The Woman on Seaglass Lane

Chapter One
Seen and Heard

ANNIE

“It was windy and cold the day I left New York,” I explain.

I’m reclined on a plush couch in Dr. Sally Abbott’s office, chewing my painted thumbnail absentmindedly.

The island is on lockdown due to a threat the local authorities haven’t explained, but Dr. Abbott let me come in once I told her it was an emergency.

My new house is just a few blocks away from her office, anyway. I walked here. The close proximity saved me adding a car to the nearly empty roads and drawing attention to myself.

“By mid-May, you’d think it warm enough to go out without a sweater and closed-toed shoes,” I say. “Yet, you’d be wrong. Temperatures barely made it out of the thirties as I loaded up my life in search of new adventures. In mid-May. Isn’t that something?”

“Um hm,” she says, slowly taking notes on a yellow legal pad.

Her mousy brown hair-- cut into a smart bob-- barely moves when she does. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Dr. Abbott seems nice. But this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ll ditch her in search of a better fit if she isn’t personable enough.

I’m concerned the hair is indicative of an uptight personality. I might like my therapist to have loose waves. Or an edgy rocker-chick cut. That would be fun.

I tell myself to keep talking and to keep an open mind. It isn’t time to make judgments yet.

“Minnow, my opinionated Pomeranian, hates the cold,” I continue. “I think she somehow knew we were heading south the minute the moving truck arrived on our block. Would you believe she went and fetched her own leash from the laundry room, then carried it around in her mouth, insistent, until I fastened it to the ring on her collar?”

I smile as I think of Minnow’s antics. She’s the one constant in my life. That and the bleached blonde hair I’ve worn in recent years. I’ve considered letting it go white as it seems to want to do, but I keep the dye job up. Every three weeks, without fail.

“That’s nice,” Dr. Abbott says dryly.

Damn.

I tell myself it isn’t that she’s disinterested. She just wants me to get to the juicy part. The part that’s an emergency.
Although, I’m not sure why she’d care. She’s probably losing business due to this lockdown. I’m paying her, so, there’s that.

“The City has its charms, though,” I say. “I thoroughly enjoyed my seven-year stay.”

“And how did it make you feel to leave?” Dr. Abbott asks, starting the familiar line of questioning that all therapists seem to use on repeat.

“If I’m being honest, I was sad to leave.”

I feel my chest tense as I say it.

“Go on.”

“I’ll never forget the way the fresh green leaves looked on the pin oak outside the window of my Brooklyn townhouse on move-out day. They were so vibrant and full of promise for the season ahead,” I continue.

“Tell me more,” Dr. Abbott prompts, pursing her lips and tapping her pen against them as if she’s on the verge of some realization.

“Pin oaks thrive in the Big Apple,” I explain, “in large part, due to their ability to tolerate pollution. I could say the same for myself, only the pollution in my life is more the emotional variety, and it seems to follow me no matter where I go.”

She nods now, keeping her thoughts to herself, but I can tell she’s formulating a profile of me. Working up a diagnosis, maybe.

“As strange as it may sound, that tree felt like an old friend,” I muse. “It stood tall and faithful outside my townhouse, greeting me every morning when I awoke and opened the shades, then again every evening as the sun set and I closed them. It was the first thing I saw each time I left my home to embark on an important outing, and the last thing I saw as I returned home to my safe space. It anchored me.”

I spent countless hours in an easy chair, staring at that friendly tree as if it could impart needed wisdom. Oftentimes, I suspect it did.

“And what made you decide to leave your tree?” Dr. Abbott asks.

My tree.

I’m not ready to answer that question directly, so I continue on without acknowledging it. I’ll get around to a proper response, in my own time.

I stare at the smooth tile floor while I talk. “During the early days after my divorce, I was so heartbroken and lonely. I cried every single night. In stereotypical fashion, my businessman husband, Greg Langley, had left me for his young, busty secretary. That was more than a year ago now, and I’m still sore about it.”

“Oh?”

I nod. “Trixie Grimes was a spoiled daddy’s girl from the Upper West Side of Manhattan, barely twenty-five and young enough to be Greg’s child. Her clothes were too tight, her cleavage too ample, and her gold-digging motivations... well, let’s just say they were off the charts. I don’t have to be a trained therapist to know she has major daddy issues.”

Dr. Abbott nods again, and I think I hear a note of sympathy in her voice when she tells me she’s sorry I had to go through that.

“Screw Trixie!” I shout, so loud that the doc glances at the closed office door as if someone might burst in and tell me to keep my voice down. “I mean it,” I continue, passionately. “I hope Greg ends up leaving her, too. Hopefully, he trades her in for a younger model so she knows what it feels like. It’s only fair that her cheating ass eventually learns what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that shit.”

Dr. Abbott relaxes a little as my voice falls back to normal volume. “Is that what you want? To see Trixie suffer?”

