Page 192 of Murder

I’ve been wanting to ask Barrett—is jumping a tall fence some special secret agent skill, or might my attacker be a “normal” guy?—but I just hate to bring it up at all. Maybe I don’t want to know.

Correction: I don’t want to know. I never considered myself someone who would hide like this, but that’s what I’ve been doing. Hiding at Barrett’s house. Hiding like a child.

My mom and Rett have both offered to come and stay with me, as has Jamie. Even Nic offered to spend the night, or hire additional security if I needed it, which I thought was really sweet. I haven’t wanted that, though. I just want to be with Bear, but even that is strained because I’m such a zombie: paralyzed by fear.

Barrett knows it. I can feel his tension, too.

I say a quick prayer before I step onto the porch, and then stuff my fists into my jacket pockets and start into the woods between our houses.

Who could it be?

Who?

I want to know. I want to know so badly. God, it’s driving me insane. Who did that to me? What did they want to talk about?

The police have called a few times, letting us know they’ve been patrolling the area and also that they don’t have any leads. They seem to think my attacker was someone interested in the bears. Maybe someone who wanted to take and sell one, or some enviro freak who thinks keeping even injured bears in captivity is somehow wrong.

Detective Anderson, the guy we’ve seen the most of, says the public meetings about the property zoning probably drew a lot of new eyes to my little operation here at Bear Hugs—and I know that’s true, because I’ve seen an uptick in donations through the web site.

I sigh, and then cast my gaze around the woods. The wind is light today, meaning the leaves are fairly still except the crunching of my boots, so that’s a positive. I tell myself that I would hear him coming.

As I move toward the enclosure gate, I sing hymns in my head: songs my grandma used to sing, and some I sang back in the day when I would play piano or guitar sometimes at bars. I always wondered if it was sacrilegious, but I would put a haunting sort of twist on one or two old hymns, and people used to love them.

By the time I’ve reached the gate, I feel a little calmer. As soon as I step inside, my pulse begins to race, but I breathe carefully and check my phone and no one is around. I see that. There’s no hazy red splotches from a person’s body heat.

I do an hour-long walk around, texting Barrett when I think he’s almost back to his house, so he doesn’t have to deal with the anxiety of finding the note and wondering if I’m okay.

I walk past Aimee and Papa and vow that tomorrow, I’ll do walkbys on the others.

It’s almost Christmas, I think, as I sit down on a stump near the gate. Barrett texted back and said he’ll be here in a minute.

What should I get him for Christmas? Will he want to go somewhere? To Kellan? I’d love to be with him. Is that clingy?

I wrap my arms around myself as the breeze picks up. I talk to Helga tomorrow, and it’s a good thing, I guess. All this cold is getting to me.

I look down at my boots and notice that I’m humming “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People. Geez, that’s random. Old song. Inappropriate, but catchy. I always feel wrong for liking it when I hear it. Not that I’ve heard it much in the last few years.

“It’s like a fish bowl, but with beer, and it’s craft beer. Really good shit.”

My body freezes, muscles seizing, as I hear that same voice say, “What do you think of your friend’s new dude?”

What the fuck does that mean?

Barrett’s arms are wrapped around me, and I’m shaking. He’s gentle and strong and sweet, but he can’t shield me from this.

Craft beer.

Gemütlichkeit.

Beer bar.

I was at a beer bar New Year’s Eve 2012.

The realization stops my shaking. I manage to pull myself together before Bear calls Helga.

I know now. I know now. I’m not crazy. I’m…remembering.

December 20, 2015

---