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  “Well, I insist, Ollie. And please, call me Lydia. I insist on that as well.” She bent to pick up what she could and placed it carefully inside the bag, while holding the rip closed.

  “Oh, thank you Miss. Lin—dia. So clumsy.”

  “You just have your hands full is all. I’m happy to help. These tomatoes look delicious. Where’d you get them?”

  “At the whole foods store on Wash’ Ave. I only buy fresh produce. None of that canned garbage. No siree. The government is poisoning us with that stuff. Want to malnourish us and keep us weak.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, what are you making?”

  “Spaghetti. My mother’s recipe, God rest her.”

  Lydia gave a sympathetic nod and then said, “That sounds delicious. Or maybe it’s just that I’m starving. I already had pasta this week.”

  “Well, there’s plenty for you. Come on over. I’m just across the hall, ya know.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t impose.” Lydia replied guiltily. She hadn’t meant to sound as if she were begging.

  “No, Miss...Lydia. You aren’t imposing at all—the company will be nice for a change. If it makes you feel better, you bring wine. I’ll start cooking right away.”

  “I’ll think about it, Ollie.”

  “This time, I insist, young lady. Come early and help me cook. Earn your keep,” he teased, “No sense in us both eating alone.”

  Lydia wondered if Ollie was aware that Dylan stood her up more often than not. Did he see that most nights Dylan was out with friends while she came home to an empty apartment? She blushed with embarrassment. She never did feel quite like she was living a real life…like she was a real grown up.

  “I just couldn’t, Ollie. I’m sorry,” she guiltily explained. “Maybe another time. Thank you so much for the invitation, though.”

  The elevator dinged signaling that they were on the fifth floor. After he unlocked his door—two deadbolts and the knob, Lydia handed the ripped bag of groceries to Ollie and entered her own apartment which was catty-cornered across the hall to his. She checked her phone again before entering in the hopes that Dylan had arrived at The Pub and was now waiting for her; still no answer. Feeling alone and desperate for good conversation, or any conversation for that matter, Lydia closed the door.

  “I’m home,” Lydia called sarcastically to what she thought was an empty apartment.

  “Hey, Lyd!” Dylan yelled and surprised her almost as much as Ollie had in the elevator. She had half hoped that Dylan was home, and was pleased to find him there. That was exactly what she needed: a night in with him ordering pizza and watching bad movies on Netflix on the couch.

  She passed through the open living area to the bedroom to change. She hadn’t made it far when she saw that they weren’t alone. Dylan had company. Rick and Court had made themselves at home in what should have been her spot on the couch. Rick was okay on his own, but she didn’t care for Court. She just didn’t think she could trust a man with a woman’s name. Who names their son Courtney, anyway? He had a confrontational and downright rude demeanor. Lydia figured it came with three decades of living with a girl’s name. Lydia just plain didn’t like him, and she especially didn’t like when all three of them were together. She could deal with one slob, but after a stressful day three slobs was pushing it.

  “Didn’t know we were going to have company, Dylan.” Lydia could feel her temperature rising.

  “Aw, c’mon, “Lyd”,” Court mocked, “you know you love us!”

  Lydia fake-smiled and excused herself to change clothes.

  “Hey, Lyd, when you come back in, bring me a beer, would ya?” Dylan called before she had even slipped her shoes off.

  “Me too,” echoed Rick.

  “Me three,” yelled Court.

  “Get them yourselves,” Lydia answered through the door. No way was she catering to them tonight. The men argued over who was “buying” the next round, and Rick lost.

  From the kitchen, Lydia retrieved a bottle of Cabernet from the wine rack and headed for her neighbor’s apartment. There was no way she was staying in with these people. She had said any conversation would have been better than none, unless it was a conversation that involved Court. That was something she would avoid at all costs. Besides, she hadn’t cooked in what seemed like ages, so she thought helping Ollie prepare dinner would be therapeutic. She laughed at herself, Always trying to fix someone, aren’t you, Lydia. At least this time, it’s you. Lord knows you need all the help you can get.

