Agoraphobia and Ecstasy Ch. 21-31

"Daphne, what have you done?"

Hours passed as my fingers did the digging, finding more and more damning evidence. Her sister had not died, as she had told me, from cancer. The report made by the police in New York City indicated that her sister had been murdered, her throat slit after being sexually assaulted. The case reports and court records stated that Daphne had been accused of murder, not Nanette's, the man who killed her. The lengthy court case had dragged out, and she was later acquitted, but not before ruining her good name--Collier, a name she later changed to make a new start, or at least I assumed that.

I sifted through case files and court transcripts for more than an hour, reading and devouring every tidbit of information I could find. It turned out Daphne was acquitted because the jury decided that she had acted in self-defense. The case was still unsolved, but was now considered a cold case. They never conclusively determined what had happened, only that Nanette had been sexually assaulted and Victor, the attacker, had been stabbed to death. Twenty-seven stab marks in his torso--a crime of rage.

I downloaded and saved every single bit of information I'd gathered and closed my computer, fixing my eyes on the door of the club. My mind reeled with the new information, and I passed it through the filter of everything I already knew about the case. Daphne had been seen at the club on the same nights as every single one of the victims. The bartender was always watching her. She was on video leaving the club with one of the victims, and several pictures I'd found indicated that she had at least talked to two of the other victims.

"Oh, Daphne, what did you do?"

I didn't want to admit it was a possibility because my Daphne wouldn't do something like that. My Daphne was a pure soul, tortured by life's ups and downs maybe, but holy, sacred, perfect. In my mind she could do no wrong, but maybe that was where my mind had gone wrong. She had connections to a drug dealer. She did drugs? How could I let that very important fact slip my mind? Her interactions with him could have been much more substantial than merely counseling. In fact, she could have been playing me the entire time.

My heart began to race, and I felt the familiar gurgle in my gut of an overly anxious bowel and gritted my teeth. My head hurt. I wanted to lie down, but I needed to know what would happen next. Needed to know if Daphne was in danger, or if she was the danger. Maybe I'd had it all wrong. Maybe she was the one doing the murdering and the bartender was innocent. How then did she do it? How would she lure men--women even--away from the club, and by what means did she murder them?

The door of the club opened and out walked Siphon--carrying Daphne.

My brain kicked into overdrive the very same instant that my hand flew to cover my mouth, drawing down across my five o'clock shadow and wiping the sweat off my face with it. I nearly panicked, but decided I'd have a better shot at saving one of them--Daphne my angel, or Siphon the man I'd probably pissed off--if I stayed level headed.

He got into his car and drove off, and I fired old Betty up and followed. I needed to get to the bottom of it and before anyone else got harmed.

I tailed Siphon's car across town wondering where he was headed, but my gut feeling was that he was headed toward Daphne's house. She hadn't looked in the best sorts, and his apartment was attached to the bar, so it was the only logical conclusion I could draw. He didn't seem in a huge rush, driving the speed limit and using his indicators as they were meant--a far better driver than Ms. Fox.

I maintained a good distance, not wanting to spook him, and pulled up outside her house with my lights off, Ms. Brunette now standing in the front window of a small yellow house that had flowers growing all over the front yard, staring out at me.

Daphne had to have been completely wasted or overdosed on some sort of drug--whether or not of her own volition I would never know. Her head dangled back as he carried her, blonde tresses hanging and dragging across the bushes as he moved past them. Her arms were limp and flailed with each labored step he took.

Either he was also under the influence of something, or he'd not been doing arm day at the gym because he appeared to be struggling to keep her up as he juggled the keys to her house and let them in, lights flashing in the windows as the door shut. I watched his silhouette pass by the windows and weighed my options, holding my phone in my hand with Gary's number on speed dial. Did I call him? Did I call the police?

Siphon laid her down in front of the main window on the southernmost side of the house as evidenced by his shadow on the sheer bamboo blinds, the same kind Daphne had in her office that allowed in light, but not too much, and shaded for privacy, but not totally. Then the man moved away from her and I prayed it was to leave, but the front door never opened.

