Agoraphobia and Ecstasy Ch. 21-31

The light offered only a tiny bit more help than the glowing phone screen, but I saw the door in a flash of lightning and darted toward it, clothes in hand. The doorknob wouldn't turn. I panicked, feeling my sweaty palms slid over the cold metal. I shone the flashlight at the door and saw three deadbolts, a chain, and the little lock mechanism on the knob itself and set to work disengaging them as quickly as I could, but before I got them done, he was there, pressing my body against his again.

This time the touch was different--less threatening, but I elbowed him anyway and he caught my elbow in his grip and hugged me to himself.

"Daphne, it's Siphon."

His words brought sobs from deep in my belly. Fear dissolved into shame, dribbling down my soul into the place where safety should stem from. I felt raw and exposed. In an instant the night came back to me. Confessing my past, being in his arms, kissing him, allowing him to hold me, making love, the perfect gentleman. Victor was gone, my friend was there. I couldn't control the sobs and tremors my body shook with, and feeling my legs give out and my clothing and purse drop from my arms, I heard the click of each lock being reengaged.

"Shhh, it's okay."

Siphon turned me in his arms, kissing my forehead and drinking in my tears. His voice calming the deepest part of my soul where all the terror and trauma lived.

"It's okay. I'm here," he whispered against my neck. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to keep you safe, okay?"

"But it was dark...and Victor...and you were...and I couldn't..." My words came out in broken sobs, gasps for understanding as much as for air. He lifted me into his arms and carried me across the room, settling me on the bed from which I had just escaped. I turned to my side, still feeling Victor's hands stealing my innocence, but now at the same time feeling the startling lack of Siphon's hands against my skin, and at once every fear I'd ever had came rushing to the forefront of my mind.

Like waves buffeting the shore, my tears chiseled grooves down my cheeks, carving out their way to my lips where I licked them and tasted the salty pain in the wound of my heart which had refused to be healed. I longed for Jameson. I cried out for Molly. I wanted Evan Williams to drown the memory replaying itself over and over, Victor forcing himself into me, holding me down, looking at my dead sister's frozen terrified eyes, knowing it would be me next.

I screamed and beat the mattress, grabbing handfuls of hair and pulling them out. The sight of death, the voice of torment refusing to leave, I pounded my own ears, willing it to stop. Begging the gods to end the torment and let me free. Begging fate to end my suffering and allow me to take my last breath, but it would not come.

Like a cruel taskmaster, terror stood over me, demanding I pay penance. I screamed louder, and louder, burying my face in a pillow. Blood ran everywhere. Blood from Victor's nose. Blood from his ears. Blood from the spot in his chest where the shards of the lamp I'd broken over his head embedded themselves when I stabbed him twenty-seven times.

Blood.

Red.

Rouge.

Crimson.

Stained in my memory. Smeared on my hands. Splattered over my chest. Pooled beneath Nanette's body.

Then there was light.

My body was turned and a soft glow of a candle revealed a glass of water being pushed into my hands and lifted to my lips. I drank as it dribbled over my chin and ran out down my cheek to my hair and the bed beneath me. Siphon's hands were calloused, but soft, gently taking the glass away and pulling me back to himself. I melted in his arms.

"Shhh, I'm here," he whispered again, and I could feel his heart pounding in his chest as hard as mine was. I wanted him closer to me. I wanted him inside of me, not in a sexual way, but in a way where he could enter and be one with me and remove the ache in my soul. "Shhh."

I blubbered on for a moment, crying into his chest and letting my body relax, the adrenaline slowly evaporating, but still protesting its departure. And when my wails reduced to sniffles, he kissed my forehead again.

"Are you okay?"

I had no words really. How do you tell someone you love more than anything in the world that you don't do relationships, that this was all a huge mistake, that you need to leave to feel safe, when all you want more than anything is to stay there in his arms where you feel safe? How do you do that?

I could only nod.

"It's okay, Daph. I understand how scared you must be. I'm here."

He cradled me.

His hands smoothed my hair back.

