Terrified (13 page)
He hadn’t expected to see Josh Keeslar on the news. It was a total surprise.
Amid all the cameras flashing, they showed the mayor handing out framed certificates to Megan’s lanky, brown-haired boy and two cops in full uniform. They showed Josh posing with the police—and with the man whose life he’d saved. The University of Washington professor leaned on a cane and looked a bit feeble. But he smiled and shook Josh’s hand for all the cameras. They showed a crowd of about thirty people cheering.
No surprise at all was the absence of Josh’s mother. He knew she wouldn’t want to be on television or have her photo in the newspaper. He wondered what excuse she’d given her son for not attending this ceremony.
The pretty reporter with long, chestnut hair interviewed Josh, very briefly. “I saw this man lying facedown on the sidewalk,” Josh said into the handheld microphone. “People passed by him, and I thought, ‘Well, that’s not right.’ So I went over to him to see if I could help. I don’t think I’m a hero or anything… .”
Watching Josh on television, he had to smile. He figured Megan’s son hadn’t been surrounded by this many policemen since he’d almost been abducted at Westlake Center ten years ago. If Josh saw him today, would he recognize the man who had saved him from that pervert way back when?
He wondered. Then he told himself that he would find out soon enough.
As for Josh’s mother, she could hide from the press—and even the police. But she couldn’t hide from him.
For the last fifteen years, he’d been watching her, and creeping unnoticed into her world whenever he could. And yet he hadn’t so much as touched her.
But he was running out of time. Things were going to change. His days of simply watching Lisa and fantasizing about her were numbered.
He’d settled for substitutes all this time—five of them.
Not anymore.
C
HAPTER
N
INE
HAPTER
N
INE
S
he needed to respond to his email tonight. She’d been putting it off for two days, and didn’t want to be rude. Sitting in front of her computer monitor in the living room at nine o’clock on a Saturday night, Megan took a sip of pinot grigio for courage. She read his email once again:
he needed to respond to his email tonight. She’d been putting it off for two days, and didn’t want to be rude. Sitting in front of her computer monitor in the living room at nine o’clock on a Saturday night, Megan took a sip of pinot grigio for courage. She read his email once again:
Hi, Megan,
It was splendid meeting you Tuesday night. I daresay I think we’re a pretty good match. As I mentioned over our rather mediocre dinner (I’ll never take you to that restaurant again), you’re not at all like a lot of women out there. You’re a very elegant, classy lady. I know some women think ‘lady’ is an old-fashioned term, but I suppose I’m just an old-fashioned kind of guy, the kind of guy with much to offer someone like you.
On our second date, I would like to take you sailing. I’m an expert sailor. Or if you’re not in the nautical mood, we could go for a long walk (perhaps Myrtle Edwards Park or along Alki Beach in West Seattle). We must take advantage of the beautiful September weather. And you must let me show you off as we walk arm in arm. I know I will be the envy of every man who sees us, and I’m sure many women will envy you, too.
Afterwards, I’m thinking of dinner in a nice bistro. And then we will see where the night takes us from there …
“Straight to the psycho ward, that’s where,” Megan muttered, frowning at the monitor.
Duncan Cassidy had been her sixth date through
Matefinder.com
—and without a doubt, the worst. With wavy dark hair, a heavy five-o’clock shadow, and glasses, he was bookishly handsome, and at age thirty-four, a few years younger than her. He was also pompous and boring—as well as rude to their waitress at Wild Ginger. Plus his idea of paying Megan a compliment was telling her that she wasn’t like other women—and then going on a misogynistic diatribe for the next several minutes. They’d arranged to meet at the restaurant, so Megan had faked a headache before dessert to make a hasty retreat. She’d insisted on paying for her own meal, shaken his hand, and said, “Sorry this evening didn’t quite work out, Duncan. But good luck to you.”
