Breathe In Read online

  When I step out into the fresh air, I open my umbrella against the thin dusting of mist that hangs in the air. Daylight Saving Time has darkness settled over the city and streetlights shining down. I shiver against the cold and second-guess my decision. I take one last look at the print out to confirm the address before I tuck it in my pocket. When I look up, I notice a man sitting in a car next to the curb. He’s got his head tipped down as if he’s looking at something in his lap. The engine is off. I saw him in the same spot two days ago and thought nothing of it. I figured he was picking someone up. Now, something feels off about his presence. A sense of déjà vu sends goosebumps over my flesh. I shake it off and march down the street. I’m paranoid. It’s just a man waiting for someone. Maybe a woman in the neighborhood. Maybe a friend.

  The eerie sensation of dread lingers with me all the way to my destination. When I find the building, I almost laugh out loud. It’s the quintessential gloomy, desolate, rundown building. This is where battered woman seek solace and support? How depressing.

  Another wave of doubt washes over me. I could turn around right now and go back home. Terin would never know. I glance around to take in my surroundings. Does anyone notice my struggle? Pedestrians file by. Drivers focus on their commute from work to wherever it is they’re going—oblivious to what I’m doing, of course. I could definitely leave and no one would know, or care.

  A deal’s a deal. Terin’s chipper voice echoes in my mind. Guilt follows. I sigh and fold up my umbrella as I stomp up the stone stairs. I strain to open the weighty metal door. When I slip inside, the murmur of hushed voices echoes down the long expanse of hallway. The sound is hollow and sad. This is the last place people who are seeking answers should be.

  I keep my chin tucked and eyes averted when I enter the room, hoping to avoid drawing attention in my direction. A fold-out table against the far left wall bears snacks, a carafe of water, and a steel coffee dispenser. A circle of chairs fills the center of the room while a cluster of women huddle in various groupings.

  They look so…normal.

  I’m not sure what I had been expecting, but it clearly wasn’t this. No one has a black eye or fat lip. No one has sunken cheekbones or frail, broken body language. They are average everyday women. Businesswomen, stay-at-home moms, PTA members. Some are young, others middle-aged, and one appears to be a bit more elderly. I feel ashamed that I had stereotyped this group before I’d even laid eyes on them.

  “Hello.” A soft, curious lilt comes from behind me.

  I turn. A petite, bright-eyed woman stares at me expectantly. I offer my right hand. “Oh, hello. I’m Tessa Benson.”

  “Glad to meet you, Tessa. I’m Shirley Aldrich. I’m the chairperson for our little group here. We’re happy to have you join us tonight. Is this your first support group session?”

  I nod, glad for her welcoming presence. “Yes, it is. And I’m a bit nervous. I’m not sure this is the right place for me, but a friend insisted I come.”

  Her eyes crinkle deeply in the outside corner as she smiles with hidden wisdom. “Yes, well, our friends often know what we need and where we should be much sooner than we do. Do you know anything about our group? Do you have any questions before we get started?”

  “Umm, my friend said it was a support group for battered women.”

  Her lips purse as she slowly nods her head. “Well, sort of. It’s not specifically just for women who are in abusive relationships, though we certainly have those as well. The more broad-spectrum focus of our group is for women who have survived violence. Of any nature. If your friend thinks you belong here, then it’s likely you do. Yes?”

  A survivor of violence. Yes, I guess I qualify, though I still don’t feel like this is a good fit for me. “I guess.”

  She smiles. “You just join us for tonight’s meeting and you can decide for yourself if this is something that could be of use to you. That’s what really matters. In the meantime, I can introduce you around if you like?”

  “No. No, thanks. I’ll just hang back and get a feel for things, if that’s all right with you?”

  “Of course, make yourself comfortable. There are drinks and snacks over there. I will, however, ask you to give a brief introduction of yourself when we begin. Is that going to be okay with you?”

  My insides cringe. “Yes, I think I can manage that.”