The worst panic attack I'd had since moving to Utica, and all he did was hold me, kiss away my fears, caress my back with his hand, and allow my tears to exhaust themselves. I didn't know why he did that. I didn't care. I don't do relationships, but this sure as fuck felt better than any one-night stand I'd ever had, and I didn't want it to end. To know that he knew the very worst things about me, but he sat there holding me in the middle of the night after I'd assaulted him--it moved me.

"Can we lay down? Try to sleep more? I will hold you."

Again I could only nod. He shifted me on the bed, tucking the pillow under my head and bringing the covers up over my body. When he curled around me, tucking one elbow under my head and pulling me against his chest with the other, sliding his arm around my ribs holding me, I felt tears come again. This time, tears came for the simple fact that I felt safe. I'd never felt so safe as I did in that moment with Siphon. No drugs needed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head.

"What can I do?"

"Hold me," I muttered, grasping his arm and snuggling back into him until our bodies became as one.

He kissed my shoulder, and I felt a droplet on my cheek, no doubt one of his tears, evidenced shortly thereafter by the sniffles I heard coming from him. It felt right, him holding me. More right than I'd ever thought I ever deserved. Kenji was wrong. Siphon would never--could never harm me. Not in a million lifetimes.

23

The street was lined with branches and piles of debris from the storm over the weekend. Several powerlines had come down around town, though it was not a tornado, just strong straight-line winds. If I hadn't gone into journalism, I could have seen myself as a weatherman, chasing severe weather in one of those armored cars the way they do on television. I might still have liked to do it someday, but today was not that day. I had a story to break and a career to make.

My yard still had several large branches which would remain there until Neil had a chance to come remove them for me. Agoraphobia meant not leaving the safety of my house which meant yardwork had to be done by someone else, and that was what I paid my teenage neighbor for. Something was amiss, however, when I pulled into my driveway after a jaunt across town to the nature preserve to take a few pictures. I could see my front door standing open and I never let that happen.

My heartbeat had an uptick as I shut the garage door behind old Betty and tiptoed my way around behind her. I crept to the door and opened it, cracking it only slightly so that in case someone was in the house still, I would catch them by surprise. My first glimpse of anything was the damn squirrel perched on the windowsill staring into my home like a peeping tom, viewing the disaster my eyes caught next.

Papers had been thrown everywhere. My desk had been cleared of everything and all its previous contents were strewn across the travertine tiles, flash drives, my computer monitor, my laptop, my files, my keyboard, the lamp Gary had purchased for me at the Dodger's game when he travelled to L.A. the previous fall. I could hardly tear my eyes away from the disaster scene, but I knew I had to. I had to clear the space before I attempted to see if anything was missing.

I shuffled past the kitchen, whose cupboards were now empty, their contents splayed out across the kitchen floor like dirty laundry in a teenager's bedroom, and I closed in on my bedroom hall. I listened but heard nothing. Not a sound. What I found upon entering the bedroom can only be described as chaos. The mattress had been sliced open, the dresser tossed, my closet now empty. Large holes had been smashed into the walls and every piece of furniture had been moved as evidenced by the footprints still embedded in the carpet where they used to be.

I was furious. I stormed back into the living area and stomped over to the front door, noticing the couch, too, had been sliced open, its fluff strewn about the room in a manner that would make you think a large dog had been left home alone. The door had been busted in; all the deadbolts had broken through the chintzy wooden frame, and I made a mental note to have a repairman come and give me a steel door frame to go with my double-insulated steel door which appeared to be unharmed, except for the footprint on the outer side of it. I glanced up and down the street but saw nothing other than the remnants of the storm.

Angry, I shut the door and racked my brain for clues. Who would break into my house and steal my things, toss my files, and trash the place? Was it Siphon or Kevin? Had they been alerted somehow to me investigating them and were seeking to ruin my research or worse, harm me?

I rushed over to what was left of my office area, checking first for the small drive I kept hidden in the aircon vent. When I was satisfied it was intact, I turned my attention to the mess on the floor and scooped up my research. Everything I had collected up until then about the case had been scrambled into a mass of confusion. Even I had a hard time reorganizing things, but what I did find was three things were missing.

