Ringman

Chapter 1

Oliver

Truly, this is most unexpected. My chest constricts tightly, like a fist around my heart, making it difficult to breathe. Scattered thoughts assault me from all sides, preventing me from mentally organizing what I need to do.

I feel shaky, as though a high-pitched tone is forcing its way into my skull, causing a vibration that reverberates through my whole body. I must work hard to keep the erratic thoughts at bay so I can focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

This is not the time to lose my grip. I will not let my condition win. I remind myself what I came here to do. I have a plan. Nevertheless, sweat beads at my temples, and it’s the dead of winter.

plan.I should have known this was a terrible idea. For one, there are too many people, and I’ve always detested crowds. They stare at me, averting their gazes whenever I look their way. I’m worried they can read my mind. What else could explain it? Some of them whisper about me. Their voices buzz in my ear like an errant mosquito.

Mother would say I’m overthinking this. She has a habit of saying not to judge a book by its cover, and I guess this is what she means. If only she held a similar sentiment with me. Life is short, Oliver. Make something of yourself, Oliver. Where did I go wrong, Oliver? Dallas will be more suitable for you, Oliver.

Life is short, Oliver. Make something of yourself, Oliver. Where did I go wrong, Oliver? Dallas will be more suitable for you, Oliver.I should probably start by saying this was all her idea. It’s how I’ve found myself fresh out of college and pretty much homeless. Well, perhaps not that fresh. Graduation was six months ago, and this is another thing my mother likes to say: Time flies, Oliver.

thatTime flies, Oliver.Time does fly. But not as fast as one hopes when you’re sitting on the curb outside the arrivals at Dallas/Fort Worth International, waiting for a ride that’s a half-hour late.

I text Cousin Camile again. That’s what Mother calls her. To me, she’s just Camile. She may be family, but I have only a vague recollection of her. She could be anyone, a family member or a complete stranger. I"m not even sure if I would recognize her if I ran into her on the street. For all I know, she could have been the person sitting next to me on the shuttle. Or she could be the woman who was two rows behind me on the airplane. I"ve seen a photo of her online, but those can"t be trusted. Ask me how I know. Better yet, don’t.

It’s not a very pleasant story.

When my text goes unanswered, I consider taking an Uber, but that would require an address, and I didn’t get a response about that, either. Or when I inquired about the make and the model of the car, which leads me to two logical conclusions: Cousin Camile is rude, or she"s not so keen about me coming to stay. Mother swears it"s neither, but she"s also the one going around saying not to judge a book by its cover.

I find it all infuriating. How else are you supposed to decide?

A girl walks toward me, and my breath catches, erasing everything that had been in my mind. Just like that, it goes blank. This girl looks exactly like her. Not Camile. The other woman who no longer responds to my texts or calls. The girl is wearing the same clothes Mindy wore the last time I saw her, and she has the same backpack flung across her shoulder. She flashes a sideways smile. It’s crooked the same way, too. Like her face is frozen, only it’s not. It’s just a quirk you once found amusing and now wish you could erase from your memory. So your mother insists you come to Dallas. It’ll help you forget, she swears. The only problem is what you think you’re running from ends up staring you right in your face.

herI walk toward her, but as I get closer, I realize I’m mistaken. It’s not Mindy. I’m not that lucky. I tell myself I’m just seeing things because I"m so tired. But then she turns and looks at me, and I see the same eyes that have haunted my dreams since that awful night. I start to run toward her, the same as I always have.

My phone dings and I look down, and when I look up again, the girl is gone. She has folded into the crowd. I hear Mother’s voice: it’s for the best.

it’s for the best.I reread the text, considering how to respond. I’m angry thinking about everything, but at the same time, I feel relieved to finally get a response from Camile. s**t! So sorry! I forgot! Be there in twenty!

Shit! So sorry! I forgot! Be there in twenty!It’s strange that she’d forget, considering I emailed her my itinerary. I wish I knew whether to be surprised, but as I said, I hardly know anything about her. Mother says Camile used to babysit me when I was little. Mother insists she was the fun one, but, g*n to my head, I couldn’t produce any details. I only know that this somehow meant that she was a suitable candidate for me to stay with while I figure out my next steps in life.

On the bright side, she’s already proving I’ll have plenty of time to do it. Before I left Vermont, I told myself: if Camile is anything like me, if she"s nothing like me, if things go well with her or don"t go well with her—whatever happens, maybe Mother is right. Maybe it’s for the best. At least it"ll be a version of me not dying the way my father did. That’s the other reason Mother sent me here, the one we don’t talk about. Camile won"t replace him, exactly, but at least it"ll be a window into the universe where he didn"t die drunk on an empty highway in front of an eighteen-wheeler. So thirty-five minutes later— thirty-five minutes! —when a white sedan pulls up to the curb and the passenger door swings open and I"m face-to-face with a woman who"s falling out of her top, I don"t know what to think.

"Sorry," she says, following my gaze. "I came straight from the gym."

Those cannot be real. Can they? “Camile?”

Those cannot be real. Can they?She lowers her sunglasses and glares at me. "Who else would I be?"

I shrug.

A horn sounds. She raises her glasses. “Get in.”

And so I do. But not fast enough, because she yells at me to hurry up! People stare, and I tell her I don’t like raised voices, but I don’t think she hears me.

hurry upCamile Brennan cruises down the streets of Dallas, Texas, talking as fast as she drives. Her car is a mess! The leather seats in her Mercedes are filthy, which is a shame as the seats themselves are not uncomfortable. Camile has a lot to say, but I don’t find much of it to be of any substance—until she tells me we have to make a quick pit stop before she drops me at the house. Then I do find what she says interesting. Detective Mark Davidson, captain of the Dallas Police Department, has summoned her to his office. She suspects a case.

In her mind, she is already planning her “detective” outfit. She is such a pro at the dress-up part of the job. She even has a special part of her closet for shoes, hats, disguises, and helpful accessories. I get the sense that her whole life is a show. Mother says Camile is an actress, a “professional belle” who is always preened to perfection. I learn that my mother was right, all in a matter of minutes.

I also learn she didn’t mean actress in the literal sense, something Camile finds amusing when I suggest it. She must want to get the facts straight because she tells me her life story without so much as a breath between act one and act two.

literalShe says being a criminologist pays the bills and gives her a good living. Unlike some of her colleagues, Camile does not struggle to make ends meet. The reason for that is twofold—she is very good at her job, and she does not account for much overhead. At forty-four, Camile is still believed to be in her thirties. Her clothes are never out of fashion, and neither is she. That part Mother had already told me. She said I could learn a thing or two, but I’m not sure why she thinks I have any interest in women’s fashion.

“Please forgive my roots,” Camile tells me. “I’m going through a tough time.”

I don’t realize she’s talking about her hair until she points it out. “It looks terrible,” she says. “But my color is the least of my concerns, Oliver. My life is over.”

Her hair might not be in its most perfect of states, but her face is nice and her figure is flattering. Her nails are manicured, and her attire, although somewhat untasteful, draws attention. I point this out and she says, “No one wants to be boring.”

And this is how I know she doesn’t know me yet.

“I’m pretty boring,” I confess. “Mother says so, anyway.”

“Well, I happen to find you very interesting, Oliver.”

I smile. Things are only going to get better from here. That’s how it feels now, at least. But a lot can change in a week.