Keep Your Enemies Closer

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and a subject. Then we had 72 hours to write no more than 2,000 words. Here is my story with the prompts, suspense, a tutor and a funeral.

Keep Your Enemies Closer

Rachel’s phone chirped, waking her. It chirped again before she could grab it off of the nearby nightstand. A litany of texts filled her screen.

I had fun last night. Sorry if I come on too much.

I hope you’re not upset with me.

I would do anything for you to be happy.

Our relationship means the world to me.

Rachel sat straight up, mouth open in disbelief. Their relationship? She had gone out with Paul the night before and intended on it being a one and done situation.

The date was more an act of mercy than an attempt at romance. Rachel taught ESL at the community college continuing education department, and Paul was a student who needed a lot of attention. She had begun tutoring him in addition to the Tuesday and Thursday classes, and he had been asking her out incessantly since. She told him she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend but they could hang out on strictly platonic terms.

That was one of Rachel’s personality flaws. She struggled to tell people no. Her overt people-pleasing tendencies had deep roots in her absent mother and narcissistic father; revelations reached after many years and many dollars had been poured into therapists and bottles of wine. The lack of parental love had resulted in a lifetime of striving to gain acceptance from everyone, and yet she had no close friends to speak of despite it, or perhaps because of it. Whether it was nature or nurture, she was a bit of a social pariah.

She started to type a response when the phone rang. Her thumb landed on the screen where the next letter of her eloquent version of “get lost” would have been, but inadvertently hit the answer icon instead.

“Hi, Paul,” she said.

“Rachel, please listen. I am sorry if I upset you. You not answering my texts,” Paul stammered.

“Sorry. I just woke up.”

“I need to talk to you about last night. It import-,”

“The other line is beeping,” Rachel interrupted. “I will see you at class Tuesday.”

Rachel took a deep breath as she clicked over to the incoming call.

“Hello,” Rachel answered, more of a question than a statement.

“Good morning. Is this Rachel Jacobson?” the serious male voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Detective Gibbons from the Columbus Police Department. We’d like you to come in to discuss your father.”

“What is it? Is he hurt?” Rachel pushed.

The rest of the conversation she heard in pieces. The police suspected a robbery gone wrong; furniture flipped; a slashed painting; a bloodied letter opener on the desk; stab wound to his throat; her father, dead.

Rachel declined the offer of an officer escorting her to the precinct. She welcomed the opportunity to process what she had been told without the watchful eye of anyone. Her relationship with her dad was complicated, and her reaction may have seemed odd to outsiders.

She jumped in the shower, taking time to collect herself. Rachel faced the showerhead, letting the strong stream of scalding water dance off of her skin. She could feel her skin reddening from the heat, but didn’t care. It was as if her bathroom had become a sacred hot spring, washing away 32 years of being Eric Jacobson’s daughter.

She towel dried off and looked at her phone: four missed calls and voicemails from Paul. She didn’t know how she could be any clearer than she already had. When he tried to kiss her last night, she’d turned away.

Just friends, she had reminded him, using the word friends loosely.

She requested an Uber before throwing her phone into her bag, not even listening to his messages. She had neither the time nor the energy to deal with his advances right now.

She dressed, skipping the makeup, letting her raw, red face be the outward expression of her internal angst. She headed to the front door of the apartment complex, but as she reached the entryway, a hand grabbed her.

“Rachel,” Paul whispered, almost hissed, as he pulled her towards him. “I need to talk at you. Why are you avoiding me?”

“Dammit, Paul! You are hurting me. Let go!” Rachel demanded. “I’m headed to the police station. It’s about my dad. My ride will be here any minute.”

“I need to talk to you about when I drop you off,” Paul said.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, but you’re really starting to scare me. I don’t want to have to tell the police that you’re stalking me, but you’re forcing my hand,” Rachel told him, as she pulled free and opened the front door.

“Trust me. Don’t tell police anything,” Paul yelled as Rachel got into the car. “I mean it! Don’t tell them anything!”

It was nearly dream-like at the station. There were pictures and questions. They wanted to know if she had any other family they should contact. (No, she was it. No friends either.) Did she know if he kept any large amounts of money in the house? (She didn’t know.) Where was she the night before? (A standard question, they assured her.)

Rachel told them about her date, she was sure they could confirm it. It was a busy restaurant, an early movie; she was home by 10:00 and was streaming Santa Clarita Diet on Netflix the rest of the night.

These types of questions went on for nearly an hour, interspersed with coffee, too hot and too strong. She would have to make an ID on the body but the medical examiner needed a little more time before the body could be released.

“Rachel, we are all sorry for your loss,” Detective Gibbons told her as they walked to a squad car. “If you think of anything else, please let us know.”

“Thank you,” Rachel replied.