The photo I printed out of Daphne in the club was gone. The flash drive I'd stored the photographs from the dark web was missing, and the file I'd printed with information on Déjà Vu had vanished. It left me stumped. I sat there on the ground with the papers on my lap next to the shards of red and white glass I probably should have swept up, and leaned back on the leg of my desk. Why on earth would anyone want a photograph of Daphne, my file on the story, and the information about the club?

A knock on my door pulled me out of my deep thought, and I turned my eyes just in time to see Neil squeaking my door open. It no longer locked so there was no way to keep Snooping Sally out of my house. I'd heard him on previous occasions rustle my doorknob as if he were going to walk straight in, but up until now I'd always kept my door locked. That would have to change as soon as possible.

"Kenji?" he mumbled, taking a few steps into the house and shutting the door behind himself.

"It's rude to walk right into someone's house."

"Yeah, well dude, I saw someone dressed in all black, wearing a ball cap... They parked right in your driveway and just busted your door down, man."

I perked up with his confession. I'd never taken Neil for a gossip or for a neighborhood watch member, but he was good at observing, which is why he was in my employ at least a few times a month. I had no idea he'd been watching my house too.

"What kind of car?"

"One of those new, strange, square vans? The kind the Amazon guys drive, only it was just plain white." Neil shifted from foot to foot, glancing around the room. His eyes stopped on the broken lamp and he grimaced. "A collectors' item? They smashed that thing? It must have cost you a jillion dollars."

I had no clue how much it cost. Unlike Daphne, I wasn't a sports fan, and Gary's gift had been lost on me. I didn't know thing one about baseball or lamps or collectors' items. All I knew was someone had been in my house, and it looked like they went on a rampage.

"Any more clue what this guy looked like?"

"No. Dark clothes. Dark hat. Dark sunglasses." Neil shrugged his shoulders and offered me his hand which I refused, choosing to stand on my own. I laid the stack of papers on my desk and bent to retrieve the keyboard and mouse. "Looks like you have a friend," he said as I stood back up.

I followed the direction of his gaze and locked eyes with my archenemy, or Asshole as I had affectionately begun to call him. The squirrel twitched its nose and chewed on its nut, his eyes bearing down on me like a woman in labor. His tail flicked nervously back and forth, and he scampered a few steps closer.

"You think he saw the guy?"

Neil's attempt at humor only steamed my shorts even more, never mind the fact that I'd overlooked the possible infestation of bacteria and germs everywhere in my house. I dropped the computer accessories like they were covered in the plague and rushed to my sink where I scrubbed at my hands with the steel wool pad and dish soap. Neil made himself useful picking things up, righting the floor lamp and the coat tree. Picking up dishes and placing them in the sink.

After I'd dried my hands, I turned to him. "You don't have to help clean up. You can go home."

"Aw, man. I feel personally responsible for this. It was probably that cokehead you had me take pictures of. He probably followed me home."

"What did you do, Neil?"

"I mean, I didn't do anything, but the old man seen me, you know?"

His tittering made me suspicious of him, but still my brain was zeroing in on a different suspect anyway. Everything that had been taken pointed to the bartender, not the drug dealer, and more and more I was getting the feeling that Daphne was not safe. At our appointment she had insisted she trusted him and wasn't afraid of him, but I saw the dark circles under her eyes and the way she'd worn khaki pants instead of a dress suit. She was as worried as I was; I would stake a bet on it.

"I don't think it was the drug dealer."

"Who was it then?"

"I have my theories."

"Kenji, dude, I don't think you're safe here. You should stay at my place tonight. You should call the cops. Whoever did this meant business. Did you have valuables taken?"

I thought for a second before I shook my head, my lips puckered up and cocked to the side. "No. I don't own anything more valuable than my computers and you see they're still here. I mean, except for this lamp, which I didn't know was even valuable until you said something." I kicked a splinter of glass and sighed, reaching for my trusty broom. "Don't worry about me, Neil. I'll have the guy from Home Depot come out and install a new door before day's end, and I'll be fine. Just keep your head down and your nose clean."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

His language jarred me, and I recoiled. "Language, Neil. Does your mother let you speak like that?"

"Whatever. You sound like my grandma." His eyes tumbled around his head like a bobble head, and I could have just smacked the teenage attitude right off his face. "Listen, man. I'm out. Check ya later. I just thought maybe you'd need some help, wanted to make sure everything was Gucci..."

