Known to the Victim, page 12
I keep thinking maybe this will vindicate me and prove I didn’t get Castillo’s emails . . . and then I realize I’m hoping someone has hacked my account and been deleting emails. I’m not even sure how I’d deal with that. Castillo sent his six months ago. That’d mean months of missed emails. And what if the hacker did more than delete them? What if they were replying as me?
I can’t think about that. I need to focus on the rest. After I got the call from Dinah, I recorded the podcast I’d scripted once I got back from the evening out with Castillo. I’ve already established that I’m no longer following my weekly posting routine. I will post at least once a week, more often as I have updates. This is an update.
Raven thought that following Oliver’s case would be an easy solution to my problem. I just need to be impartial. How tough could it be?
How tough? I spent three hours writing and rewriting a fifteen-minute episode. I can’t just present the facts. That would take three minutes, and my listeners expect more. They expect me, Amy Gibson. They expect my opinions, personal thoughts and musings.
In this case, I also need to raise the possibility that the anonymous tipster is the one doing the email tampering . . . while in no way sounding as if I’m saying Oliver couldn’t have done it. I walk that tightrope, and then I do what I must—all apologies to my brother. I talk about how things like deleting messages are straight from the predator handbook, control and gaslighting in one.
The podcast is up by midmorning. Then I’m in a holding pattern again. I don’t hear from Castillo. I don’t hear from Dinah.
I do spend a couple of hours in a meeting with Raven. I lost a third sponsor when I went public as Oliver’s sister, but two bigger potential sponsors are ready to sign on as my subscriber numbers shoot skyward.
I feel guilty about that. No, I feel like shit about that. My only consolation is that Dinah is pleased with my podcasts and that Oliver listened to the episodes and had no objections. That makes me feel a little less like the ghoul profiting from her brother’s misfortune.
It’s otherwise a quiet day. Excruciatingly quiet. Time ticks past, and when it’s finally late enough to go to bed, I practically dive in, just wanting the day to be over. Instead, I lie there, staring at the wall, until I break down and take a sleeping pill.
When my phone rings, I’m so deeply asleep that I think I’m dreaming of my alarm going off. It seems to take an impossibly long time for me to comprehend that my cell phone is ringing, and then longer still to realize I need to answer it.
Without thinking to check caller ID, I hit Talk and groan, “Hello?”
“Amy? It’s Dinah.”
That has me scrambling up. “Sorry, I was asleep.”
A strained chuckle. “I’d hope so, at two in the morning. Take a moment. I need to speak to you.”
Those words are a bucket of ice water. Oliver’s lawyer is calling at 2 a.m. and needs to speak to me.
“What happened? Is Oliver—”
“He’s fine. Let me say that first.”
“Okay, but—”
“There was an incident. An attack. At the jail.”
My breath stops, and I can’t breathe. I manage to say, “Oliver was attacked?”
“Yes, but he’s all right. He was taken to the hospital. They’re assessing him now and deciding whether surgery might be required.”
“Surgery?” My voice squeaks as I remember Martine, shot and rushed to surgery.
“I wanted you to know before you heard it anywhere else. I will keep you updated—”
“Which hospital?” I slap on the bedroom light. “I’m heading out.”
“There’s nothing you can do, Amy.”
“I can be there. In the waiting room or wherever you are.” I pause, bra in hand. “I can, right?”
“You can, although I have to warn you that you won’t be able to see him. He’s under guard.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me where he is.”
Chapter 14
I hurry out to the parking lot. I’m moving on autopilot as my brain bounces between worry and self-recrimination. Is Oliver really okay? What if Dinah just said that so I wouldn’t panic? What exactly happened? I have no idea because I didn’t damn well ask.
Dinah said he’d been attacked, and that could mean anything. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I call her right back? Why didn’t I text? I should do that now. No, I’m heading there, and I can’t bother her with questions that will only beget more questions.
I’m jogging to my car when a shadow moves. A figure, over by the line of evergreens separating the parking lot from the neighborhood beyond. It startles me at first. While the building has underground parking, after what happened to my mother, I prefer the outdoor lot, with a busy road running past. Well, busy during the day. It’s silent now, as it had been the night Castillo met me out front.
Seeing the figure startles me, as if I’ve forgotten I’m outdoors at night. But then I relax. It’s a parking lot. Someone has parked and is just coming home after an evening out.
Except it’s not eleven o’clock. It’s after two.
I’m alone in an outdoor parking lot at two in the morning.
No, it’s worse. I’m not alone.
Part of me shoves the thought aside in annoyance. Really, Amy? People work shifts. People go to bars. People, as you may recall from your distant past, go on dates that last into the wee hours of the morning.
Don’t be so silly, Amy. It’s a well-lit outdoor parking lot.
Then there’s the other part. The part that gets angry with myself for getting angry with myself.
Are you dismissing a legitimate concern? Of all people, you know what can happen in parking lots. Don’t pull that shit.
The correct path is route number three. Don’t let myself get distracted by either of those reactions and focus. Act as I would if I were walking past a yard and a dog started barking ferociously—be alert and aware.