Instead, multiple times he vanished and then reappeared next to where I'd last seen Daphne's silhouette. At one point he had his hand to his head as if talking on the phone, and I couldn't imagine a murderer making a phone call from one of his victim's houses, which forced me to confront something I'd refused to believe previously.

It very well might have been Daphne.

But why?

And what would cause such a beautiful woman to turn into a murderous villain?

My heart raced even more, and I decided to make the call.

"Gary? I need your help."

26

The club was mostly dead, a few regulars, the DJ who had yet to start music--I assumed due to the lack of a crowd--and one new face, though it was a woman. My hopes started to fizzle out though my body was amped up from the rocks I'd downed before leaving home. I jittered with excitement and slunk toward the bar with frustration. Ambivalence was not my friend, but there I was entertaining it. I had to learn to not take the drugs until I was certain a score was on my horizon, especially since I would have to start paying for them now.

I slid onto a bar stool, my minidress riding up, but I didn't care. I tapped the smooth surface with my debit card and waited for Siphon to come out of the back, but to my surprise it wasn't Siphon it was his partner. He glanced at me and jerked his chin toward the ceiling, his greeting and acknowledgement that he had seen me and would get my fireball. As a regular myself, everyone knew me, and they all knew my preference. It was usual. Typical. Safe, but not in a way that made me vulnerable to anyone...until I heard his voice and felt a whoosh of air pass behind me.

"Daph."

Siphon sat down on the stool next to me, the rush of hot air carrying him in from the back door.

"You're not working tonight?"

"Nope. Night off." He nodded at Will and held up two fingers. My throat constricted, holding down my breath and preventing me from swallowing the spit that was suddenly flooding my mouth. I would have thought it a side effect of the drugs, but I knew better. It was a side effect of arousal, and fear, and every combination of everything I felt for Siphon and about relationships all at once.

"I see."

I tried to play it cool. Tried not to act like a sixteen-year-old with a crush, because I wasn't. I didn't do relationships. I didn't want to. I wanted to feel powerful, in control, safe--but by my own hand. People weren't safe; they were dangerous. Nan taught me that. Victor taught me that. Every interaction with every person I'd ever had had taught me that.

So why did my body tremble, anticipating his soft touch?

"Got any plans?" I took the drink Will slid in front of me and raised it to my lips. The cool glass on my skin was like electricity, and the whiskey burned on the way down. The air around me was alive with energy, causing tingles of sensations across my back and shoulders. I felt frustrated by the high I was experiencing knowing the crowd was dead. A typical night would have had this place jumping with prospects, but the one night I needed something, there was no one.

No one that is, but Siphon.

"No plans." He smiled at Will and downed his shot in one smooth motion, drinking it down as easily as his eyes drank me in.

"I don't do relationships." I don't know why I said it. He'd heard me say it a million times. I'd said it when I left his apartment. I'd said it in my driveway. I didn't need to say it again, but there I was saying it like I was a robot and it was the only thing I'd been programmed to say.

"What do you call this then?"

His question struck me funny. I didn't know what I'd call this. All I knew was the drugs were in overdrive, and I was beginning to feel out of control, which was a scary thing for me. Whatever Kevin had given me was not my normal drug, I had known that when I looked at it. I just thought it was the substitute he had convinced me previously that was fine. I'd tried it and it was good. Now though, all I could feel was frustration. I'd wasted the drugs. The club was empty. I didn't want Siphon again, and he had insisted on sitting beside me.

But I did want him. I wanted him against my body--or was that the drugs too?

I downed my drink and tapped the glass on the bar twice. Bill refilled it before I even had a chance to call out to him, and that glass and two more went down like honey before I attempted to answer Siphon.

"I don't know what this is." The lights of the DJ's setup began flashing and flickering off the disco ball dangling in the center of the main part of the club. Music was playing but not too loudly. My head pounded with drug and drink. I could tell my body was twitching and I felt a chill, but I was in control of my faculties at least. "This was a mistake, Siphon." I pointed between him and myself a few times and tapped my glass again.

"How can you say that? I'm sitting here taking care of you, listening to you, spending my time to make sure you are safe. I watch out for you every time you come in here and then the other night--"

"The other night was a mistake. I was really drunk."

"And earlier today? That was a mistake too?