Matefinder.com
—and without a doubt, the worst. With wavy dark hair, a heavy five-o’clock shadow, and glasses, he was bookishly handsome, and at age thirty-four, a few years younger than her. He was also pompous and boring—as well as rude to their waitress at Wild Ginger. Plus his idea of paying Megan a compliment was telling her that she wasn’t like other women—and then going on a misogynistic diatribe for the next several minutes. They’d arranged to meet at the restaurant, so Megan had faked a headache before dessert to make a hasty retreat. She’d insisted on paying for her own meal, shaken his hand, and said, “Sorry this evening didn’t quite work out, Duncan. But good luck to you.”
After a few first-date misfires through Matefinder .com, she’d gotten pretty skilled at wrapping it up and putting the kibosh on a second encounter. Megan could tell the feeling was mutual with a couple of guys who obviously lost interest once they’d realized she wasn’t going to put out on their first meeting. The candidates out there for a woman her age weren’t exactly ideal—unless she wanted to date men in their late fifties, or men who lived in another state, or men who were in prison. She’d weeded out all of those hopefuls in the pre-selection process.
She’d had a perfectly wonderful night at The Tin Table with a cute, sandy-haired teacher named Dan Lahart. After a kiss on the cheek good night, he’d said he wanted to see her again, but that had been over a week ago, and he still hadn’t phoned or emailed, damn it.
Matefinder.com
had been Josh’s doing. Women signed on for free, so he’d simply gone onto the site, created a password for her, and posted her photo. Josh had scanned and cropped it from one of the snapshots of her and his “dad.” He’d written the following blurb—with a little help from Teresa:
had been Josh’s doing. Women signed on for free, so he’d simply gone onto the site, created a password for her, and posted her photo. Josh had scanned and cropped it from one of the snapshots of her and his “dad.” He’d written the following blurb—with a little help from Teresa:
TERRIFIC EASTLAKE BLONDE,
39, pretty, in great shape, seeks a non-smoking man (though smoking hot is okay) in my age group with a steady income, a love for sports, good times, good food and hanging out. Maybe we can go Greek dancing sometime.
39, pretty, in great shape, seeks a non-smoking man (though smoking hot is okay) in my age group with a steady income, a love for sports, good times, good food and hanging out. Maybe we can go Greek dancing sometime.
The first thing Megan did when Josh showed her the ad was remove her photo. He had no idea of the risk involved having her likeness shown anywhere—TV, the newspaper, or the Internet. She hadn’t spent the last fourteen years avoiding having her picture taken for nothing. That had been why she couldn’t attend the ceremony honoring Josh and those two policemen. But of course, she couldn’t tell him that. It had broken her heart to miss it. Josh’s heart had gotten pretty battered over it, too. He’d spent most of that week fuming at her, the silent treatment mostly. Megan’s only solace had been observing Josh at his angriest, and realizing he wasn’t at all like his father.
The Good Citizen certificate was now hanging on the wall in Josh’s bedroom, and a framed photo of Josh receiving the award from the mayor was on the living room bookcase.
When Megan had discovered Josh signed her up with
Matefinder.com
, she realized it meant he’d finally forgiven her for missing the award ceremony. So she couldn’t stay mad at him too long for meddling. In truth, she needed to put herself out there. For years and years, she’d been too scared to get involved with anyone. It was too risky. Besides, her luck with men had been disastrous.
Matefinder.com
, she realized it meant he’d finally forgiven her for missing the award ceremony. So she couldn’t stay mad at him too long for meddling. In truth, she needed to put herself out there. For years and years, she’d been too scared to get involved with anyone. It was too risky. Besides, her luck with men had been disastrous.
That included Ron Dahlquist, an attorney at her old job, with whom she’d had a secret, sordid six-week affair. He wasn’t exactly her type—with his thinning hair and twenty excess pounds. But the hotshot lawyer had lots of charisma. He was also married—with a three-year-old.
