Always Watching

underbrush for an animal. Behind a large stump, just out of the light, there was a shadow, tall, like a man. Was someone there? I called out, “Hello?” No one answered. I stared at the shadow, sure that I felt someone’s gaze on me. I spun around and made my way swiftly back to the car, barely stopping to take a breath until I was inside and had locked the doors. I sat, waiting for my system to settle down, telling myself I was foolish—no one had been watching me. But when I looked back down the trail, I felt an overwhelming urge to get out of there as fast as possible.
    I started up the car and reversed so quickly my tires slipped on the loose gravel, almost shooting me over the side of the bank. I put the car in drive and sped away. Not slowing down until I reached the turnoff down to Victoria. I’d finally found the source of my claustrophobia—but not the reason. I told myself it was just childhood memories blown out of proportion. I’d probably fallen down the haystack, or maybe got trapped in one of the stalls with a horse. That’s all. But still, I heard a voice in my head. Something bad happened in that barn.

 
    CHAPTER NINETEEN
    The next day, Saturday, I was still trying to shake off the events of the afternoon before. I spent the morning going through some moving cartons that I hadn’t dealt with yet, unpacking, rearranging, storing the boxes in the basement, wishing it was that simple with memories. I stirred up some more when I opened a box from Paul’s office. I picked through his favorite pen set, medical books, the model plane that he’d wanted to fly one day. I remembered that I still had his old tool set. They hadn’t interested Garret at the time, but I’d kept them, thinking he might want them when he was older. He’d be thirty-two now. The last time we spoke, when I first moved to Victoria, he mentioned that he was house-hunting as well. It reminded me that we’d also talked about going for lunch in the New Year.
    We’d kept in touch at the holidays after Paul died, but when Lisa moved out, the calls dwindled. I’d sent Christmas cards for a while, but then they started coming back with Return to Sender scrawled across the front. His mother had been a nightmare—moody, histrionic, passive-aggressive, and controlling. We’d tried to take Garret as often as possible, and Paul always made sure he was still part of his life. I’d also tried to bond with him, remembering my own longing for a family. But Garret was a temperamental child, and he hadn’t made the transition easy. He’d resented Lisa terribly, and with seven years between them, they hadn’t had much in common. But when Garret was around eighteen they’d finally developed a friendship and become quite close. That’s why it was so sad when she also stopped communicating with him after their father died. Garret had tried a couple of times to find her when she moved back to Victoria, but she’d cut both of us out of her life. I’d also missed Garret. Then, finally, when he hit his late twenties, he started calling me once in a while to chat, and we’d go for lunch or coffee when I was in Victoria, and we’d talk about his dad and Lisa.
    When I’d done all I could in the house, I headed outside to get my bike, holding my breath when I spotted the black cat perched on the roof of the shed. She was still, her body tense, watching me. She looked thinner than last time, one ear missing a chunk. A battle scar from the fight? I went back to the house and got some food from the kitchen. Then I cautiously walked to near where she was sitting, eyeing me. I reached up and set the little blue bowl on the lowest edge of the roof. We stared at each other. I blinked first, then backed up, but stopped halfway to the house, still partly in the driveway.
    If you want it, kitty, you’re going to have to eat it when I’m here.
    The cat nimbly made her way down the roof, then strolled over to the bowl, head high, saying, I’m not scared of you. She gobbled up the food but still stopped every once in a while to stare at me, tail flicking. After a few moments, when I continued to talk soothing nonsense, telling her how pretty she was, what a good kitty, the tail flicking slowed to a calmer rhythm, and toward the end, a low purr at the back of her throat. When she was done, she sat, licking a dainty paw. I may be a street cat, but I’m still a lady. Then her head snapped up, she stared over my shoulder, streaked across the roof,