The Write Way

Chapter 4: Running Blind

   "I'm on the normal schedule now. Up with the light, down with the d-dark."

   "Good. So does that work?"

   I shift off the wall, my brain becoming a circus once more. "Yeah, works for me."

   "Right. These things can move slow at first then it all starts crashing down. Don't say anything if someone comes asking, no matter how fancy their business card look. I'm your lawyer, they speak to me."

   "I-I get it."

   "This is going to attract a lot more attention than a single private investigator if we don't get it under control." He is driving now, I can hear a turning signal blinking softly. His voice reverses back to a more neutral state, but he can't completely keep the bitterness out. "Lucy Write. She's from Glendale, outskirts of LA. Real smart apparently, climbed the ladder fast. Was a police investigator with the LAPD and then something happened. Something nasty. It's all boxed up nice and tight, no way to know for certain what it was, but people have speculated. She got asked to step away from her position and resurfaced about a year later as a private investigator. One of the best I'm told."

   "What's she a-after?"

   "She's looking for a missing person and she's got a list of people she's questioning. Your father is on the list." He's back outside again, his voice dipping as it does when he's about to end the call. "But there's nothing connecting her search with your father. It's a coincidence. I'm going to have lunch with my family, I'll see you Wednesday. Be there, Lark. And be ready to talk."

   I hang up without saying goodbye.

   There's a lot I need to tell him. There's a lot I need to tell you. But there's no point in saying it twice so you'll have to wait with Bolarro.

   I spend the rest of the afternoon filling, sanding, taping and priming the walls of the front hall, kitchen and dining room, avoiding the living room with its bookshelves and compact furniture. I decided to go with a floral white to replace the dark hues that currently cascade from room to room.

   I order in takeout for dinner and sit on the back porch in my camping chair, away from the fumes and my desk and the rekindled urge to get back to writing. I'm thinking about the girl from the corner store again. I'm not entirely sure why.

  I wonder where she is now?

   Did she grow up around here? Maybe we've spent most of our lives a kilometre apart and had no idea. She's probably married, has a good life, paints or is part of a cover band.

   She probably already forgot about me.

   I listen to the ocean sounds for a long time, and then I give into the impulse and sit down to write.

_____________

   The next morning I resume the schedule I've been building. Up early to write until the traffic starts, then out for a run. My head feels clear after a run and I find it easier to focus in the afternoon.

   I head east, through quiet neighbourhoods filled with the chatter of birds, avoiding the main roads and the smell of gasoline, and down onto a path that follows the water. The wind is slowly picking up and it's strong along the open ocean, buffeting the shrubs and tugging at my bare legs.

   I have a feeling that someone is watching me.

   I mean, of course somebody is. It's a public running path on a Sunday. There's a group going past me right now with identical shirts, little numbers on the front and Coach Tom written across the back. Fathers pushing strollers, bikers taking a break from the busy road. It's the type of place I normally avoid like the plague.