At first, it felt wonderful to have some guy paying attention to her—and nothing more. Megan absolutely lapped it up, and she stayed strong in her resolve not to get involved with him. Ron pursued her for three months before she finally gave in. In a perverse way, it was an ideal relationship for her. Things couldn’t get too serious, and he made her feel so desirable. It was almost worth the regret and self-loathing she experienced after meeting him in cheap motels during lunches or on weekend afternoons.
She couldn’t help feeling a bit paranoid about it, too. Megan could have sworn someone was following her around during these clandestine trysts with Ron. She wasn’t sure if it was his wife or a private detective or what. Maybe it was just some manifestation of her guilt, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that every rendezvous was being monitored.
When he said he was falling in love with her, it threw Megan into a tailspin. The last thing she wanted to do was wreck his marriage. Sometimes, he’d call her at home. He’d whisper that he was in his basement or the garage—far from his wife in another part of the house. She pictured him crouched in a dark corner somewhere, so forlorn and lovesick. He’d say she was the only good thing in his life and he longed to be with her. The danger and passion of this kind of forbidden love was intoxicating. She lived for those calls.
Megan was falling in love with him, too. One day, while Josh was at a birthday party, she put on a hooded sweatshirt and drove to Ron’s house in Queen Anne, a stately Tudor on a corner lot. Ron’s BMW was parked in the driveway. Just as Megan pulled up and parked two houses down across the street, an SUV passed her and turned into Ron’s driveway. His trim, tawny-haired wife emerged from the vehicle. She opened the car’s back door to liberate their toddler, Austin, who began to run around in circles on the well-manicured front lawn. Within moments, Ron came out of the Tudor house and helped his wife carry bags of groceries inside.
All the while, Megan felt horrible for her part in secretly undermining this sweet, idyllic scene. At the same time, she was jealous of Mrs. Dahlquist, who seemed to have it all.
Once all the groceries were taken inside, Ron remained out on the front lawn for a while with his young son. They threw a yellow beach ball back and forth. Megan studied him, and imagined how he would interact with Josh, who was ten years old at the time— and so in need of a father figure. She hated the notion of giving Ron up, but she had to.
At one point, Ron stopped throwing the ball, and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. From then on, he merely kicked the ball toward his son, who was still tossing it back to him in return.
Megan’s cell phone rang inside her purse—and she realized he was calling her. She grabbed the phone and pressed the talk button. “Hi,” she said. “Ron?” She watched him kick the ball one last time. Then he gave his son a dismissive wave—as if to say,
Don’t bother Daddy.
With the cell phone to his ear, he turned away from the boy and strolled toward his BMW.
Don’t bother Daddy.
With the cell phone to his ear, he turned away from the boy and strolled toward his BMW.
“Hey, babe, it’s me,” she heard him say. “I miss you so much right now. I just snuck out to the backyard. My wife’s inside, taking another one of her naps. I’ve been with her and my son all afternoon, and this whole time, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I’m so miserable without you… .”
Megan watched him beside his BMW. He pulled a Kleenex from his pocket and wiped something off the windshield—bird shit, probably. Even as far away as she was, Megan could see the slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Well, I miss you, too,” she managed to say. Yet all she felt was stupid and disillusioned. Why would he lie to her about where he was and what he’d been doing all afternoon? Of course, he’d been lying to his wife for several weeks. Lying probably came to him naturally. There was something about him talking so tenderly to her while fussing with his car that absolutely irked her. She could see what a phony he was.
“Right now, I’m practically hiding here in the backyard, hoping Vicki’s asleep so I can get in these few minutes with you,” he said, while cleaning off the car’s side mirror with the same Kleenex. “So—what are you doing, sweetheart? It helps when I can picture you while we’re talking.”
She took a deep breath. “Well, Ron, picture me looking at you right now… .”
“What?” he said.
She watched him suddenly glance around. “And I’m looking at a lying sack of shit, who is in his front yard paying more attention to his stupid BMW than to his own son.”