  Lydia’s thoughts turned to Clara. She hoped she was using the journal she had given her. It would be a good tool to getting to the root of her problem. Stop thinking about work, Lydia! She scolded herself and then walked out the door.

  Lydia knocked and was cheerily greeted. She held up the bottle of wine and shrugged her shoulders. Ollie took the Cabernet and invited his guest in.

  Inside Ollie’s apartment, he had just finished washing the tomatoes. He got right down to business ordering Lydia around. She didn’t mind; she’d never made homemade sauce before. She was usually a takeout or an open-a-jar-and-pour kinda girl. Like her mother before her, she was clueless.

  “Put on some water to boil. Score these tomatoes. Rinse this basil.” He instructed as he browned ground beef and chopped onions and minced cloves of garlic. She enjoyed the bustling activity in the small kitchen. It was almost a dance, she noticed, though she admittedly was a terrible partner; but, he led, she followed, and the meal prep and the wine flowed nicely enough. They didn’t speak much while they cooked, other than when Ollie requested the butter or a clean knife, or when Lydia questioned whether he wanted the big silver pot or the smaller, wider cream-colored pot with the lid.

  Ollie seemed to enjoy the company too. Lydia had never seen him with friends, and he definitely lived alone—no women ever came to call. She wondered if it was because of his eccentric nature, or if he just preferred to be alone most of the time. She looked around his apartment for the first time since she had stepped foot inside. She had been too busy in the kitchen to really look up and observe. This was unlike her; typically, she was a keen observer. It had the same open floor plan as her own apartment, but where she had light colored modern furniture, Ollie’s was old, like, seventies old, with horrible brown plaid cushions on a wooden framed couch with a matching chair, a thick oaken coffee table, and a box television. Aside from a frayed blanket slung across the back of the couch, there wasn’t much in the way of decoration. As she continued to scan the room, an open door drew her eye. From what she could tell, the room looked like an office and on the wall was an oversized and overloaded bulletin board. It was covered in newspaper clippings, photographs, handwritten notes, a map, and string. Lydia thought of every movie she had ever seen with a disturbed psycho keeping track of all of his kills, or a kicked-off-the-force cop searching for the serial killer who had brutally murdered his wife. She wondered if Ollie would have been the cop, or the serial killer in this scenario, which caused her to second-think her decision to have dinner with this man. Maybe she should have brought Ollie a nice Chianti instead. She turned to watch him stir the sauce he was simmering. He noticed her looking and smiled, not just with his mouth, but with his kind and gentle eyes. She returned his smile and figured he was harmless. She poured herself and her friend another glass of wine.

  When the instructions ceased, and the garlic bread was in the oven, the real conversation began. Lydia, ever the interviewer, asked, “So, how long have you lived here, Ollie?”

  “Not long,” came the reply, “I’ve been in the apartment for about six and a half months. I moved from out of state.”

  “Oh, really?: Lydia had thought he seemed like a fixture of the building when she had first met him. “From which state?” Lydia was interested in travel, though she never took any trips.

  Ollie sipped his wine, “All over really. Most recently I was in Virginia.”

  “All the way from Virginia to Washington? That’s quite the move.”

&n
bsp; “Yes. I’m a nomad. I like to move from place to place. I don’t like to dig my roots too deep, you know. No, no. That’s how they find you.”

  Despite a desperate desire to ask who they were, Lydia refrained. She had worked enough in the last week to last a lifetime. She was looking for a friend, not another patient, so she nodded.

  “And you, dear lady, what brings you here?”

  Lydia cringed internally. She gulped her wine and half-lied, “Work.” Technically it was work that brought her here, she reasoned. It was the fact that she was fired from work, anyway. She and Dylan had decided to move in together to save on living costs. She had assumed they would each be paying half the rent, half the bills. Turns out, he just figured she’d use her severance package and her savings to pay everything while he used what little income he had on video games (yes, at 34, the boy-man still played video games) and pizza with his friends. Not pizza with Lydia, oh no, with his friends. Not that she was bitter. She seriously began to wonder what she saw in him. He was company sometimes. But only sometimes. She was finally realizing that she was only “not alone” a smidge less than when she actually was alone. She gulped her wine again. Luckily she had received a job offer right away. Of all the hospitals and medical facilities she had sent her resume to, the only one that responded had been Breemont, and she was glad they had. The only thing worse than supporting your live-in boyfriend was not having the financial fortitude to be able to support your live-in boyfriend.

