Always Watching

me to go, her expression grew frightened, and she said, “I don’t like this hotel. I want to go home.” I reminded her that she was at the hospital, and she began to cry.
    I rubbed her back, trying to soothe. When that didn’t work, I spoke of Mexico, the clear blue water, the white sand, the tropical wind blowing and grabbing at your dress and hair as you walked on the beach, gliding across your sunburned skin in a caress. Finally, she fell asleep, a small smile on her sad face.
    Later, Kevin stopped by my office briefly, saying, “I got your message last night, but it was too late to call back. Everything okay?”
    I said, “Yes, I was going to ask you something, but I sorted it out myself.” I had already decided that I didn’t want him to know what had happened at the center.
    He gave me a questioning look. “You sure?”
    “I just have a lot going on at the moment.” I made a motion with my hands, pointing to all my paperwork. “And trying to play catch up.”
    He nodded and said, “Well, have a good day.” There was a bemused expression on his face, and I wanted to explain further, but before I could say anything else, my phone rang. He gave a wave and left my office.
    *   *   *
    The following evening I was brewing tea in the kitchen, thinking about Francine, who’d finally been placed in a good nursing home with an art program, one bit of bright news, when I thought I heard a noise outside. I peeked out the window but couldn’t see anything. Wondering if it was the cat, I pushed open the door. It fell closed behind me. I paused, calling “Kitty?” as I looked into the backyard. There was no meow in response, nothing moved in the grass. I glanced to my left. The motion sensor light in my neighbor’s yard blinked on, casting odd shadows. Had the cat set it off, or something larger? I strained my ears, listened for footsteps. In the distance I heard a vehicle start up, then drive away fast, its tires squealing.
    That night I slept fitfully, waking every hour or so, my heart palpitating at the slightest creak in the house. The next day, I called another psychiatrist at the hospital to cover me, then phoned Corporal Cruikshank in Shawnigan. She told me that the officers had contacted her the previous evening, after they went to the commune to speak with Aaron, so she already knew what had happened.
    I had a hard time not raising my voice in frustration when I told the officer that I had not made these events up. She was very professional, careful to keep her own voice neutral, and said that someone in Victoria would still be speaking to Garret. But she warned me it likely wouldn’t come to anything unless Lisa was willing to make a statement, which we both doubted. She then also suggested I stay away from the commune and let them handle it from now on. I was just making things worse and potentially damaging my case. I agreed.
    I had also told her about the noise in my backyard, and the vehicle driving off. She suggested that I have a security system installed, for peace of mind. It wasn’t a bad idea. After we hung up, I made a few calls to alarm companies and arranged to have one installed as soon as possible. I tried to busy myself around the house for the afternoon, but I kept stopping and staring into space, Lisa’s words haunting me: It started when I was thirteen.
    When I thought about Garret’s hands on Lisa, every time I remembered leaving them alone, guilt tied my guts into knots. I couldn’t stand thinking he got away with this—thinking he could do this to some other little girl.
    I grabbed my purse and drove to his studio. When I got to his house, a young mother was walking her preteen daughter to their car, waving and smiling good-bye to Garret. What would’ve just seemed like a friendly return smile on his face before now disgusted me. I waited until the car drove off, then got out of mine and walked down to his studio, where he was framing some photos. When he heard my footsteps, he spun around, smiling when he recognized me.
    “Nadine! You came to see the studio. Perfect timing. I just—”
    “I know, Garret. I know what you did.” I’d come there in anger, wanting to confront and rage, but now I wanted to cry. This was a boy I’d watched grow up, a boy I’d held when he cried at his father’s funeral. How did this happen?
    He looked confused. “What’s wrong?”
    “How could you?” My words were a plea, begging him to make me understand, though I never