With the phone to his ear, he squinted toward her. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Is that you in the black car? Are you
spying
on me?”
spying
on me?”
“Yeah, I am,” she admitted. “And I’ve seen enough, Ron. In fact, I don’t want to see you anymore.”
She clicked off the phone, started up the car, and sped down the block.
Unfortunately, it didn’t end just there. He kept pursuing her at work, and Megan routinely refused his advances. She really couldn’t understand what she’d seen in him. Once Ron seemed to catch on that she’d never get together with him again, he started criticizing her work performance to other people in the office. He blamed her for everything that went wrong at the firm—even if she’d had nothing to do with it.
Megan quit after she’d secured an assistant manager position at Destination Rent-a-Car. Her annual income was a few thousand less than at Camper, George and White, but there was a chance for promotion and a salary increase after two years. That was just how long it took for her to make manager.
The last she’d heard about Ron Dahlquist, he’d been fired from the firm, and was under investigation by the Washington State Bar Association—for
something
, she wasn’t sure, probably for being an asshole. The experience with Ron had been enough to make her swear off men for the next four years.
something
, she wasn’t sure, probably for being an asshole. The experience with Ron had been enough to make her swear off men for the next four years.
And here she was—thanks to some plotting and prodding from her son and coworker—giving it another shot again. But before looking at more candidates on
Matefinder.com
, Megan had to give Duncan Cassidy a polite heave-ho.
Matefinder.com
, Megan had to give Duncan Cassidy a polite heave-ho.
With another sip of pinot grigio, she shifted around in her desk chair, clicked on the
Reply
icon, and started typing:
Reply
icon, and started typing:
Hi, Duncan,
Thanks for your thoughtful note and the invitation for a second date. Unfortunately, I don’t think we’re a good match. I wish you the best of luck in your pursuits for the right partner.
She stared at it for several minutes, wondering if that was enough. Should she say,
See you around sometime,
or
Have a great autumn,
or something friendly like that? Was the
best of luck
line too condescending? God, she hated this. The guy was a jerk. Rejecting him really shouldn’t have warranted so much time and aggravation. Most women wouldn’t even have bothered answering the email, but then again, according to Duncan Cassidy, she wasn’t like most women.
See you around sometime,
or
Have a great autumn,
or something friendly like that? Was the
best of luck
line too condescending? God, she hated this. The guy was a jerk. Rejecting him really shouldn’t have warranted so much time and aggravation. Most women wouldn’t even have bothered answering the email, but then again, according to Duncan Cassidy, she wasn’t like most women.
With a sigh, she added:
Sincerely, Megan,
then clicked on the
Send
icon.
Sincerely, Megan,
then clicked on the
Send
icon.
A sudden, loud boom from above seemed to make everything in the living room reverberate. It gave Megan a start—until she realized it was Josh and Darren. Josh never just walked down the stairs. He stomped, jumped, or raced down them. So a sudden burst of noise always preceded Josh’s appearance on the first floor of the townhouse.
Tonight, he barreled down those steps in a Mariners sweatshirt, jeans, black Converse All Stars, and a backpack. Behind him was his best friend since the fourth grade, Darren Willingham. Skinny and pale, Darren was a nerd, but also a very bright, sweet kid. Josh was his only friend. Their fascination with dinosaurs had brought them together, and then it was kung fu movies (they must have visited Bruce and Brandon Lee’s graves in Lake View Cemetery a hundred times when they were in sixth grade), they’d collected stamps for about a month, and shared an interest in World War II, and now they were into Xbox and girls.
“We’re out of here!” Josh announced, breezing into the living room. “What are you doing?”
“Breaking a heart,” Megan said, with a nod at the computer monitor. “And it’s your fault. My nightmare of a date from Tuesday wants to get together again and torture me some more. I just said no thanks. Do you need any money?”
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