Page 28 of Silent Ridge

Me: Her name is Selma. She’s running as fast as she can.

Dr. A: Is she running away or toward someone or something? What did you feel?

Me: I don’t know. Her feet are bare and bloody, her dark curls streaming back in the wind. I call out to her to hurry, but no sound comes from my lips. She moves toward me, and as she approaches I recognize the look in her eyes. She’s terrified of something and she needs my help. She screams.

Dr. A: It must have been terrifying for you.

Me: The sound is so loud that I close my eyes to try to seal it from my eardrums. When I snap them open a second later, still in my dream, all I see is a white and red nightgown lying in the parking lot next to the well-worn trail to the restroom. I cry out for her as I hurry to the nightgown. I pick it up and hold it to my face. The smell is unpleasant, and I know instantly what it is. I’m taking in the acrid odor of blood.

When I pull away, I notice that my hands are bloody. The dream—no, the nightmare—propels me out of my restless sleep. I feel sick, scared, angry. I don’t grasp the importance of the dream or why I had it.

I pause the tape. Monique’s blood was drained from her body. I remember seeing the skin suit in the bottom of the tub, the body with no flesh covering, and imagine the bleeding must have been considerable, but all that was left were a few bloody footprints. I could smell it then. I can smell it now, but I know that’s just a trick of the mind.

The bottle of Scotch in the desk drawer is tempting, but I’m going to have a drink very soon with Dan.

Twenty-Five

Parking at The Tides is not a task to be taken lightly. There’s always some drunk who will block your car in. I park down the street two or three blocks away and walk down some alleys. I’ve got a gun. I’m a good shot now.

The Tides is a converted warehouse at the end of the dock. It’s authentic, not one of those chains that brings in a couple of buoys that have been professionally banged up to look like they’ve weathered a nor’easter and sun-bleached floats covered in heavy netting, none of which have ever seen sea water.

The building is painted blue and features a broad white and navy stripe on its awning over the door. “THE TIDES” is spelled out in thin pieces of driftwood on the bright red, newly painted door.

Very patriotic.

Looking around at the parking lot, I don’t see Dan’s truck. I’m glad to be here first. I can sit where I can see who’s in the bar. That’s not a cop thing, by the way. It’s more of a being-kidnapped-and-stalked thing.

I go inside and find a seat next to the massive saltwater tank with a school of clownfish and others I can’t name. Hayden would be able to. He is, or at least was, a walking encyclopedia of fish species. He should have become a marine biologist in a perfect world. Ours, however, was not a perfect life or world. He was placed with foster parents after I left. He did well in high school but joined the army instead of going to a college. My fault. If I had stayed with him and supported him, however I could, he could have gone on to live a normal life. I was only seventeen. And I was supposed to be dead. It was the only way I thought I could protect him. I left him with foster parents who would love him. Not as much as I do, but I had thought he would at least have a chance to be normal. I find myself looking around the room, hoping to spot him there in the bar.

The waitress quickly goes to another table. I’ve hit the point in my life where I’m almost invisible. Service at a bar or restaurant is slow. Talking with the waiter or anyone is nonexistent unless I’m willing to dress provocatively. If Ronnie or Mindy were here, I’d already have a drink.

Dan walks in and gives me a little wave and a big smile. I can feel my pulse pick up and remember the last time we were here and he kissed me. We were in the parking lot, intending to go to our respective homes. The kiss was lingering and I kissed him back. It was one of those rom-com moments where the big hunk of manliness kisses the girl and her knees go weak. I don’t like feeling weak. It scares me.

Dan is wearing a red-and-black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his muscular arms and a red sock hat cocked back on his head. He has on painter’s pants, tight fitting in all the right places, and suede Caterpillar boots. With his short brown beard he looks like Paul Bunyan.

He’s dressed like this because of our earlier conversation.

Smartass.

He poses in front of me. “What do you think?”

“Where’s your axe and your blue ox?”

“In the back of the truck,” he says, and merely has to raise two fingers of his hand before a young female waitress smiles and comes our way. We both order Scotch. He orders his neat. I ask for one cube of ice, then change my mind and ask for lots of ice. I don’t want to get drunk.

The waitress doesn’t even look at me. Her attention is turned on Dan, and as she walks away, she looks back over her shoulder and wags her ass like a happy dog on her way to get our drinks.

“Friend of yours?” I ask.

He grins and it would melt an ice shelf. “Jealous?”

I laugh it off. “In your dreams, Bunyan.” Unless I wanted something.

“What have you been up to lately, Megan?”

His voice is mellow and soothing. Sincere. I’m glad I came.

“Busy,” is all I say. I don’t want to talk about my day. I want to forget it. Just for a while. He seems to read my mood and takes a sip of his drink.

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