Out of the Shadows (22 page)

The older woman looked up from her chair in shock. “Excuse me?”

I pointed out the door toward the display case. “I need to know the name of one of those boys. It’s very urgent.”

“May I ask what this is concerning?” the woman asked, standing from her seat.

I felt my frustration reaching a boiling point. How could I have explained that I needed to know the name of that boy because he’s now dead, but I can see him and feel compelled to help him?

I sighed. “It’s a personal matter.”

The woman looked over at the television hanging on the wall, and as if startled, her gazed snapped back to me abruptly. She donned a fake smile and said, “Excuse me for just a moment, and I’ll see what I can do for you,” and she headed around the corner back into the offices.

“Thank you,” I said, although I had little hope that she would agree to help me. I stared at the file cabinets containing the student records, taunting me from against the wall on the other side of the reception counter. The answer I needed was so close!

I glanced over at the television the woman had looked at, and my heart jumped into my throat, choking my airway. On the screen was civilian video footage from a cell phone of a young blonde woman picking herself up from the road after being hit by a car and hobbling away. At the bottom was a caption:
Wanted for Questioning
.

It was me.

“This is an ongoing investigation, and we don’t have anymore information to share at this time,” the calm and collected Carla Bailey said to the news camera on the television. Dumbfounded, my eyes remained on the screen, concern filling the detective’s face as she stepped away to further discuss the accident with her fellow officers.

I stood at the receptionist’s counter, mouth open in shock and expecting my pounding heart to fall out of it. I knew that it was generally frowned upon to flee from the scene of an accident, but as I had been the only thing damaged, I felt I had been well within my rights to let bygones be bygones! Why would I be wanted for questioning?

Then I remembered the guy at the scene this morning, calling the cops with his cell phone. In my post-crash stupor, I had vividly remembered my accident from a year ago, and in that hysteria, I had mumbled that I killed a man…

What a fantastic comedy of errors.

If I had a working cell phone, I could call the police myself and clear up the confusion, but they would surely take me to the station and lock me up until my story had been verified. No, if I stopped this impulsive quest now, I’d never return to it, and something pulled at my gut, instinct telling me that this boy desperately needed to be helped. I would keep my head down for now and then deal with the police later, pretending to have been oblivious to the news report all day.

I’m so sorry!
I’d say to them.
This is all a misunderstanding, and my phone’s busted, so I’ve been unreachable all day!

Yes. Perfect.

I turned to flee the school but halted in the office’s threshold. I glanced over my shoulder at the metal filing cabinets behind the counter. The information I needed was so close, and these school employees would never hand it over willingly. My heart once again drummed a cadence in my chest, threatening to burst forth from adrenaline overload. The receptionist was surely in the back offices calling the police and notifying the principal that the fugitive woman on the news was currently standing in the office vestibule, so I had very few seconds left to act before my perfect cover story would no longer be viable.

I dashed around the counter, madly reading the labels on each drawer. On the right were the current year’s useless student files. I continued to the left, resting on the section containing the records of last year.

A-D, E-H, I-L, M-P, Q-T, U-Z, Student Clubs, School-Sponsored Clubs, School Sports Teams…
There it was! I quickly yet quietly pulled open the Sports Teams drawer, flipping through the manila tabs peeking up from the mass of papers. With my thumb and forefinger, I slipped open the basketball team’s folder, looking up for just a second to see if anyone was coming down the hall.

The dead boy stood right next to me.

Not realizing that he had rematerialized, his appearance forced an audible gasp from my mouth. “Jesus,” I closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath, my nerves already frazzled. “Don’t do that!” I chastised him.

In the distance, I heard police sirens.

I was running out of time and growing terribly frustrated that the boy stood next to me yet did nothing to help. The blaring sirens pierced the outside air, like an aural army that charged down the hill toward its target: me. From back within the offices, I heard doors slam and footsteps pound down hallways. They were coming for me.

