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Other times, it didn’t.
When it didn’t, no amount of flickering lights or hunches helped. Not once he managed to convince her to go on a second date somewhere out of the way. To finish her drink. To let him drive her home instead of calling an Uber. To trust him just enough that he could draw her beyond the reach of potential help. Mine or anyone else’s.
He went out with Kelly, who insisted on calling an Uber when she started to feel lightheaded at the end of the night. As she got into the black Honda Civic that pulled into the parking lot of the tiny restaurant, he put on a concerned expression and told her to feel better. But while the car pulled away, he swore under his breath then blocked her on MatchStrike with the reason from the dropdown menu, “made me uncomfortable.”
He’d spent a fair amount of time combing through Reddit on an INCEL forum that offered advice to men “navigating the cesspool of dating apps.” It advised blocking women who weren’t receptive to advances quickly or who had “misinterpreted advances.” Not only did this “teach them a lesson,” but on certain apps (including MatchStrike) it made it virtually impossible for that woman to block or report his account in return.
He met Liz at an outdoor concert in Deer Valley, about half an hour outside of Salt Lake. I relaxed when he didn’t bring the Tic Tac container with him. But between the good music and the string lights flickering like hundreds of fireflies in the cool mountain air, both of them downed four beers a piece no matter how much I screamed and the stage lights flickered. After the show, he walked her to her car and kissed her in the parking lot. She let him—until his hand started wandering up the front of her shirt. When she tried to pull away, he grabbed her by her ponytail and pulled her roughly against him.
I couldn’t watch. I also couldn’t leave her.
I focused on the dark gravel underneath my feet, imagining I was somewhere else. I chose to be back with Frank, in my apartment, petting his downy head while he purred. The memory was so real that I wrapped it around me like a thick cloak to block out what was happening a few feet away.
Because I couldn’t do anything to stop him. Not really. Not enough.
When a car a few rows away chirped and its lights flashed in the dark, I dragged myself back from the memory of Frank to see Liz push him hard, fumbling with her purse while she loudly told him it was time for him to go.
He stared at her, then in the direction of the crunching footsteps approaching from the direction of the car with its headlights blazing.
As he slunk into the darkness, he pulled up the app on his phone to block and report her before he’d gotten back to his own car.
* * *
He chatted with Elle on the MatchStrike app for two months. They exchanged photos and even a video chat one night while April was out to dinner with a new friend and the girls were asleep.
Elle told him about her brother’s overdose. Opiates. She’d blamed herself. He shared his grief over his late wife’s death. Cancer. It had been really awful. He showed her the photos of Emma and Kimmie hanging on the office walls and cleared his throat like he was regaining his composure. The girls were his world, he said. Everyone was in a good place now. They’d healed. He was a little shy about dating again, but he was feeling strong.
I shut down his phone. Then his computer. Again and again. He patiently waited for them to restart each time, until I went numb.
Elle let him pick her up at her house for their date.
Earlier, in addition to placing the Tic Tac container in his front pocket, he had tucked a long phone charger into the back pocket of his jeans. First, he had wrapped it around the basement banister. Tighter and tighter, to see if it would break.
It didn’t.
As the car slowed in front of the address Elle had given him, I dove through the cracked window and made it to the front door before he could get out of the car.
I pleaded. I screamed. I even tried to shove her—which did absolutely nothing. Elle tucked her short blond hair behind one ear and gave him a long hug. Then she got into the car with him, chattering excitedly about the new bar they were going to.
I focused all my fear and horror at the car itself, hoping the engine would die the way the computer had. It didn’t work.
He was the perfect date—aside from the little white pill that he tipped into her second drink before they left the bar. When he placed his hand on her back as she stumbled in the parking lot, she looked up at him with a grateful smile and reached out for his hand.
She invited him into her house for a drink when he arrived. Her eyes looked bleary but happy as she shrugged off her jacket.
He followed her inside. They made out in the dark room on her expensive-looking cognac leather couch.
I waited for him to pull the phone charger from his back pocket. To turn into the person who had hidden in my side yard in the dark.
Instead, he waited until her kisses grew sloppy and she mumbled, “I might call it a night, I’m feeling pretty tired.” He ignored her. And she didn’t protest when he pulled out a condom.
I made myself stay. Because I couldn’t bear to leave her alone with him. Because I felt responsible. Because I couldn’t find a way to stop him. The air in the room churned dark and electric. In the kitchen, I heard the microwave make a beeping notification, like mine did when the power turned off then on.
When he was finished, he looked down at her in disgust. Then he zipped up his jeans and reached for his back pocket.
In the dim light from the hallway skylight, he trailed the long phone charger across Elle’s neck. Back and forth. She didn’t move.
I watched in horror. The microwave beeped again, and my horror shifted to anger. After the first few dates, I’d felt sure I could find a way to stop him every time. That maybe this was the entire reason I had been left in limbo. My unfinished business. He had taken my life. And now I was entitled to haunt him, to thwart him.