  “Good, then go ahead and get something to drink. We’ll start in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Instead of heading toward the drink table, I decide to find a spot in the circle to sit. I have no idea what else to do. I hang my jacket over the back and slide my umbrella under my chair, then fold my hands in my lap and wait patiently for the next hour to pass as quickly as possible.

  Shirley approaches the circle of chairs and sits directly opposite me. Soon the rest of the crowd follows suit and the majority of the chairs are filled within minutes. Multiple pairs of inquisitive eyes fixate on me.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Shirley says with enthusiasm. “Good to see all of you. We have a new face among us so, as we’ve done in the past, we’ll go around and offer a brief introduction of ourselves one at a time so that our guest feels comfortable. I’ll start first.” She straightens her back and clasps her hands together in her lap, like a school teacher preparing to address her class.

  “My name is Shirley Aldrich. I was born and raised here in the Pacific Northwest, mainly the lower Seattle area. I began my work as a social worker about thirty-five years ago, back when I had a lofty idea that I was going to save the world one person at a time. Then real life happened and things were uglier in the real world than I could have imagined. Social work was brutal and exhausting. It sucked the life out of me.” Both her tone and body language alter slightly, offering a darker inflection to her story.

  “One day while I was on a house call to investigate yet another case of child neglect, I wound up face to face with an extremely angry father who was high as a kite on amphetamines and had no intention of letting me leave his home that day. After the way I found his home and the degree that his two-year-old was suffering from malnourishment, he must have known I would call the police. He refused to let me leave. Things escalated when I tried to escape. I was able to call 911 but he beat me within an inch of my life as a consequence. All I remember after that is the sound of the child as he whimpered in his crib. The sound of sirens surrounding the building. He held me hostage for over twenty-four hours before a SWAT team finally rescued both me and the baby—but not before they shot and killed the father.” She pauses. The class is silent, waiting for her to continue.

  “Long story short, PTSD is a real thing, and though the incident was over, I suffered the long-term effects of that kind of trauma for many, many months. Eventually, I sought out support groups. I found a lot that focused on battered wives, but nothing that was more generalized to other survivors of violence. So I created my own support group to include a wider group of women who needed support.”

  The group gives a short round of clapping. Then one by one the rest of the group begins to tell their stories. One woman is the survivor of a mini-mart robbery. She was the cashier on the night shift. The next three women are survivors of long-term abusive marriages. One is still married to her husband, who is in prison. Then a rotund Hispanic woman sitting next to me tells the story of how she was kidnapped at age fourteen by an estranged uncle. She was beaten and raped for two weeks before the police found her. The uncle was killed last year by another inmate while he served time for a different count of rape.

  As the room offers their obligatory round of supportive applause, I ponder why we’re clapping. These are atrocities we’re talking about. Ugliness and violence. It causes cognitive dissonance within me to clap in response to these stories. A scuffle from behind me draws the attention of everyone in the room. I turn to see what’s causing the ruckus.

  “Sorry, everyone. Sorry I’m late.” A tall, burly woman bustles into the room like a lo
ng-horned beast breaking through the crowd at a running-of-the-bulls event. She retrieves the cigarette that dangles from her mouth haphazardly and squashes it on the floor, as if we’re outside in the dirt. She pulls the hood of her dark blue sweatshirt off her head to reveal dark hair pulled back into a long, thick braid. Strands of gray are woven throughout.

  I take in a sharp breath when I spot the deep blue-and-yellow tinted bruise surrounding her left eye. This is what I had expected when I first arrived.

  The dynamic of the room shifts immediately as everyone makes room for her to join the circle. Some look apprehensive. Others seem indifferent. I sense she has a strong influence over the group. She makes me nervous.

  Shirley offers a welcoming smile. “Glad you could make it, Grace. We were just—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Grace says as she lifts her left leg and swings it over the chair before she plops down in it dramatically. “I’m here. Whatever. Let’s not make a fuss…” She stops mid-sentence as her gaze locks on to me. “Well, well, I see we have a newbie. At least that’s interesting.”