It was a mistake, wasn't it? Lying in his bed, allowing myself to be vulnerable and tell him all my secrets. Having those drinks, the ones I knew I shouldn't have had. But he was kind, and he listened without judging. I knew I was drunk, and I had probably initiated sex because of my need to be in control, to feel powerful, to be the one with the voice making the decisions. But was it really that?

"Were you drunk in your driveway two hours ago? What about on your couch?"

I tapped my glass on the bar, but Siphon held his hand up as if to refuse my order. "Who are you to tell me when I can or cannot drink? You are not my father!" I tried to push away the thoughts of his lips on mine as his body pressed me into the mattress, but it was impossible. Like a flood the memories came back, flashes of his breath in my ear, glimmers of the way his eyes looked at me, the way they shut when his release came, and he tipped his head back felt that ecstasy for only a moment, ghost sensations of his hands on me, smoothing across my skin.

"No, but it appears as if you need one."

He reached out and took my glass, sitting it on the bar and then grabbing my knee. I couldn't take it anymore. I jerked away from him, hoping the look on my face was more of a "get away from me creep" and less of a "I'm about to explode with emotion because I need you more than I will ever admit and want you even more than that." Emotion erupted up my throat and hit me like a punch in the gut.

I spun the barstool away from him and swung my legs down until my feet touched the ground and then I slipped off the seat and swayed and staggered toward the bathroom. I felt like they had turned the air conditioner down to subzero temperatures. I shivered and my skin hurt. Gooseflesh dotted my arms, and my teeth chattered like one of those wind-up toys, but I found my way to the first stall and hiked my minidress up around my hips, barely getting my panties down before collapsing onto the toilet.

Leaned forward, elbows on knees, I grabbed handfuls of hair and closed my eyes, fighting a wave of dizziness. The drug had never made me feel this way before. It was almost as if I had a fever or was coming down with something, while being drugged, while beginning to feel alcohol kick in. I didn't know how long I sat there, breathing heavily, each inhale a focused attempt to force air into my lungs. My chest ached, and I felt like I was going to lose consciousness. I heard other women enter and leave the bathroom, and the music pounded at the door like the big bad wolf, wanting to come in and devour me. But there I sat, unable to move. My ass glued to that public toilet seat. I thought of Kenji and found some solace in the idea that I could do this and he could never. At least I wasn't as bad as him.

The next thing I knew, something was between my legs touching me. I felt myself being wiped and remembered having sat on a toilet. I lifted my heavy head and blinked my eyes a few times trying to gain focus. The room spun and my head swam with a familiar scent.

"Siphon?"

A toilet flushed. Then I was being hoisted upward. I could feel hands pulling my panties up, and then my dress down over my ass. I was cold--too cold. And I couldn't breathe.

But he was there.

I knew he was there.

I could smell his cologne. I felt his arms around me and heard whispers, but they were unintelligible. Words wouldn't come. My tongue was a cotton ball, my lips withered cacti. Each breath clawed my throat and burned my lungs.

"Daphne, what did you take?" His voice was sweet like wine. I felt my body being lifted up again, a jacket draped around my shoulders. "What did you take, D? Talk to me."

Someone was tapping my cheek, cold hands, or an ice cube. Or was it a dog licking my face?

"Daph, answer me.... Will, I think we need to dial 9-1-1."

"No!" It was the one thing I knew. I didn't need an ambulance. The jolt of fear shot adrenaline through my body, and I started to sober up.

"Daphne," Siphon said, his voice flooded with relief. He pulled me against his chest and squeezed me. "God, I was so worried about you. You went in the bathroom over an hour ago... Will, I'm going to take her home, okay?"

I forced my eyes open when he picked me up and looked up at his face. He was watching where he was going, but I was watching him. The concern chiseled on his features was a new one. I'd seen him display affection, lust, desire, compassion, and even what some might say was love, but I'd never seen this look on his face. He was genuinely worried for me.

Tears burned my eyes and darkness swallowed me.

***

"Hey, pretty girl..."

