I save his number to my phone, and I blame it on the DNA report for taking so long to download. Curiosity gets the better of me. The pit in my stomach that seemed to hollow when we caught eyes. The timbre of his voice as he spoke of practical, normal things. It did things to every part of my body. The way his presence seems to emanate around me even now, hours later. Yes, saving Lincoln’s number is a mistake. Not that I plan to use it, although I know anytime I scroll to it in my phone I can escape for a second. That’s a place I don’t dare go again for fear of losing myself. There can’t be any more screw-ups. Especially ones that involve a child. I sigh as Lincoln’s eyes haunt my memory.
A popup on my screen tells me that the report is finished downloading. I click through several screens to initial agreements I’m sure are standard liability waivers, I quickly agree to everything, wanting to see the results. I tap the button to view it. A brightly colored pie chart pops up on the screen. I’m mostly European. A fact that isn’t a stretch with my fair skin and blonde hair. I had dyed it a rich chestnut for years but let my natural grow back in after Rexy died. French, Irish, a small percentage Asian. “Okay, so basically I’m everything and nothing. Typical.” I smirk, laying the cell phone down. When I’m not so tired, I’ll go through the details more thoroughly. As it stands, I’m daydreaming about an impractical man, and Rexy’s face starts blurring with Lincoln’s. There’s no denying the similarity between them. His son is my patient, and there’s no way I’d blur those lines.
The clock on the microwave glows 10:13 when I hear a loud thud outside. I swallow hard as an uneasy feeling slips over me. Was that a car door closing? A tree falling? I keep a light sweatshirt on the staircase banister that leads down to the first floor. I shrug into it, grab my phone, and make my way down to the lower level. There’s a garage, a guestroom, bathroom, and a mudroom connected to my laundry room. It’s mostly glass walls down here that let in bright moonlight. I don’t hit the light switch because another weird dragging noise echoes and I don’t want to be seen.
Don’t be silly. No one is out here. Everything is fine, Maeve. If someone wanted to hurt me, they wouldn’t be loud and clumsy. That’s what Rexy always told me when I’d get frightened at noises in the night. You’ll never see a killer coming if they're worth a grain of salt. I’d argue with him that it would be my luck to get the first-timer cracking my door down with an ax. He’d laugh, tell me I was letting my imagination get the best of me, and kiss me until I forgot I was scared. Death is silent. A fact that’s both cruel and true.
Something crashes against my door, vibrating the glass windows, and forcing my stomach to drop even lower. My palms sweat as I unlock my phone to call 911. Then, oddly enough, someone knocks on the door. Three loud and respectable, not scary knocks echo in the foyer. This gives me a bit of my nerves back as I peer around the corner and see a dog, and then I see my best friend, Ramona. I fling open the door.
Before I can get a word out, she extends her palms, one of which has a tattered leash wrapped around her wrist. “Listen, I didn’t call first because I knew you’d say no, but look at her. She was running around the airport parking lot when I landed and I couldn’t just leave her there. She obviously has an owner,” Ramona pleads. “Look at her.” The dog in question looks motley. “I just need to keep her until I find the owner. It will be fast. I’m sure of it.”
I swallow hard and eye my friend. Now that I know she’s not a serial killer, my heart rate has returned to normal. “What about you? Where is your owner? No call or text that you were coming back to the states. What happened this time? Or rather, who happened?” Ramona lives and works in Italy when things with her boyfriend Stavros are good. When they’re bad, she’s in the U.S. couch surfing. Mostly with me, which is fine because she’s the singular person I love at this point in my life. I give her credit; most people would let the ocean of distance force a toxic relationship to die. They don’t. Ramona is committed to the noncommittal.
Ramona shakes her head and sighs a long, drab noise. My best friend is serious and quiet. Quirky and plain. She doesn’t make sense and I love her for it. She’s not over the top, nor is she suggesting crazy nights out to cure heartbreak. No, the only unpredictable thing about her is her pension for Stavros’ dick and forgiving him when he swerves back on his bullshit. Another fun fact: Ramona hates dogs. “It was a