  Her smirk is almost a sneer. I shift nervously in my seat and offer a tentative smile.

  “This is Tessa,” Shirley says. “We were just about to let her introduce herself to the group before you came barreling in.”

  Grace’s eyes are still locked on to mine. Her sneer shifts slowly as recognition lights up her features. Her brows rise. “Hey, I know who she is. I saw her face on the news a crap-ton of times. Yeah, she’s the girl who killed those snuff-film fuckers.”

  The blood drains from my face. I shake my head but I’m not even sure why.

  She laughs and nods vehemently, clearly pleased with her discovery. “Oh, yes, you are. You’re her. Man, you really showed those fuckers who was boss, didn’t you?” She leans forward, both elbows on her knees, a glisten in her eyes. “Tell us how you did it.”

  Now the entire circle is focused on me, like a group of vultures. Is that you? Are you the one who did that? Tell us about it. Weren’t you scared? What did they do to you?

  I feel both hot and dizzy at the same time. Their barrage of questions overwhelms me and I don’t know what to do, so I jump to my feet, scramble to retrieve my umbrella from under the seat, and run out of the room. Shirley calls my name. I ignore it and flee down the hall and out of the building. I’m not ready for this yet.

  ***

  Thursday and Friday come and go with no sign of Tobin after work. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. I can’t decide if that indecision infuriates me or intrigues me. But when a knock echoes through my apartment first thing Saturday morning, I instantly sense that it’s him.

  I hover in the hallway, pondering whether I should answer or ignore it and wait for him to leave. Guilt vetoes my need to hide, so I open the door.

  Tobin stands in the hallway. Dressed in jeans and a hoodie, he looks less formidable than he does in his uniform, but his wide shoulders and sexy confidence still make it appear that he’s larger than he is. He seems to fill the space no matter where he is. Like the environment around him is too small for his presence. I find it comforting. Safe, somehow.

  He takes in my appearance of running shoes, yoga pants, and rain coat. “You on your way out?”

  “Yeah, I was about to go for a run.”

  His eyes light up. “Oh, yeah? I didn’t know you were a runner.”

  “Well, I was in high school. Cross country. But to be honest, I haven’t run much in years. Just too busy, or lazy—both, I guess. Anyway, since the class, I realized how out of shape I am and figured I’d best get back into it. It’ll help, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly. Builds muscle and stamina. It’s a great way to supplement the training.”

  We both fall silent, an awkward pause lingering between us.

  “Do you want to come in?” I finally offer stupidly.

  “Uh, well, I don’t want to keep you from your run. I was just on the way to run some errands, and since I was too busy this last week to come by, like we discussed, I figured I’d see if you were around this morning. I hate to drop in, though. Still no phone?”

  My cheeks flush. “No. No phone yet. Guess I should get back to the twenty-first century and get one soon. It’s kind of odd, but I haven’t missed it. You know?”

  As if on cue, his phone pings, notifying him of a message. He gives a sheepish shrug. “Oh, don’t I know it. Hey, look, I just came by because we found out the name of the person who owns the cabin, and also, I wanted to get the names of those men. Just to cover all bases.”

  I grip the door knob tighter. “The cabin? A name?” I sound breathless, even to my own ears.

  He gives a single nod, watching my reaction carefully. “Yeah, we think the name is just an alias, because we have yet to actually find anyone under that name, but I wanted to know if the name Benjamin Ashford rings any bells?”

  Pressure builds within my skull as I mentally scroll through my name index. I’m not sure if I want to recognize the name or not. I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. “No. No, I don’t recognize that name. Someone could have bought the property under another name?”

  “Oh, sure. It happens all the time. It shouldn’t, but it does. People figure out ways to cheat the system. Especially if there’s cold, hard cash involved, which there likely was.”

  I run the name over and over again through my mind. Still nothing comes up.

  He shrugs. “No worries. We’ll get it figured out. In the meantime, why don’t you give me the names of those men at the club and we’ll go from there.”

