Another woman might have marched into the police station. Asked for an escort home. Reported Henry Callahan for following me. But it won’t do me any good. And the thought of entering a police station makes me physically ill. After what I went through all those years ago, I never want to go into a police station ever again.
After all, a simple background check will reveal exactly who I am. I don’t need that.
After ten minutes, I feel satisfied that Callahan is finally gone. Sure enough, when I get back on the road, it’s as quiet and empty as it usually is. It takes me another fifteen minutes to arrive at my cozy two-story house in Mountain View. The realtor said the house was perfect for a small family, but it’s just me. There was a time when I thought it might not always just be me, but in retrospect, that was misguided.
There are two bedrooms upstairs, and I use the second bedroom for my home office slash guest room. The washer and dryer are in the basement. When Philip came to visit soon after I bought the place, he wrinkled his nose and remarked that I could afford better. Yes, I could, but I’m happy here. What on earth would I do rattling around a five-bedroom house all by myself? It’s not like I’ll ever havechildren to fill up those rooms.
I come in through the garage entrance. The door echoes as it slams shut, and after the sound dies off, the house becomes deathly silent. I stand there for a moment, clutching my keys in my right hand.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out.
It’s funny because, you know, I live alone.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the echo of my words throughout the room. I worry sometimes about living alone. If somebody came into my house and were waiting for me here, who would know?
But it’s a safe neighborhood. I don’t usually worry about stuff like that.
I’m starving. If I hadn’t had to deal with Henry Callahan trying to scare me, I would’ve swung by In-N-Out Burger on the way home—part of my campaign to drop dead of a heart attack before I’m fifty. But I missed my chance, so I go to the kitchen to see what’s in the freezer. I need some food to soak up the whiskey. And then maybe another whiskey to soak up the food.
No, I really shouldn’t. It’s getting late and I have to be up at the crack of dawn to operate in the morning. I don’t need much sleep as a rule, but my eyelids are starting to feel heavy.
As I open the cupboard in the kitchen, I hear a thump. Then a second thump.
Somebody’s trying to get in the back door.
Thump.
I was waiting at the police station for at least ten minutes. Henry Callahan was gone. He didn’t follow mehome—I’m sure of it. I was watching in my rearview mirror the whole time and I didn’t see any cars behind me. I would have noticed, even if their lights were off. I’m very observant.
I look out the window, but I see only blackness. There’s no one there.
Like I said, I live in a very safe neighborhood. All my neighbors are up-and-coming professionals, most of them with young families. Although I don’t know for certain, because I haven’t taken the opportunity to meet any of them. I can’t name one person living within a one-mile radius of me, although I suppose I would recognize a few of them on sight.
I imagine what they would say if something ever happened to me.She seemed nice. Quiet. Always kept to herself.That’s what they always say.
Thump.
I return to the cupboard over the sink. I yank it open and retrieve the object I’m looking for before returning to the back door. I take one last look out the window to confirm nobody is there. Then I twist the lock to the back door and throw open the door.
Instantly, the meowing starts up. There’s a black cat at my feet, who nuzzles at my pants leg with her little furry head. Then she looks up at me hopefully.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say.
I crack open the can of cat food I got from my cupboard and empty it into the little bowl I put out behind my back door. This cat isnotmy cat. It is a stray cat. I should probably call an animal shelter or something, butinstead, I bought a crate of cat food. And now, apparently, I’m feeding the cat.
I watch the cat lap up sixty cents worth of mashed-up chicken. She’s so ridiculously grateful whenever I feed her. Maybe even more grateful than Callahan was for having saved his life.
My father would not have done this. He wouldn’t have fed a stray cat. He never saved anyone’s life.
I watch the cat eat for another few seconds, then I shut the back door. And I lock it.
Ten minutes later, I settle down at my kitchen table with a TV dinner and my laptop. I log into our practice’s electronic medical records system. I sift through some labs, but then I find myself searching for the medical record of Henry Callahan.
It’s just as I remember. Cholecystitis. Required removal of the gallbladder. Laparoscopic surgery converted to open cholecystectomy. No post-op complications, routine recovery.
Then I click on the tab for demographics. It lists Callahan’s medical insurance. His primary contact is his brother, which means he’s not married. He probably lives alone. And right below all the phone numbers is his home address.
He lives in San Jose in a sketchy sort of neighborhood. Looks to be a house. Not far from here at all.
