Always Watching

life.
    *   *   *
    We had a staff meeting one day, and my director pulled me aside afterward. Elaine was almost in her mid-sixties but didn’t show any sign of wanting to retire soon—she often came in on her days off. She was respected for her fairness to the staff and her low tolerance for any drama, but she also didn’t miss much.
    “You doing all right? You seemed distracted today.”
    “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
    Her expression concerned, Elaine said, “You’ve looked tired a few times this week. Losing a patient is traumatic, if you need some time off—”
    “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
    “Okay. Door’s open if you ever need to talk.”
    Despite my answer, I had a feeling she was going to watch me closely, and she was right to be concerned. I had been distracted and tired at work recently.
    A couple of nights that week, I’d woken up, sure that I heard the rumble of a car slowing down outside. One time, I got up and opened the front blinds, spotting a green truck, which sped off when I flicked on my outdoor light. And a few times when I’d come home from work, I was sure I felt someone watching me as I got out of my car, but whenever I looked around, I couldn’t spot anyone.
    It wasn’t just my personal life that was weighing on my mind. Francine, my dementia patient, wasn’t doing well on the unit, refusing to eat and trying to run away daily. She was also becoming violent, biting and kicking, and had to be sedated. Sometimes I’d come in, and she’d be staring out the window, her face empty, a trapped bird.
    We’d also had a young man admitted who’d tried to hang himself after losing his job and his girlfriend in the same week. Young men have a particularly difficult time with depression as they don’t have the emotional skills to work through it. Brandon was struggling, with no idea what he wanted to do with his life when he was released.
    “You have lots of options, Brandon,” I told him during our sessions. “This is just a bump in the road.” And we’d talk about employment resources and where he could get help on his resume. I often thought about Heather when talking with Brandon, her ghost still lingering in the hospital halls, smiling at me through his blue eyes. I spent longer than normal with him, hoping to avoid another tragedy.
    *   *   *
    Thursday, Garret came over. Seeing his grin when I handed him his father’s tools solidified my belief that he should have them. He stayed for coffee while we reminisced. It was sweet when he said, “I’m sorry I was such a brat as a kid.” And I laughed when he said, “You should pose for me sometime,” enjoying the man he’d grown up to be. He showed me his new business cards, and it was clear he was trying hard with his venture. We also talked about Lisa again. It was nice to share my dashed hopes and dreams with someone who also cared for her. I told him about my run-in with her down at the wharf.
    His concern was obvious in his face, but he just said, “It might be better to leave her alone. She’ll probably come around on her own one day. I did, right?”
    He smiled, reminding me so much of his father I had to smile back.
    *   *   *
    Friday, I heard from the Shawnigan Lake RCMP—they’d talked to Aaron. I stood with my hand still on the pile of clothes I’d been in the middle of putting away, waiting for the news while my heart thudded in my ears, already knowing instinctively that it wasn’t going to be good. My premonition was confirmed a moment later when Corporal Cruikshank told me that Aaron denied everything, and he had also refused a lie detector test, which they couldn’t force him to take. She explained that without further information, the case would be archived.
    I’d hung up the phone with a mixture of defeat and anger, trying to find some peace in knowing I’d done the right thing. Still, a part of me couldn’t shut out the fear that there were other victims out there. I also couldn’t ignore the feeling that one day, maybe even soon, someone was going to get seriously hurt at the center, either by some of his techniques like fasting and sleep deprivation, or by their not letting someone seek medical treatment for some ailment in time.
    On Saturday, I’d finished my shopping and housecleaning when my mind drifted back up to Shawnigan. The retired officer, Steve Phillips, would be home from his holidays now, and I wondered if it was worth talking to him. He’d