My hysteria level shot through the roof. I wasn’t accustomed to dealing with this sort of excitement, and my mind hesitated to come up with a solution. It seemed that simply fleeing would have made the whole journey into the school a complete waste. I snatched one of the student forms from the folder and ran. Out of the office and into the hall I bolted, flying toward the entrance doors. I jolted to a complete stop when I saw three police cruisers skid to a halt in front of the school, officers leaping out.

Panic flared within me as I heard the shouts from the policemen and saw them going for their weapons in their holsters.

So much for my plan to call them later, pretending to have been oblivious all day…
And now, on top of everything else, I’d stolen confidential student files from the main office. I was getting pretty great at making a colossal mess of things.

I looked at the boy next to me, as if he would be able to tell me what to do.

And then he did.

He pointed back into the building down a lengthy hall into the east wing of classrooms. Ignoring the orders from the officers, I sprinted back into the school, fleeing down the hall, my loud footsteps echoing noisily off the linoleum flooring. At the end of the long passageway, I saw another door that led outside. Nearer and nearer I came to the threshold, hearing the cacophony of authority entering the school far behind me.

I blasted through the back door and out onto the large playground. I charged over the asphalt, past the jungle gym, pushing the chains from swings out of my way, leaping over the teeter-totter, faster, faster, over the chain link fence, down a dirt path, dodging trees.

I was now in a small forest. I didn’t slow down but created a zigzagging path that I hoped would make me more difficult to locate. I couldn’t carry on much farther. My lungs ached, my sore ankle protested, and my heart felt as though it might explode.

After another few minutes of foot flight, I found myself in a middle-class
cul-de-sac
. I took a minute to get my bearings, but I felt uneasy standing still for too long. I turned and continued between two homes, cutting across the backyard of one. When my trembling legs could take me no farther, I collapsed against the side of a house and fell into the frosted earth at my feet, breathing as deeply as my body would allow. Nausea and dizziness swirled behind my tired eyes, and my head wound throbbed.

I spent many minutes listening for the sound of sirens. As I waited in deafening silence, I wondered what the hell I was doing: skipping work, leaving an accident scene, fleeing from the police. Yet, part of me felt electric, supercharged with the flurry of unknown excitement. As a slight grin crossed my lips, I thought that perhaps this isn’t what Dr. Abner had in mind when he suggested I try helping people.

When I was confident that I had successfully shaken the police from my tail, I stood and ventured out to the sidewalk. I was freezing and wanted so badly to be at home sitting in front of my heater with my cat curled up next to me. I sighed as I looked around at my suburban surroundings.

I was completely lost.

*     *     *

Even though I knew it would be risky to show my face in public for too long, I found a nearby gas station. Going into the filthy restroom, I washed most of the blood away from my face in the grimy sink. The wound didn’t look too awful, and I hoped it wouldn’t open up again. Having a huge, gauze bandage on the side of my head would be just as conspicuous as a gaping wound.

I felt terrible for doing it, but I also snuck into the attached convenience store, and while the cashier was busy with a paying customer, I swiped a local map from the rack by the door, quickly leaving again. Later, after things settled down, I swore to myself I would come back and pay the store.

Sneaking around the side of the building, I stopped when I saw the old payphone attached to the brick wall. I wondered if I should call Dr. Abner; things seemed to be spiraling out of control, but I sincerely felt that I would never get better if I didn’t see this thing through. I was definitely out of my league, though, so some advice would be welcome.

I picked up the phone receiver and dialed. As it rang, I waited, keenly aware that a nearby security camera could spot me at any moment.

“Hello?” he greeted.

I stiffened. The sound of his voice immediately filled me with a sense of dread, and I couldn’t pinpoint why. What would he really be able to tell me that could make things better? My hands began to tremble with unease, and before he had the chance to say anything else, I hung up.

I was alone in this, just like I had been for over three hundred fifty days. There was nothing anyone could do to help me through this. But still, something pulled me to the phone, and my hand found itself in my pocket, wrapped around the plain white business card that I’d placed there earlier.