  “What do you do for work, Ollie?”

  “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I don’t like to be tied down, so I pick up odd jobs where I can. Maintenance, computer repair, that sort of thing.” Ollie stirred his sauce again before draining the freshly made pasta and pulling the garlic bread out of the oven. Instinctively, Lydia topped off their wine glasses, carried them to the small round table in the nook, where she happened upon a better view of the office and what lay inside. She returned to the kitchen and began rummaging through cabinets for plates, surprised at her familiarity and the fact that she was making herself so at home. Ollie, kind and inviting Ollie, just had that effect on her, she supposed.

  “Hey, Ollie? What is all that?” Lydia inquired motioning toward the open door as she searched cabinets.

  “Oh. My, my, my. No, no. Nothing. It’s just a hobby of mine is all. It’s nothing, really.” Rushing across the room to shut the door. “No need for you to see that mess.” He explained.

  Lydia was now swaying toward serial killer, but Ollie’s eyes told a different story, so she pushed the thought out of her head. She had observed a few strange behaviors in their encounters together: the pebble when they first met, the strange mumblings in the hall, the disappearances, and now the board of mystery hanging over a makeshift desk against the wall in his office. Paranoid Personality Disorder, she mentally diagnosed as she found the dinnerware and set the table.

  Ollie brought the pasta and bread to the table. “Sorry there’s no salad. I’m not much on rabbit food. If I’d have known I was having company, I’d have picked up some fresh greens.” Ollie said guiltily. “I’d also have tidied up a bit.”

  “Oh, it’s fine, Ollie. I’m just happy to have the company.” Lydia surveyed the apartment. Aside from the horrendous furniture and a few dirty dishes, it actually wasn’t too bad for a single man’s apartment. “It’s nice to chat with someone over dinner. Thank you for inviting me. And for insisting.” She smiled.

  “No worries, dear Lydia,” Ollie returned the gesture as he pulled out one of his mismatched chairs and motioned for Lydia to sit down. “I don’t usually invite people over. I’m not much of a people person. You can’t trust ‘em, ya know?”

  Lydia ignored the comment as she had the previous one about them. “Truth be told, Ollie, I’m not a big fan of people either.” She swirled organic spaghetti on her fork. “I mean, I do work with people all day. That’s my job. But outside of work? I guess I’m done with people. People are exhausting.”

  “Agreed. What do you do?”

  “I’m a doctor.” Ollie’s eyes widened in awe. “A psychiatrist, actually.”

  “Oh, I’ve known a shrink or two in my day.” Ollie laughed.

  Lydia was mildly offended and not at all surprised that he knew a “shrink”. Ollie was an odd duck. “Well, “shrinks”—”

  Noticing her tone, Ollie explained. “Oh no. No, no, no. Miss Lydia, I meant no offense. It’s just that I didn’t have very good relationships with the shri…psychiatrists I’ve known. You seem quite wonderful as a person, so I’m sure you are quite wonderful in your profession as well. Some people are not kind. Some people are arrogant. Some people haven’t got a speck of trust or good sense in them. I’m sure you are not one of those people, dear.” Ollie apologized. She could tell he was sincere.

  “I was just going to say that I agree. I don’t like “shrinks” either. “Shrinks” are worthless. That’s why I’m glad I’m not one,” she winked, “I’m better than that,” Lydia informed, lifting her glass. “How about a toast: Down with shrinks.” She laughed.

  “Here, here,” Ollie joined, clinking her glass with his.

