Page 12 of The Obsession

It wasn’t until later, as I lay in bed watching news clips on Facebook, that I found the answer to everything.

Someone had posted a video of a police officer punching a woman and the comments were rife with anger at the display of police brutality. And it clicked, then. This was exactly what I needed. A video recording of Detective Jackson abusing Delilah and her mom.

This is it, Delilah. The whole reason you and I met. Why we ran into each other in this vast world, when all laws of probability point to us missing each other, our lives never intertwining.

Because, Delilah, I’m meant to save you, and I’m not one to turn away from destiny.

Chapter Five

Delilah

Saturday morning, I sat in my room, my chemistry textbook in front of me. My eyes traveled over the same sentence for the seventh time. I still couldn’t tell you what it said. It was yet another beautiful day—impossibly blue skies dabbed with wispy clouds, the air just nippy enough for the mug of hot tea cradled in my hands to taste even more delicious than usual. Not that I was in the mood to enjoy any of it.

My phone rang, and I scrambled to pick it up before the noise could irritate Brandon. He wouldn’t be able to hear it, since he was in the garage blasting his shitty music, but still. Part of me was convinced he could detect the sound of my breath from across the street.

“Hello?” I said.

“Dee? You there?” Aisha was yelling over the background noise.

“I’m here,” I said as loudly as I dared.

“I can barely hear you. Ugh, hang on. Lemme get outside.”

I waited while she made her way out of what was presumably the school gym, smiling when I heard her snap, “Excuse you!” a couple of times.

“Phew! That’s better. Dude, why aren’t you here? I thought you were gonna play today!” she said.

Sourness bled through my gut. I should be in today’s volleyball match. I’d been working hard on my spike, and Coach had told me I’d be able to play today. It was only a friendly match; she could afford to let the second-tier players have a go. But instead, here I was, sitting in front of my biology textbook, not reading, not playing volleyball, not anything.

“I have the flu,” I said feebly. It was what I’d told Coach. The flu would be a blessing compared to how my body was feeling this morning.

Aisha knew me well enough to hear right through my lie. Her voice became heavy with sadness. “Oh, Dee. What happened?”

Oh, Dee. That was what my life had become, a sad,Oh, Deesaid over and over. I was one of those kids that made people tilt their heads to one side and go, “Aww, poor thing.” Poor, pathetic, broken creature. Secretly, they were all thinking,Better her than me.

I closed my eyes and thought of last night. I saved all those moments, to replay over and over in my head like some sick movie. I added scenes of my own, where I didn’t freeze up like a fucking hamster, where I got a hammer, a kitchen knife, a corkscrew, and stabbed them into Brandon’s eyes, ears, mouth, whatever.

But what really happened was that Brandon had come back in a foul mood. He hated his partner, Mendez, a.k.a. “that Mexican bitch who thinks she’s a real cop.” Apparently, Mendez had this silly notion that cops were meant to help everyone, not just rich white people. And she mistakenly thought that solving cases meant doing actual investigations instead of trying to get them closed ASAP. The drug case at Draycott was an itch she’d been dying to scratch for two years. She’d insisted on questioning everybody at the school again now, which was earning them a lot of disapproval from high places.

I hated Mendez. She seemed nice enough the few times we met, but she was making my life a living hell without even trying.

“The usual,” I said.

“You should report him. I’ll go with you—”

Not this again. Why did everybody assume reporting Brandon would be this straightforward thing without repercussions? What would happen to me or Mom if Brandon were to get his cop buddies involved? We’d be two women who were already hated by the community making accusations about a cop. Care for a game of Guess What’ll Happen to Delilah Wong, Cop Accuser? Nothing good. And Brandon? Paid vacation, he’d said. Oh, he was joking, he was always so full of jokes, good ol’ Brandon, that was why his buddies at the precinct loved him so.

Paid vacation.

“I gotta go,” I said.

“Dee—”

I hung up on her and let my forehead fall gently onto the table. On the bright side, Brandon didn’t like to leave visible bruises. At least I didn’t have to turn up at school with stories about walking into doors or falling down the stairs.

Mendez and her aspirations were giving my kidneys a run for their money. I was trying, and failing, to find a position that would make my back hate me less, and all the while I was wondering how much vacation Brandon would get if my body turned up one day, bloated and blue.

From the garage came the sound of Pink Floyd blasting on Brandon’s old-school stereo. He thought old-school stereos were more authentic. There was the occasional clank as he switched tools. Brandon spent Saturday mornings blasting Pink Floyd, knocking back beer, and working on his asshole car. That was how I secretly thought of his Camaro, because it seemed like it was specifically geared toward assholes. Mom had gone to the farmers’ market to buy some local salted anchovies that Brandon said would go beautifully with the pizza she was planning on making for dinner. My eyes crawled over the sentence in my textbook again. Something about stoichiometry, and why do I care about stoichiometry, literally what did stoichiometry have to do with my life?

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