  “Sure, sure. So…let’s see…I ran into Gerald Snowden that night. He and I went out off and on for about two months. Like I said, nice guy. He liked me a lot more than I liked him, unfortunately. We didn’t really talk that night. I ran into him and then pretty much avoided him for the rest of the evening.”

  Tobin has already reached into his back pocket and retrieved a small notepad. He scribbles quickly, mumbling under his breath as he repeats about half of what I’m saying. When I pause, his head snaps up, waiting in anticipation. “So, why were you avoiding him? Did you two break up amicably or was there strife? Was he upset or disgruntled?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t think he was happy about it. He continued to make amends afterward, but…look, Gerald’s harmless. I’m not worried about him.”

  “Okay, okay. Well, what about the other guy? Tom, was that his name?”

  “Yes, Tom Hastings the Third.”

  He furrows his brow. “Hastings? Tom Hastings? I know him.”

  “You do?”

  He leans against the doorway with a whimsical look on his face. “Yeah, he and I go way back. Went to college together. Same fraternity and everything. Haven’t seen him in quite a while, but yeah, he and I share some stories, that’s for sure. Huh, so you and he were a thing?” His tone has a nostalgic tenor mixed with sudden interest.

  I shake my head, uncomfortable with the way the conversation has turned. “No, not really a thing. I mean…we went out a few times. I liked him and all that, but he was busy, you know with work…and he, he just didn’t have time for a girlfriend. I don’t know. We didn’t know each other all that long. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  I shift my weight back and forth as he gauges my reaction, his profession seeping into our interaction. The investigator in him taking over.

  ”But you and he interacted that evening? Any friction between you two?”

  The way Tom shoved his cock into my mouth, forcing my head down while I cried salty tears, comes flooding back. “No, not really.” I chew on my lip as I mentally chew on the next question. “So…you two are friends?”

  He shrugs. “Well, I mean we were. A long time ago. I guess we technically still are, but I haven’t seen him in years. How long were you and he a thing? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  I wonder if he’s asking from a personal or professional standpoint. “We weren’t really a thing. Like I said before, we only
dated for a few weeks. Nothing serious.”

  “Hmm, okay, well, are you sure you didn’t talk with anyone else that night? Or even that week? I know you said that Vance approached you in front of work, at the library. Anything else you can think of?”

  I’m done with this conversation. The fact that Tobin knows Tom, even was friends with him in the past, doesn’t sit well with me. “Nope. Not that I can think of.”

  He nods his head, his eyes roaming the hallway, while he processes the conversation. “Well, maybe I’ll get in touch with Tom. See if he saw anything odd that night. It’d be good to catch up with him anyway. I’ll get out of your hair now.” He tucks his pen and notebook into a pocket.

  I bite nervously on my bottom lip while fighting the urge to scratch at the scabs on my arms. As he turns away, panic rises within my chest and I reach out toward him. “Actually…”

  He stops mid-turn, his head cocked to the side, anticipating my next sentence. “Yeah?”

  I pull my arm back in protectively against my chest. “Well, you see…Tom and I…well…we weren’t really public about our…relationship, if you can even call it that.”

  “So, it was a secret?”

  Heat flushes my system as shame wells up. “No. Not really a secret. I did tell my best friend Terin about him. But Tom was more private. He didn’t want anyone to know anything about his private life. He never even invited me to his home. And I don’t want him to know I told you.”

  His gaze narrows speculatively. “Hmm, that’s odd. Doesn’t sound like the loud, gregarious Tom that I knew back in college. Did you think he had something to hide, like maybe a wife, or something?”

  I shrug. “You know, I’m really not sure. I mean, I did wonder, but I think he’s just busy and doesn’t want…” I pause before repeating Tom’s words out loud. “…a fling.”

  Tobin purses his lips together as if suppressing the next thought. I know what he’s thinking. Tom’s a cheater. And maybe he is. All I know is that I don’t want Tobin snooping around in my private life anymore, especially when it comes to Tom.