  When the dishes were done and Lydia was back across the hall at her own apartment, Ollie went to his office. He sat in a wobbly wooden chair at his undersized and overfilled desk and stared at his map. With his eyes, he followed the string and red circles from one town to the next, pausing to say each city name aloud. For the last few years, he had been chasing down a theory, a theory involving human trafficking. He had traveled from city to city—sometimes living there, sometimes only visiting on what little funds he had, but he always found himself two steps behind. That was Ollie, always a day late and a dollar short, but here in Washington, he felt close. Close to answers, close to solving a great mystery. Ollie had felt like this many times before. He had even “solved” mysteries a time or two, but he had always been a laughingstock at every police station he had ever scurried into crying “conspiracy”. Usually the cops had a good chuckle as they explained, “No, Mr. Ragsdale, the city always does street cleaning on the second Wednesday of the month,” or “Of course, Mr. Ragsdale, we will most certainly look into the Happy Cab company to ensure they are not part of a multi-national drug ring.” He really knew he had been right most of those times—the way those cabbies looked at him or spoke foreign languages on their cab to cab cb’s.

  Ollie also admitted to being wrong occasionally too. Like the time he tackled a security guard at the mall. Ollie had been watching him all afternoon, following him. When the chubby uniformed man reached into his pocket, Ollie sprang to life and jumped on his back in an attempt to detain him. Though he was overweight, the man was strong and Ollie’s added weight didn’t faze him much. He stumbled around in front of a half-naked poster of Behati Prinsloo in the window of Victoria Secret. Other mall-goers stared in disbelief. Finally, the security guard took a few heavy footed steps, turned clumsily around, and plopped down on a bench pressing his full weight against the parasite on his back. Ollie, a smallish man, finally relented. After hours of questioning and police presence, Ollie realized the man was in fact reaching for his nightstick as Ollie had suspected. However, he was planning to defend himself from the creepy guy who had been following him all morning—Oliver Ragsdale. The security guard felt no ill will, but instead pity on the mistaken old man, and opted to press no charges. An embarrassed Ollie slunk back home, defeated.

  You can’t win ‘em all, he had thought. It had begun to rain, and he thought about hailing a cab instead of slopping through the flooded sidewalk, but, well, he didn’t want to get caught up in all of that after the day he had just endured.

  Ollie had traced the trafficking ring to the city in which he now lived, but he was stuck. He couldn’t locate the people he believed to be involved, and so far, he had heard of no missing women or children , with whom the traders primarily dealt, in this town. He had newspaper clippings from east coast to west coast pegged into a bulletin board: Missing T
een from Oakmont, CA; Mother and Young Daughters Vanish in Cuba, MO; Hartford, CT Father Wakes to Discover Teen Girl Gone. These traffickers dealt with people from all over the country.

  “No one is safe anywhere,” thought Ollie. “When I see Lydia again, I’ll need to warn her. They’re here in this town, and she needs to be aware. It’s too close. It’s too dangerous for her not to know.” He removed his tweed jacket and placed it across the back of his wobbly chair which squeaked in disapproval as he twisted in the seat. He rubbed his blue eyes and switched on his 1991 Macintosh Classic. He refused to upgrade: anything made mid-90’s or later had microchips with monitoring capabilities in them. He didn’t want to risk his privacy for a fancy new machine, so he held on to his old one. He was handy enough with electronics that he could perform his own routine maintenance on it. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it, anyway.

  Once the old girl had come to life, he began his search: MISSING PEOPLE+BREEMONT, WA; STRANGE HAPPENINGS+BREEMONT, WA; BREEMONT, WA+YEARLY CENSUS.

  His searches didn’t turn up much in the way of information—they usually didn’t. He mostly had to go with his gut or trust a hunch to get answers. This was what usually got him classified as a certifiable whack-job. Something did finally strike his fancy on the last search, though. He pulled up the most recent census and saw a slight increase in population. That, coupled with the fact that the number of post-secondary educated residents had also increased accordingly, raised red flags for Ollie. These people were smart. Sure, he couldn’t find that anyone had been taken yet, but it was just a matter of time. It’s always just a matter of time, he thought and continued his research into the early morning hours.

  #

  As Ollie had begun working earlier, Lydia was returning home. To her dismay and general disgust, the guys were still in full swing. She threw a few dishes noisily into the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. “I think I’ll head to bed. I need to be up early tomorrow, anyway. Can you guys please try to keep it down out here?” she asked as politely as was possible through her tightly gritted teeth.