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He spotted them immediately, the youngest girl’s red hair flying in the wind. He could spot her from miles away. Same as her mother, he is certain. Hair that color could be seen from outer space. It could be seen from anywhere.
He found himself having a good time. The weather was sunny and breezy, and golden leaves fell from the trees in a way that gave the scene a magical feel. He felt perfectly encapsulated, stuck in a snow globe where everything was perpetually stunning. But then everything turned. Like a winter storm blowing in fast, knocking everything off balance, the man approached. It nearly caused his heart to stop. His palms grew sweaty, and his breathing was rapid and unsteady. It is not good for children to talk to strangers. The little one does not appear to have been told. It’s a good thing he came. Even if he gets caught, he can explain. Parks are like oceans with lots of little fish. Sharks like oceans with plenty of fish.
This man was a shark—that much he was sure of.
It takes one to know one.
The man smiled as he circled the chum. The girl smiled back, and it was as easy as that. He honed in on her. Her parents have neglected to educate her, just as he’d suspected. The older girl stands back at first, eyes shifty, her hands shoved in her pockets. She smells something amiss. And yet she doesn’t want her fear to show…she is not yet ready to grow up. He held his breath and willed her to do something before he had to. Finally, she stepped forward and placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.
The shark moved closer and offered a deceptive wave. He couldn’t make out what was being said, only that the little one was light on her feet, a bit wobbly at the knees. She trusts the stranger, and that is a grave, grave mistake.
The father sat talking to a woman seated on a bench opposite him. She has a child too, and every once in a while one or both of them looked up. But right then, no one was looking. The man held his hand out and offered something to the girls. He watched as the littlest one leaned forward and took it.
She was closing the gap between herself and the shark, and if he didn’t move fast, he would be powerless to stop it.
He could feel himself being pulled in the man's direction. The children. This was his territory. His ocean. His fish. The man had no right to trespass. He balled his fists, released them. After flexing his fingers, and cracking his knuckles, he reached for the knife in his pocket. It reassured him, the weight of it. If the father didn’t intercede, he was going to have to do it, and he cannot because he is observing, which means he is not supposed to be seen. He knows what happens if you are bird watching and you give yourself away: they all fly away.
Chapter Fourteen
Greg swears he was watching. He swears it. But he couldn’t have been, could he? If he were, then he would have seen Jack Mooney offer our daughters candy, and he would have put a stop to it.
But he didn’t see it, and Blair took the candy, and had it not been for her sister, she would have undoubtedly eaten it and then who knows what could have happened.
Greg says that I am overreacting. He says we need to be vigilant, but we have to live our lives. He accuses me of being paranoid. He laughs at me, telling me it’s absurd when I Google substances that could be placed on candy wrappers, substances that have the potential to do harm.
He says that there’s no evidence the man at the park was even Jack Mooney, and when I repeatedly question the girls, he accuses me of scaring them. We end up in a huge fight and now we aren’t speaking and if it was Mooney at the park, then he is getting exactly what he wants. Everyone knows a house divided cannot stand.
Nearly a week passes. Nothing happens. Greg and I make up. The argument, like most marital spats, fades into the distance. It’s the only way you can live with a person forever. Forgetfulness is a blessing of nature; it’s what allows us to mate for life.
Maybe it’s also what keeps the world turning, because I almost forget that Jack Mooney has reentered my life at all, and if it were not for the feeling of constantly being watched, I might be able to let the thought go altogether.
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I am in the grocery store doing our shopping. Our dinner will be low-key; there’s too much going on between Greg’s work and mine for us to fly east to spend it with his family. Mine isn’t even an option. My
mother will be spending it with her fourth husband and his sons. She seems to have forgotten she has a daughter and two grandchildren but that is nothing new. My father is another story. With my mother, at least I know where she is.
It’s the first Thanksgiving since Blair was a baby we haven’t traveled to Greg’s childhood home. I want to make the day special. I pulled dozens of recipes off of the internet, but I have little idea of what I’m doing or what I’m in for. Greg’s mother usually handles all aspects of the holidays. She’s very territorial over her kitchen. Actually, she’s very territorial over everything, a trait I’ve used to my advantage when it suits me, and complained incessantly about when it doesn’t.
I know it’s silly, if not petty, but there’s a part of me that wants to hear my husband call his folks back home and report on the job I’ve done. I want to hear him say how amazing everything was, how nice it is for us to make our own memories.
I am in the produce aisle, picking up apples for my mother-in-law’s famous pie when a man in a ball cap sidles up next to me. He’s wearing dark glasses, and his hat pulled low, so I don’t immediately recognize that it’s Mooney standing next to me. I’m too engulfed in my grocery list, too worried about whether I can really pull off a pie from scratch along with everything else I have to do. This, and I’m focused on finding apples without bruises, which is harder than I thought it would be.
“If they’re damaged, you get a discount,” the man says. When I look up, he smacks the apple against the side of the display as though he’s cracking an egg. At first I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. But then he does it again, and it’s strange and uncomfortable, so I spit out the first thing that comes to mind. “That seems illegal.”
He lowers his glasses, and my breath hitches in my throat. “Oh, Amy. My sweet, sweet Amy. It’s only illegal if you get caught.”
I swallow hard and search the produce section. There are people everywhere. I push my cart forward and move away. I could yell out for help. I almost do.
But just as soon as I get the courage, Jack Mooney is gone, disappearing into the sea of people just as easily as he’d manifested himself at my side.
Instinct tells me I should leave my cart, call Greg, call the police, run out of that store. But for what? What am I going to say? That Jack Mooney hit some fruit against the side of the display? As rattled as I am, even I’m aware how ridiculous this sounds. No one is going to take me seriously.
I rush to grab the rest of the items on my list, while constantly looking over my shoulder. I think about Greg and what he’ll say, and I decide to speak to the manager of the store. I’ll explain to him what happened. Surely destroying merchandise is a problem. Surely their security footage will prove my story. This way, the police will get involved. It will prove that Jack Mooney is following me, and that he is unstable.
The manager, a middle-aged man who looks like he hasn’t slept in days, regards me with disdain, as though I have taken him away from a very important task. As I explain the situation, his face remains impassable, but he lets me speak, and he does not interrupt. Once I’ve gotten the story out, he shakes his head. Because of privacy laws, only members of law enforcement can request security footage, and even then they need a subpoena. Damaged apples, he assures me, are not worth the time it would take him to do the paperwork. As he explains it, I realize how idiotic the conversation sounds. Like a proper “Karen,” as they’re calling it these days. The conversation wastes nearly twenty minutes I don’t have, not to mention some of my frozen items have thawed.
As I check out, I text Greg about the situation. The man scanning my groceries surprises me when he clears his throat. Then he says, “You shouldn’t let your children play alone in the park. Unsupervised. It’s dangerous.”
When I glance up from my phone, my neighbor, Mrs. Crump’s son, is staring back at me. I hadn’t recalled him working here, but then it’s possible I’ve never paid that much attention.
