It's not like me to be dismissive. And I know Daphne pretty well. The moment she'd shown me that invitation, I should have known she'd go through with it.
But I’d let my guard down. I'd stopped beating my head against every available surface.
She hasn’t, though. This isn't over for her. I’m busy falling in love. But she wants revenge. She wants her career, and grad school at a top-five program somewhere far away from here.
It stings a little. But I already knew that. My new problem is how to keep her safe. I wanted her to be done with Reardon Halsey.
But she isn’t done. So I guess I’m not, either.
I spend the next couple of days feeling broody about our upcoming jaunt to Connecticut. And Daphne is pretty quiet, too. On Friday morning, I catch her looking at the floorplan of a building on her laptop—just like James Bond.
But she closes the computer quickly as my footsteps approach.
“It’s just me,” I whisper. “Was that the place? Want to share?”
She shakes her head. “I really don’t want to involve you if I don’t have to. Technically I’m planning to commit a crime. Even though I’m not stealing anything.”
“I’m going to be standing next to you.” I lean over and kiss the top of her head. “I’m an accessory, right? That’s what the TV cop shows would call it.”
“That’s just it.” She swivels to look up at me. “I don’t think you should go. I’m well aware that this plan is crazy. It might fail. And I will take full responsibility.” She swallows hard.
“Hey now.” I sit down beside her on the couch and pull her close to me. She’s wearing the daphnia necklace. She never takes it off. “Look—I can’t sit at home here next Wednesday night and wonder if you’re okay. I just can’t. So I’m going with you.”
“But Rickie…” She buries her face in my flannel shirt. “I don’t know what I’m doing. This will either work great, or it will make things worse. But I have to try.”
Do you really? I want to ask. But I don’t say it. Daphne has to figure this out for herself. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who tells her what to think and do.
But I worry.
Daphne goes home with her brother for the weekend, and I keep worrying. The house is too quiet with just me and Keith at home. I read Aristotle and brood.
Then, on Saturday night, I have another damn dream. It’s just like the ones I had this summer—where I open my eyes and Reardon Halsey is lying on my bed, smirking at me.
Then I open my eyes for real and wake up sweaty. And not in a fun way. Shit. It’s three in the morning. And I can see his face so clearly in my mind’s eye.
Why is that?
I turn on the lamp, which chases the shadows out of the room. I pull my laptop onto the bed and open it up. I google Reardon Halsey again, and find all the same photos as last time. It’s not a great use of the wee hours. But I recognize his face, and it’s driving me insane.
So I open up my email and try something I’ve tried a million times before. I write another email to paulywhite123.
Paul,
Hi, it’s me again. I’ve written before, but I don't know if you got my earlier messages. I'm still out here looking for answers. I still don't remember how I ended up in the hospital.
There is a lot that I need to know. Can you help?
Hell, I don't know if you've ever read one of these messages. I don't even know if we're friends. But if you know what happened to me on the Saturday night of Open Weekend, I need to know.
Or even if you don’t know, please reply so I know you actually still exist.
Yeah, that's dark. But my mind has been to some very dark places recently.
Sincerely,
Rick Ralls
I spend Sunday writing a paper about Freud. Plus I check my email about a thousand times.
Later that afternoon, on the 1001st try, there’s a bolded, unread message at the top of the stack. From paulywhite123.
I actually close my eyes for a moment in surprise. But when I open them again, it’s still there. The time stamp is only a few minutes ago.
When I open the message, it’s only one line long. He writes: Are you getting help for those dark places?