After I give out the basics, he asks if I have any photos of him, "My mom was pretty young when she had me, twenty-one I think. Darryl was twenty-three or something when he started seeing my mom." I pull out the one picture I have left of us together. I unfold the image, so Darryl comes into view. It was taken at the lake house two months before she died. "My mom was beautiful, so I never wondered why a man so much younger than her was interested in her. Men always took notice of her whether it was her smile or infectious laugh; people loved her." I run my hand over her smiling face, "As I said previously, he started coming by after my mom called in a complaint about our barn being vandalized. Nothing serious, just kicked over hay bales and doors left open, but it was enough to let us know someone had been there. We lived a ways out from town, so she wanted the police to check it out.”
I sigh, “Darryl was just a cop to me. I didn't even speak to him the first couple times he stopped by. I think the barn was vandalized once more. He used that as an excuse to pop in and check on us, even if he wasn't working.”
I look up, not seeing the room around me but remembering the past, “I could tell it flattered my mother to have his attention. He was ten years younger, good looking, and seemed to hang on every word she said. It was like he loved her before he even knew her."
“Sounds like that would be easy to do,” Beau says, his eyes lingering on my face. “You look just like her.”
“You think?” I ask, hopeful. I crave the few connections we might have.
His hand reaches for mine. For the second time today, I am reminded that I’m not alone.
I look down, struggling to say, "Her death was ruled an accident. Late at night---winding road---you know. I never questioned it.” I feel tears well in my eyes, and I snuff them out quickly, taking a breath before I finish, “It wasn't until I was gone and had gotten a little older that I realized it didn’t make sense.”
Beau gives my hand a slight squeeze, urging me on. I say the words that I have never been able to say out loud.
“I have suspicions. I can't say for certain that he killed her, but my doubts about it are firm. She was never out at night, especially not alone.” The worst part comes next, “Something he said, the night of her funeral, something---likehad to do---he had to do it---becauseshe didn't love him.”
He lets go of my hand as he wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in against his torso. He’s warm. I burrow closer.
I whisper the next part to his chest, “I just thought I misunderstood or that he misspoke. He was so trashed, but I couldn’t let what he said go. I can’t think of it as an accident."
Beau stands up, and I shiver at the loss of his heat.
He starts pacing, "So what you're telling me is that he was obsessed with your mother and after possibly murdering her, he fixated on you?" It sounds terrible when he says it like that. It sounds unreal.
"I don’t know what he is or what he wants. I don’t know what to say." I throw my hands up exasperated, "I'm sorry for involving you. It wasn't my intention."
Beau stops pacing and points at me, "Stop it! I'm not worried about being involved. I'm pissed about the whole fucking thing. What if I wasn't here Samantha? You can’t take stalking lightly. You never know what people like that are capable of.” He warns then grabs the back of his neck, "I need to make some calls." He looks around the room. I think he wants privacy, but there's none to be had here, no matter where he goes. He growls and grabs his phone from his back pocket. It's against his ear only for a second when he barks, "I need you out here yesterday!"
I make myself scarce by walking into the bathroom and shutting the door. I open the shutter door that hides my small laundry station, gathering enough clothes from my laundry basket to start a load. I even grab up my decorative towels that look like they could use a wash. It takes only a few minutes, tops. I busy myself with whatever I can find in this room. I straighten my products in the shower, then wipe off the counter and sink. I start digging through a tall chest where I store my hoard of lingerie and begin sorting them to calm my nerves. I make rows for my comfy panties and then my cute ones. I take a few pairs I haven’t worn in a while and put them on the washer, to start another load.
Once I finish, I mindlessly open the top drawer on my quest to organize everything, and I’m met with the sight of the few sex toys I own. I close it quickly and peak over my shoulder at the still closed door.
I might need to find a new spot for them. If Beau keeps visiting he's bound to be in here at some point. I know what I'd do when presented with an unexplored bathroom. I’d peek through everything easily accessible. For now, I close the chest and pull the latch tight.
I turn on the radio I keep in the shower and sway my hips, singing along with the music.
I do a quick twirl only to scream upon seeing Beau leaning against the door frame.
"Why do you always do that? You creeper! “My god, what if I was going to the bathroom?"
He rolls his lips in then licks them slowly, a huge smile lighting up his face, reaching all the way up to his eyes, "I could hear your music playing through the door." He looks at me questioning, “Do you make a habit of listening to Top 40 when you pee?”
Oh, the jerk face! I blindly pick up something to throw at him. A pair of purple, barely there, panties smack him in the face before falling to his feet. His face morphs from cocky grin to shock for the briefest moment, but we both realize what I've just done.
I dive to the floor in an attempt to retrieve them first. He's faster as he fists the tiny scrap of see-thru fabric and lifts them over his head like a high school bully.
"Give those back right now!" I screech
"No way. I might file assault charges. I could have lost an eye." He admonishes, sounding completely serious.
"Beau, you better give those back"
"Nine tenths and all that," he waves me off. Then he does the only thing that will distract me enough to forget he’s holding my panties hostage. He lunges for the pile of panties on top the washer. “So many colors, Sammy.” He teases, “Where do you stash them all? Can I pick a favorite?”
My eyes go to my chest unthinkingly, and he moves to pull it open.
My head hangs, and I move to cover my face. I'm mortified, as of course the first thing his eyes find are the sex toys. This is not happening. It's every woman's nightmare come true, a declaration to all,yes I masturbate.
