Chapter One (Chance)
Now in my twilight years, I say that I have very few regrets in life, and that I made plenty of good decisions. Ever since my late twenties, I have lived in Twinbrook, eking out a living as a mystery writer. The locals know my name and read my books, and the royalty checks are enough to live in modest surroundings.
I don't question why I live in Twinbrook, because I know the reason: it's a quaint, scenic place and the locals are generally good-natured. But some question it. I was asked recently “I keep seeing your books and reading them, so why stay in Twinbrook?”
It's a legitimate question; it's not my hometown. I lived 2,000 miles away for my formative years, far away in a big city, and some might say I'd be better off if I stayed there. I had my reasons to move.
As the sun set, I realized that I had to recall what pulled me away from my home city.
30 or 40 years ago, I lived in Bridgeport. I was born in Bridgeport, and I originally felt that the city would be easy for me to live in. Alas, I found myself walking into the waiting room of a therapist.
One other person was waiting, and I didn't pay any attention to her at first.
The therapist called herself Mrs. Rose, and she was nice enough. It was our first appointment, and she first asked why I was here.
“It was a crazy feeling I had, almost jumping off that bridge.”
“Why did you feel the need to attempt suicide?”
I waited in silence for a few moments. “I guess I didn't feel that I made an impact on anyone's life.”
It was her job to try and offer me some advice, but it sounded cliché. “Your objective is to find something that you can impact, even a small thing. Talk to someone new, or plant a tree.”
We talked more, with half an hour to kill and $50 out of my pocket. As I said, she was nice, but the more I talked, the more I realized that therapy wouldn't help me through suicide. I was referred here by the ER, and I half-heartedly thought about giving the doctors there some advice of my own.
I politely said my good-byes, and the mysterious girl sitting there when I went in was still there. The weirdness of the situation needed a response.
“Are you waiting for an appointment?”
“No, I already went an hour ago.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“My mum is late for picking me up.”
In a fit of pity, I offered to drive this young lady home. I got a few words out of her; just an address, a name, and an age. I gave the same to her, and she only responded with nods. I got the feeling that she liked looking out the window more as we drove, even though she was a local. I can recall seeing her maybe a couple times before, maybe buying groceries or something.
When I returned home, she was still on my mind. Her address was fresh in my head, and a quick trip to the phone book revealed her phone number. I called her; the girl in the trenchcoat who lived on 71 Bayshore Highway. The girl named Kari Kerry.
