any disturbance, and they both vehemently deny an assault of any kind took place.”

“Well, of course
she’d
deny it,” Claire says, rushing to my defense. “If he was standing right beside her.…”

“There wasn’t a bruise on her.”

I go completely numb, recalling the bruises that covered most of my body in the immediate aftermath of my attack, bruises that have only recently begun to disappear.

“Look,” Llewellyn says. “There’s not much we can do when both parties insist no assault took place. You want my advice? Stop spying on your neighbors.”