And with that he was gone, slithered out my front door and back across the street. What he left behind though, was more doubt than answers. Why would the drug dealer come knocking, and how would a bartender discover where I lived? They were the only two suspects I even had, and going to the police would do nothing. I'd have to reveal why I thought them my suspects, and I'd have to fess up to my dark web use, which would negate any evidence I still had on either one of them for this story.

My best bet was to fortify my door, clean up my mess, and get back to work. If Siphon was the one who'd stolen my information he'd be on to Daphne in no time, and she'd be in more danger. If it was the drug dealer, we were both fucked. I didn't consider the bartender to be a threat to me--until now--but that drug dealer was bad news. Police or no police I had to get to the bottom of this before I put Daphne in any greater trouble.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the home improvement store, making an appointment for their service install guys to come do a quick measurement and get me a new door frame, the phone squeezed between my cheek and my shoulder as I swept. Then I scraped the remnants of the busted lamp into the dustpan and delivered it to my trash compactor before stowing the broom away and using my phone to look up the number to a furniture store. With a single quick call I'd ordered a new sofa and coffee table, the one in the front room had always annoyed me.

I couldn't afford a new mattress or to have the walls in my bedroom fixed right away so I settled on a couch that I thought looked comfortable to sleep on, and arranged for them to deliver it in two days; the floor would have to suffice in the meantime. Then I set about stuffing the fluff from the couch cushions into trash bags, exhausting myself from work until my stomach rumbling forced me to stop and consider dinner. The entire time I worked to clean, my brain worked to sort out the mess.

Frozen burritos in the microwave never tasted so good as they did when I sat down on my office chair and wheeled it up to my bare computer desk. I took bites slowly between organizing the desk and reconnecting wires. Before the last bite of my second burrito was finished, I had the computer up and running--the files saved on my hard drive still safely there. Thank the internet gods for strong passwords. They could have stolen the computer, but apparently their criminal minds were not very intelligent.

I shook my head at the absurd irony then stared out the window as my computer loaded my story notes. Asshole was frolicking around the back yard happily, carrying the nuts he so craftily stole from the cage I'd set out to capture him. How he did that I'll never know, but I had an inkling that if I had cameras in place I'd learn his secret and know how to catch him.

Then it hit me.

Cameras.

My fingers typed faster than my brain could even process the letters and numbers they were spewing out. My neighbors had cameras on their front doors. I'd thought to do it numerous times, but we lived in a safe city, in one of the safest neighborhoods of the city and nothing bad ever happened in Utica. Well--nothing bad ever had happened in Utica, not until this rash of murders.

I was in. The Wilson house had a camera on the garage pointed across their front yard and directly onto my house. I accessed their network--a gift given to me by their adorable ten-year-old son who liked to announce their Wi-Fi password to his friends in the front yard so they could all play Pokémon Go together, their house being a Poke Stop--and pulled up the camera footage, zeroing in on the van Neil had described. He was right. It was a plain van, no markings, no plates even, and figure that got out of the van was too tall, too broad shouldered to be a woman, so I assumed, as Neil had, that it had been a man.

My front door was hidden by my garage so I couldn't see the actual act of him breaking down my door, but I watched the time stamp. From the time he exited his vehicle until the time he climbed back into it, twenty-three minutes and forty seconds had passed. Twenty-three minutes is all it had taken to destroy my house, and I still had no proof of who it was, not even a hint. I watched the video more than a dozen times before I called it a loss, and decided to hack into the Craft house security footage--a gift given to me by myself when Mrs. Craft, the elderly woman who was now a widow, needed help installing her new router. My photographic memory had its advantages, and the picture my brain had taken of her router's username and password was just the ticket I needed into their security system.

This camera offered me a different vantage point, a much clearer view of the man as he slid from the driver's seat and adjusted his sunglasses. Still I could not see the face clearly enough to even determine if he was Caucasian or Hispanic, Asian or Indian, but I saw his build--stalking, muscular, broad shoulders. I spent so long hunched over my computer I lost all track of time and the repair man had come and gone twice, had the door installed, and made rude comments about my refusal to call the police with "some maniac on the loose."