I dialed the number.

“Detective Bailey,” came the no-nonsense greeting.

I stood there with my mouth open, unsure of what to say.

“Hello?” the cop greeted again, curiosity in her tone.

I finally uttered, “It’s me.”

A long spread of silence passed between us until Bailey quietly said, “Melissa… right? Melissa Perdition?”

My eyes began to well with tears again. Something about this woman was disarming to me; I felt that I could tell her everything, and she would listen without judgment. “Yes,” I confirmed.

“Hell of a name,” Bailey joked.

I smiled and wiped the wetness from my face, but I didn’t say anything.

After a quiet beat lingered between us, the detective decided to cut to the chase. “Where are you, Melissa?”

I honestly didn’t know, so instead I offered, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Ok,” she responded, waiting for more to be said.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t.”

“I believe you,” she said. And she sounded so sincere to me. “But there ain’t a soul alive that’s going to take my word on it. Let me help you. Tell me what’s going on,” she pleaded quietly.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. Despite wanting to talk to this woman, doing so would mean divulging my secret. My
curse
. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” she encouraged.

“Please stop chasing me.”

Bailey sighed. “I can’t.”

“Yes…” I reasoned. “You can.”

And I hung up.

The adrenaline had long worn off, and I felt exhaustion beginning to creep into my body. But I still had work to do, so I set off with my map and plotted the course to my next destination.

*     *     *

Well after noontime now, the sky filled with grayer clouds, and the crisp air enveloped me, preparing to release the snow flurries that had been forecasted for the day. I stood on another suburban street in front of a quaint, two-story house with white aluminum siding and a wooden front porch. I looked one last time at the permission slip I’d swiped from the school records. The student’s name was Daniel Martinez, and the address listed on the sheet of paper matched the black numbers on the side of the nearby mailbox.

I wasn’t totally sure what I was doing. All I knew was that Daniel had played basketball with the dead boy last year, and he was my only chance at answers for the time being.

I watched the house for a few minutes and saw no movement. Cautiously, I walked up the empty driveway and onto the creaky planks of the porch. Glancing through the windows, it seemed that no one was home. The lights were all off, and no sound came from within.

How would I explain to the boy, much less his
parents,
why it was so important that I talk to him about his dead teammate? I could create an elaborate lie that I was a journalist and had questions regarding the death of the boy, but chances would be that my haggard appearance would make me seem suspicious, assuming they hadn’t already seen my face on the news.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. I readied myself mentally, attempting to prepare for every possible scenario that could transpire within the Martinez House. When a minute passed, and no one answered, I knocked again.

The dead boy manifested, looking up at me, almost smiling, like he approved of my current actions and whereabouts. Truth-be-told, his appearance was beginning to madden me. I had no explanation for my intense need to know his identity. I just knew that once I did, everything would change.

As I raised my hand to knock one last time, he walked through the door and into the house. I blinked, startled by his boldness, but then I remembered that no one else could see him. He stared at me expectantly through the window. If he could talk, I imagined him saying, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

I felt uncomfortable with the implications of his gaze, but it seemed that I was at his mercy, emotionally if not physically. Although I knew it would be folly, I tried the doorknob. It was, indeed, locked. I hesitated before moving over to the window. Before this moment, I never would have thought about breaking and entering, but today I found myself doing many things that were uncharacteristic of me. I grasped the bottom of the window and yanked upward.

It slid open.

Shocked that it could possibly be so simple, I crawled into the house, stepped down onto the Berber carpet, and closed the window behind me.

It was a beautiful little home. Polished wood molding. Hardwood-floored hallways. Clean plush carpeting. Matching loveseats and couches. So charming. I envied the Martinez family and their comfortable lives. I approached the first carpeted step of the stairway leading to the bedrooms upstairs when I halted, thinking perhaps it would be best to finish searching the first floor before turning my back to it.