My eyes fluttered open, and I felt a cool damp sensation on my forehead. Siphon hovered over me, his face drawn and his eyes heavy. I smelled menthol in the air, and noticed my vaporizer plugged in, sitting on my coffee table in my sitting room. He had pulled a chair up to the couch and sat there over me like a mother does a sick child.

"What happened?" My neck was stiff, and my body trembled with shivers. I scratched out the words, but my voice was gravelly and hoarse.

"You're sick," he said, pulling the cloth off my forehead and replacing it with a fresh one from a bowl sitting beside the vaporizer.

"I'm sick?" Weights pulled at my eyelids, but I wanted to stay awake, to understand what was happening.

"Yeah." His lips felt good on my temple, his whiskers scratching my cheekbone. "I brought you home."

Struggling to roll to my side, I repositioned myself and found breathing a bit easier. I didn't know what I'd contracted, but for once I was grateful someone cared enough about me to take care of me. Being sick was awful enough but not having anyone in your life to help you made it way worse. One of the drawbacks to my "I don't do relationships" mentality I suppose.

"Daphne, I love you. And I don't know what you're going through, but I'm not leaving. Okay? I'll be here until you feel better, and I will be here after that. Every day, waiting for you. Do you understand? I love you, and I mean that."

His words faded in and out as he spoke, my body too weak to respond. I don't do relationships. It was on my tongue, but my lips were shut and so were my eyes.

27

The house went dark and stayed dark. All the lights had been out save one small glow from the southernmost window, and the porchlight for nearly twenty minutes, and I was starting to get drowsy myself when I heard a shrill scream reverberate. It was quiet and I couldn't tell where it had come from, but I feared it was Daphne.

No lights came on. There were no indications of movement within her home, but my heart raced anyway. I thought of the horrible things he was probably doing to her and how scared she probably was. My palms began to sweat, and I scrubbed them down my pantlegs as I set my eyes like a flint, locked on the single window with a hint of life. No shadows. No movement. No nothing--but another scream.

I felt my gut churn and pounded my fist into the top of my knee. If Daphne was in trouble, I needed to get to her. I reached for the doorhandle and started to pull it open, but a sudden tremor of fear made me shudder, and I recoiled faster than the action on a.380. There was no way I could go outside my car to get to her house. The open sky overhead, the risk. It was then that I became acutely aware of my breathing, loud, weighted, labored--like an overweight smoker after he's sprinted across the lawn and down the street trying to catch the ice cream truck. The culmination of a lifestyle of bad habits and horrible health choices. I wheezed like an old man on oxygen, only it wasn't a wheeled oxygen tank I dragged with me everywhere; it was my PTSD triggers and coping mechanisms.

My pants had never been more crisp than in that moment. The front creases were sharp and perfectly parallel down the fronts of my legs, my fingers working tediously to make sure the stiff peak of material stayed that way. I tapped my toes as I watched the window, ready to move at a moment's notice, and simultaneously frozen in that seat.

Then another loud shrill broke the night and without thinking, my hand jerked the door open and I bounded across the street and down the block, grabbing a chunk of a thick branch from Daphne's neighbor's yard and bursting through her front door into her sitting room. My momentum carried me halfway into the room before I knew what had happened, and then I saw him standing over her, his shadow casting long ominous fingers over her form. He held a knife in one hand and something else, I couldn't decipher what, in the other. I charged at him, makeshift club in hand, ready to strike.

"What the!"

The moment I swung the hunk of wood, Siphon turned his back into the swing, and I ricocheted off, landing just past him in a heap on the floor. The wood tumbled away from me, slamming into a door and bouncing into the corner of the room beneath a Ficus. Rolling to my back, I started to stand up and the lights came on momentarily blinding me. I shielded my eyes and felt a strong grip on my elbow.

"You're that reporter! What the fuck are you doing here?" Siphon's tone was angry, but he spoke in whisper shouts the way you do when you're having an argument in a public place and you don't want anyone to know you're arguing. I looked at his hands and noticed he had the knife and a roll of plastic wrap in the hand that didn't have a death grip on me.

"I should ask you that!"

"I'm taking care of Daphne. She is really sick, and her fever is really high, and I was making her an ice pack."

"Out of plastic wrap and a knife? Or were you planning to kill her?" I didn't believe his story for a moment.