She sat quietly in the police car. She would have preferred getting back on her own, but was afraid Paul would be waiting for her. She hoped the cruiser would deter him.

“Would you mind walking me in?” Rachel asked.

“No problem,” the young officer assured her.

Rachel opened the front door to the complex, her eyes darting around quickly, making certain Paul wasn’t lying in wait. She jumped slightly as the heavy door clicked into place behind her. They took the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors opened. The entire floor was empty other than the lingering smell of curry from a neighbor’s late lunch.

Rachel put her key into the lock of apartment 425 and looked over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m good,” she told the officer.

Rachel’s trepidation was a stark contrast to the peaceful silence of her apartment. Her racing heartbeat was the background music as she went from room to room, corner to corner, checking for Paul. More and more she was convinced he knew something about her father’s murder, but was uncertain what or how much.

Rachel headed into the living room to call the funeral home. Her father wanted to be cremated and in the mausoleum with his parents. With no other family and no real friends, Rachel didn’t think a big service was appropriate or necessary, just a small memorial at the cemetery’s chapel.

Consumed in her planning, Rachel missed the envelope just inside the door. She was hanging up with the funeral home when she saw it.

Rachel, if you would only listen to me, we talk about your dad. I hope you not tell the police anything. I just want you to be happy. I want to be the new man in your life.

Be the new man in her life? She yelped, startled, as her phone rang, slicing the cold silence surrounding her.

“It’s Catherine,” Rachel’s supervisor at the college said. “We just heard. I’m so sorry. I saw the break-in on the news but had no idea. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I. Um. I won’t be in this week,” she stammered.

“Of course, sweetie. You take all the time you need,” said Catherine before ending their call.

It was all too much - all of it. Rachel felt drained. She closed her eyes and slept, a deep and dreamless sleep, all the way through till Sunday. Sunday and Monday were blessedly quiet. No Paul and only one phone call from Detective Gibbons. She called the funeral home and confirmed the service for Tuesday and called the florist to arrange a large spray of flowers.

Rachel thought about the information the police had. She thought about Paul and what he knew. She worried for her own safety. Could she walk away from this unscathed?

Mostly she thought about her dad, trying to conjure good memories from her childhood, but it was the fights and disappointments on the forefront of her consciousness. They had fought just last week about his disgust at Rachel working as a teacher and tutor. He didn’t spend all of that money on college for her to have such a demeaning job. She had never been good enough in his eyes. She was an unwanted child saddled with a perpetually miserable father, and now in his passing, found herself the sole proprietor of the pain, past and present.

Tuesday morning rolled in, the heavy, gray sky matched Rachel’s mood. She arrived at the chapel just as the minister and funeral director emerged from an unmarked door.

“I’m Eric’s daughter,” explained Rachel. “We spoke on the phone. I doubt anyone else is coming. We can start whenever you are ready.”

As if on cue, the door opened, bringing in three men Rachel recognized from her dad’s time at Price & Parker Marketing, followed by Catherine and, to Rachel’s dismay, Paul.

He walked over to Rachel and hugged her, whispering in her ear, “I want you to know I never want you get hurt. I take care of everything.”

Without saying a word Rachel took her seat. Paul sat down next to her. The door opened one last time, ushering in Detective Gibbons. Rachel stirred uneasily as the minister began. Paul set his hand atop of Rachel’s. She sat, frozen.

When the service ended, Catherine and the others approached Rachel with hugs, handshakes and generic phrases of concern and condolence. Detective Gibbons was the last one. After he left Rachel looked around. Where was Paul?

Rachel walked down the narrow hallway to the restrooms. She started into the ladies room when Paul suddenly appeared behind her, pushing his way in with her.

He locked the door.

“Paul, stop,” Rachel began, but he put his hand over her mouth, cutting her off.

“No, you stop. You listen to me. I just want to love you. I want to help you, but you not listen to me,” Paul commanded. “Why you make me do this?”

Paul reached into his pocket; silver flashing as he pulled something out. Rachel twisted free of him, tripping as she tried to distance herself.

“After I try to kiss you goodnight Friday, I sit in my car trying to know what I did wrong. I saw you leave from the side door and get in a taxi. I follow you. I saw you in the window. I saw you fight. I saw you kill him,” Paul revealed.

The color drained from Rachel’s face. Paul knew. Her secret wasn’t a secret after all.

He held his silver flip phone in his hand, showing a grainy picture of her walking away from her father’s house.

“I can explain,” Rachel began. “He wasn’t a good dad or even a good guy. He left me a voicemail Friday saying he was ashamed of me for doing so little with my life and was taking me out of his will. I snapped.”

“I no tell anyone,” said Paul, taking Rachel’s hand and leading her out of the bathroom. “We be friends now, yes?”

Rachel’s hand relaxed in his, conceding.

“Yes,” Rachel sighed. “Yes, we be friends.