That would be easier if the person had walked past those trees and continued on toward the apartment building. They haven’t. They’ve disappeared into the shadows, and there they remain.
Shit.
Am I sure I saw someone?
Yes.
Really sure?
Yes, damn it. Stop that. Don’t second-guess. I am absolutely certain that a human-sized figure stepped into those shadows.
Someone checking out the cars, looking for an easy break-in. But in this part of the city, that’s rare. I’m sure there are addicts—they just haven’t reached the stage where they need to be checking out cars for spare change. The neighborhood isn’t connected to any areas that see that significant foot traffic, and it’s a long bus ride from there to here, with the buses having stopped hours ago.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t someone looking for easy money. A teenager or young adult who lives here with their family and has an addiction to feed.
Be alert. Be aware. Don’t make an obvious target.
I don’t have my purse or laptop bag. I grabbed my keys and my phone, which is also my wallet. It is almost certain that whoever I saw is just waiting for me to leave. They aren’t yet ready to mug someone for twenty bucks, and I’ll give them no encouragement to start. Walk with my chin up, gaze moving across the lot. Alert and aware.
My brain catalogs and assesses details as I go. My car isn’t directly under one of the many lights, but it’s close enough to one that I won’t be surprised by anyone leaping from the shadows. There’s no car on the driver’s side of mine, which is even better—before I get there, I can see the entire left side, and there’s nobody there.
When I reach the car, I already have my key fob in hand, and I’m glad I accepted Oliver’s hand-me-down car a few years ago. He’d been concerned about mine, which was, well, what I could afford: a ten-year-old base model. He convinced me to take his old Audi because it had all the modern safety features, including a key fob that lets me unlock the door as I’m reaching for it, with my gaze still up and alert. In one smooth move, I’m inside with the doors locked. Then, heart stuttering, I can’t remember whether I heard the car doors unlock. I had locked them the last time I drove the car, right?
My gaze lifts ever so slowly to the rearview mirror. The back seat is empty. Exhaling, I twist to be absolutely certain.
You’re fine, Amy. You startled someone casing cars. When you come back, remember to park under a light and double-check that the doors are locked.
I start the car and hit Reverse. Oliver jokes that I’m a bit of a stunt driver. He’s far more cautious, which is why that ding in his current car pained him so much—God forbid someone think he’d been careless.
Mom taught me to drive, just as she taught me how to change oil and replace tires. Having a car like this, with all the cameras and sensors, sometimes feels like cheating. I reverse fast and then hit the gas and turn sharp, heading for the exit at the back of the lot. I like that one better—it avoids a stoplight that’ll take forever to change at this time of night.
When I make that sharp turn, the row of evergreens bursts into light in my halogen headlamps. They’re so bright that I’m constantly having people flash their high beams at me. And they’re bright enough to light up the shadows around those evergreens . . . where whoever had been stalking the parking lot retreated to hide.
I spot the person’s back. They’re on the move, and all I can see is a dark-hooded jacket on a figure, maybe my height or a little shorter. A boy? A woman? Then, as if in a split-second delayed reaction to that burst of light, they glance over their shoulder and—
I hit the brakes. My heart stops. I swear it just stops.
It is a single second. A flash of a woman’s face, turned away fast even as my brain is processing.
I sit there, stunned and breathless.
It isn’t possible.
Isn’t it?
Oh, hell yes, it’s possible.
I slam the car into Park, throw open the door and get out. I’m striding forward when I realize I have just done a very reckless thing.
I realize it . . . and I don’t stop. I need to be sure of what I saw, and the fury over the possibility keeps me striding forward, and it takes a moment to realize no one is there. She’s gone, footfalls slapping over the ground beyond the evergreens. I break into a run. There’s a path through the trees where people have pushed through to make a shortcut from the neighborhood behind to the main road. I run through it just in time to see her getting into a car.
Oh, no, you don’t get away that easily.
I race back to my own car. It’s still running, and I’m grateful for the distraction that kept me from shutting it off. I put it into Drive and roar from the parking lot just as her car speeds from where she’d pulled over.
I hit the gas, which would work much better if she didn’t do the same. It’d also work better if I dared drive as fast as she does through this residential neighborhood. Yes, it’s two in the morning, but I still see a cat crossing the road and someone driving the other way—pets and people I could hurt—and I cannot go full out, pedal to the floor. She has no such compunctions, of course, and I rage at that as I tear after her, not daring to do what I know I must: get in front of her and cut her off.
Get closer, a calm voice whispers at my ear. If you lose her, you need to have something for Castillo.
That’s what finally settles that frothing rage. I imagine myself admitting to Castillo that I’d had this woman in my sights and I lost her. He’ll give me shit for pursuing her, but I damn well better be able to give him a make and model and license plate number.
I take deep breaths. Then I hit my high beams and get as close to her car as I dare.
Toyota Corolla. White. Older model. No obvious rust or damage. License plate . . . ?
Now I’m cursing again. A few years back, Ontario switched to a plate with laminate blue lettering that’s known to peel off, leaving white letters and numbers against a white background. She’s made sure hers is as faded as possible. Unlike removing or obscuring the plate, this won’t get her pulled over. I turn off the high beams and manage to make out a 3 and an O . . . or maybe an 8 and a D.
