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“Why would my uncle make me his heir if my parents abandoned me?” There are a few possible answers to that question, yet the only one that makes a lick of sense is guilt. “Worrying about this doesn’t change anything,” I mutter to myself while closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. Being this tense and rushing through possibilities is counterproductive, I know, and I’ll talk to Theodore about what I found out. I’m sure he can help me find a private investigator to look them up and get the real story. “For my own peace of mind, I need to find out. To face them if they’re still alive and ask them whose last name I’m carrying and why.”
Vowing to let this go until I talk to Theo, I hurry and exit the bathroom after brushing my teeth. I’m not going out today, not after yesterday’s fiasco, and plan to spend the day inside my studio working on one of the seven paintings.
The beast I choose today is the caiman, this large creature that packs a punch and doesn’t hide from his prey. This family member of the gator is aggressive and can reach up to sixteen feet in length, making him a dominant hunter in the many lakes and rivers within the Amazon basin.
“I hope Theo likes it.” Not Theodore, but Theo, and I also can’t get his reaction to me calling him that out of my mind. He liked it as much as I enjoyed the way it rolled off my tongue as if I’ve said it a million times with the familiarity of a lover. “He’s the only thing that makes sense in my life anymore, and it’s also the one that shouldn’t. We barely know each other.”
I’m going to make myself crazy one day.
Shaking everything off, I focus on getting dressed in a pair of joggers and a tight black T-shirt sans bra before rushing down the stairs, putting my hair in a high ponytail. Mr. Pickles is sitting on the last step when I descend and his eyes are showing mild annoyance, a look I’m all too familiar with when he’s hungry or needs to potty.
“Want to go out?” Magical words as these set him off, and I have an excited pupper on my hands rushing toward the kitchen, scratching at the wooden door until I reach him. He seems too impatient today, and I decide to just let him roam the backyard instead of a walk for now. We can do that later. “Sit.”
At my command, he does as asked and after a few seconds of eye contact, I open the door and let him out. But fuck me I wish I didn’t. I wish that my life was different, and reality wasn’t merging with my dreams.
Because thumb-tacked to my door is a picture I’ll never forget. Can’t unsee.
It’s the body of a man, bloodied and without eyes, lying on a concrete floor with the words, taken care of written in red sharpie. At least I chose to believe so for my sanity, because the color has a muted tone that looks a bit darker in spots as if it were blood.
The bile that rushes up my throat feels like liquid fire as I bend over, emptying the yellowish substance onto the floor a few steps from where the picture remains. I’m not touching it. I can’t see that again, and after the last bit of bile leaves me, the scream comes.
It’s loud and I’m shaky and I have no idea how I make it up the stairs to grab my phone, but I do. Mr. Pickles follows me, watching me after seeing my duress, and doesn’t leave my side while I grab the detective’s card from my nightstand.
I’d placed it there after his visit to the hospital, never thinking I’d have to use it.
With shaky limbs and tears in my eyes, I dial his number and after the third ring, there’s the sound of traffic in the background and loud breathing. “Detective Consuelos speaking.” My throat feels tight, and I try to speak but nothing comes out. Instead, there’s a sob from me and a bark from my dog. “Hello? Hello? Who’s calling?”
“Help.”
“Who’s this?” he asks, the noise level dropping a bit and the sound of a car door closing follows shortly after. “I can’t help you if I don’t—”
“Gabriella Moore...” I’m choking, chest burning as the sensation of a million ants crawling under my skin takes over “... murder. Please.”
“Miss Moore, it seems you’re free to go. Someone has come to your rescue,” a female cop says hours later, her expression angry and full of disgust. But then again, that’s how everyone here’s been looking at me. From the prisoners to the officers and anyone else who’s in this building and has been in my presence.
They see me and eyes narrow. Whispers begin.
No one has asked me about the photo.
No one has asked the why or whom I think would do such a thing.
No one has looked at my video cameras or asked me if I knew the victim.
Nothing. I’m being made guilty without due process.
Moreover, the moment Detective Consuelos walked up to my door I knew something was very wrong.
The pounding of my front door is loud, the person on the other side inpatient. “This is the Seattle Police Department, open the door.” After saying this, the banging didn’t cease nor was I given a moment to walk over from the front sitting room. Instead, it was kicked open as four Seattle P.D. officers stormed inside with their guns drawn. I scream and all four turn my way being led by the detective working my case, his service weapon pointing at my head. “Hands up, Gabriella!”
“Detective, what is going on?” I ask, complying with his request. I’m sitting on my couch with both arms up and fingers stretched out, so they see I have nothing in my hand. “Why did you break down my door?”
“Where’s the body?” A woman asks me, and I turn my attention to her. Take in the judgement in her icy glare while also noticing she’s not wearing a badge.
“I’m the one that called in the photo. I’m the one being harassed.”
“Bullshit.”
“Stop with the lies,” Consuelos and the woman say in unison, the latter backing down but not before sneering in my direction. What’s her problem?
