I was certain I hadn’t fallen asleep.
Then again, when you stare at something long enough, in a comfortable-enough chair, on a quiet-enough street not too far from the beach, well, you’re bound to slip in and out of consciousness.
Except I was pretty sure I hadn’t slipped in and out of consciousness. I was pretty sure I had stared at that fucking house with its white Ford F-150 parked in the driveway, its seven bottlebrush plants following the curve of the driveway, its mostly green grass except for the dry spot in the middle, and its bright porch light that seemed to somehow reach through the heavily-tinted glass and straight to the back of my head.
After what seemed like an eternity, the porch light finally turned off and a thirty-something woman with a nice-enough body appeared in the doorway. She wore workout clothes. She did a few stretches, appeared to crack her neck, then headed down the driveway, hung a right, jogged past my van on the opposite side of the street, then continued on.
I watched her through the tinted rear window until she hung a right at the far corner and disappeared.
There was barely enough light out to call this morning. The sun was still forty or fifty minutes away. I briefly marveled at morning people. I was fairly certain the woman had been smiling to herself as she passed me by.
I checked my cell phone. A smile on her face at 5:43 in the morning?
Who smiled at 5:43 in the morning?
I marveled at this, and then let it go.
The morning continued to brighten. Birds twittered with a little more energy. Somewhere an early worm was getting devoured. Somewhere in that house across the street, a killer was either sleeping or watching his kids. And somewhere not too far from here, my mother’s bones were rotting away.
I rubbed my forehead, my eyes, my face, the stubble along my jaw. It was all I could do to not burst in there, guns blazing.
Time and place, I thought.
Besides, I still don’t know if he was the killer. His only crime to date was circumstance.
Cars started appearing on the street. No one paid a roofing truck any mind. No one knew I was staring out the heavily-tinted window.
The woman came back. His wife, I assumed. Looked pretty good for having three kids. Not perfect. But good.
As my mechanic friend Charles liked to say: Good enough.
I should have felt bad for her. I should have felt bad for her kids. I should have felt bad for them because one way or another-unless I was dead wrong about Gary Tomlinson-they were going to be without a husband and a father.
I should have felt bad.
But I didn’t.
I spent the day following Gary.
He was a medium-sized man with a great tan. I wasn’t sure if he even worked. Maybe I had caught him on his day off. I followed him to his kids’ school, where he dropped off the twin girls and their brother. I followed him to Gold’s Gym in Newport. Then to Whole Foods in Huntington Beach. I followed him to the cleaners and then back home.
At four in the afternoon, after Gary had picked up his kids, I peeled off and went home and went to bed, and willed myself to not dream of finding my mother’s body in a pool of her own blood, to not dream of her lifeless eyes and her cold flesh. To not dream of the deep wound in her neck.
But no such luck.