I need to cut her off. Yes, I’m well aware that I’m doing a very dangerous and very reckless thing. I imagine Castillo throwing up his hands and giving up on me, every iota of credit I’ve gained lost.
But what are my alternatives? Call and ask him to take over a car chase?
I know this is probably a bad idea, but I have her in my sights and I am not letting go. I need to get out of this neighborhood, and once I do, we’re on open country roads for two kilometers.
Just get her there. Let her think she’s winning and—
She zooms around a corner, and I let out a crow of victory. She’s leaving the neighborhood. She had to, eventually, but she’s tired of this game already, and she’s on a straightaway for the traffic light. The same light I’d been trying to avoid because it’s on a sensor at night and takes forever to trip.
Is she going to make a right turn at the light? That would take her into the countryside.
Please, make a right. Please, please, please. Otherwise, she’ll have to run a red, but it’s not as if there’s any actual traffic to worry about.
I gun it. She does the same, so I ease back a little. No need to alarm her now. Whichever way she goes, I’ll have a minimum of two kilometers to catch up before she hits civilization again.
Looks as if she’s going straight through the red. Fine, I—
A truck is coming along the crossroad. A white cube van, taking its time, seeing that the Walk light is still on, meaning the light won’t change anytime soon. No need to rush . . . putting it on a collision course with the car I’m chasing.
Look right, I want to shout. Look and see cars roaring your way and either hit the gas or the brakes.
The cube van continues along, the driver oblivious.
I’m running on pure adrenaline. I calculate the trajectory. She has to stop. If she doesn’t, that van is going to hit her.
She does not stop. She flies through the intersection, the cube van driver seeing her at the last moment and hitting the brakes, spinning their vehicle right in front of me, as my target continues on, unscathed.
I brake hard. The driver—a middle-aged guy—looks up from his shock, lifting a fist . . . only to see me and stop.
Apparently, I don’t quite look like the young male stunt driver he expected.
I wave apologetically and drive carefully around the back of his vehicle so he doesn’t get a better look at me or my car.
Soon I’m on the through road and hitting the gas again, but there’s no sign of a car ahead of me, not even the distant glow of red rear lights.
I’ve lost her.
I’m so distracted by what just happened that I’m inside the hospital, wondering where to go, before I remember that Dinah wanted me to call when I arrived so she could walk me up to the waiting room. Even then, I don’t call right away. I stand off to the side in the Emergency ward, holding my phone.
Am I going to tell her what just happened?
She needs to know. But right now, there’s nothing she can do about it, and everyone’s focus needs to be on my brother. Get past that, and then I’ll figure out how to handle this.
I call Dinah, and she comes down to escort me to where we can wait for Oliver.
“He’s in surgery,” she says as we head along an eerily empty hall. Somewhere in the distance, gurney wheels squeak.
“What happened?”
“He was attacked.”
I bite back frustration at the short answer. “By his cellmate?”
She hits the elevator button. “We don’t know.”
“How? It was the middle of the night. No one else could have done it.”
The elevator arrives, and we get on.
“It happened earlier this evening. They were having a movie night. There was a commotion, a bit of a shoving match. Oliver was getting out of the way when he went down. The guards cleared up the fracas and found him on the floor. He’d been stabbed.”
“What?”
“Someone stabbed him with a homemade knife.”
“A shiv?” Even as I say that, my cheeks heat, feeling silly. It’s the right word . . . just not one I ever expected to use in real life.
My brother was shivved in a prison riot.
I want to laugh hysterically and scream at the same time.
“Amy?” Dinah lays her hand on my folded arms, and I look up to see the elevator doors are open and two nurses are waiting to step on.
I murmur an apology to them as I hurry off the elevator, letting Dinah steer me into a corner.
“Take a moment,” she says.
I move away. “I’m fine. So Oliver was caught up in a disturbance at the prison and stabbed.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
There’s another question there, but I hold it back in favor of the more critical one. “Is he okay? Is he going to be okay? How serious is the wound?”
“It wasn’t a deep cut, thankfully, but it did do some damage. The surgery is to stop internal bleeding.”
“Okay.”
“Surgery always comes with risks, but this wasn’t a case of rushing him into surgery in hopes of saving his life.”
I shiver, and she makes a face, her hand gripping my arm.
“That sounded more dire than I intended,” she says.
“I know what you mean,” I say. “They’re operating now to avoid bigger problems later, rather than performing an emergency lifesaving procedure.”
“Yes.”
I look down the hall, and she takes that as a sign that I’m ready to continue on. We return to the hall, and she leads me to a tiny waiting room. I glance around. Small, perfectly square room. Four chairs, all of them empty save for Dinah’s jacket on one. There’s a wall TV, but it’s turned off.
As I take a seat, a nurse pops her head in, and Dinah goes over to speak to her. I’m hoping it’s news, but the way the nurse’s head swivels my way tells me she was just wondering about the newcomer. When she leaves, Dinah settles into a chair next to me.