I scoff. It sounds so immature when she says it like that. I wonder if that’s how I come across-- immature and vengeful. I don’t want to be that way. I’m in my mid-fifties now. Too old for childish games.

I take a breath, considering my words carefully.

“I don’t think Trixie had any regard for how important the marriage was to me,” I continue. “Not even Greg knew how much I’d given up to be with him.”

Now I’ve done it. I’ve opened up a fat can of worms, for sure.

I don’t know whether to pour my heart out to this woman, or to run away as fast and as far as I can. Well, maybe not too far. I did just buy a big ol’ house here on Hideaway Isle. It’s near the water and everything. On Seaglass Lane.

“What had you given up to be with Greg?” Dr. Abbott asks dutifully, still scribbling.

I take another breath.

“Greg was my third husband. I fully admit my judgment in that department isn’t the best. Obviously. I’ve proven that to myself and everyone else at this point. But I really wanted to make this marriage work. Three time’s a charm, and all that. I thought I could finally do things right. I thought Greg was worth it.”

“Um hm. Keep going.”

“When he and I decided to be together,” I say slowly, “I walked away from my entire life in Florida and disappeared. It’s a secret I haven’t told to anyone. Not even Minnow.”

Dr. Abbott pauses for a moment, apparently understanding the enormity of what I’m telling her. It’s a big deal. I’m glad she gets that.

She sets the pad and pen down and tucks a few strands of hair behind one ear. I can see more of her face this way. It’s comforting. Her cheeks are pink and her round eyes are a soothing hazel. Maybe she isn’t so bad, after all.

“I’ve wanted to spill it plenty of times, but I couldn’t. Not after the way I left.”

“Annie,” Dr. Abbott says, leaning forward in her chair, “I want you to know that anything you share with me is confidential. I won’t tell another soul, unless it somehow puts others in danger or I think you might be a danger to yourself. But none of that seems to apply here. You can feel safe to confide in me. We’ll work through whatever this is, together.”

I nod. “Okay,” I say, on a roll now. I don’t think I could stop the words if I tried.

She smiles genuinely, for the first time since I arrived. I must have broken through her hard exterior somehow. I’ll take it.

“Go ahead,” she prompts.

“I had a job and kids,” I explain. “The kids were young adults, really. It wasn’t like I left babies or toddlers behind. But leaving them was a huge sacrifice. That fact made the hurt of Greg’s betrayal cut much deeper than it would have otherwise.”

“What did your kids think about you moving out of state?” she asks.

Now she isn’t getting it. How could she? It’s pretty insane.

“They didn’t-- don’t-- know,” I reply.

She pulls her head back, her chin folding up on itself in disbelief. “Then…?”

I shrug, my shoulders tensing.

“Annie,” she prompts, “what did you tell your children?”

“I didn’t tell them anything,” I say feebly.

“How is that even possible?” she asks. “Did you… disappear?”

I nod. “You could say that.”

Dr. Abbott shakes her head, unsure what to make of this. I guess it must be surprising. She probably doesn’t hear this type of thing every day. I chew my thumbnail some more as she tries to formulate a response.

I can tell she wants to ask me plenty but doesn’t know how to proceed. I wonder if I have the doc stumped.

I don’t tell her the rest of what happened when I left. Not yet. It’s even worse than having disappeared. I must take this a piece at a time, to be certain Dr. Abbott can cope with the harsh reality of my situation.

“I’m here because I witnessed a murder,” I blurt.

“What?”

“At my neighbor’s house. Just a little while ago,” I clarify. “It happened out in their front yard. My house is catty-corner, on Seaglass Lane. My street runs perpendicular to theirs. I was out watering flowers on my porch when I saw the killings. If I’d reacted more quickly, I could have stopped them from happening.”

“Killings?” she asks. “Plural?”

“That’s right,” I say. “An ambulance was out front to start, which caught my attention and made me decide it was a good time to water the flowers. I could have gone over right then, but I didn’t. A short time later, a black SUV drove into the long driveway, gravel flying everywhere because it was going so fast. A couple of guys got out of the SUV to talk to the ambulance driver, I guess? I’m not sure who was who by that point.”

“And?” Dr. Abbott asks, her eyes as wide as saucers.

“And then I saw two guys from the SUV lift long guns in the air and shoot the ambulance people dead in a flurry of rapid fire. One of the bodies was in plain view until the SUV guys dragged it out of sight. Another man got out of the SUV and approached the front of the house, but I couldn’t get a good look at him. That’s when I went inside my house and called you.”

Dr. Abbott shakes her head hard. “Heavens, Annie, why did you call me? I think 9-1-1 would have been the better choice. Have you called them yet?”

“No, I haven’t called 9-1-1,” I say simply.

Here it comes. The plot thickens.

Maybe I should try my hand at writing novels. My real life is far more dramatic than most fiction I’ve read.

“Why not?” she asks, glancing at the phone on her desk.

I take in a big breath, then let it out slowly. I suppose I might as well tell her. I’ve come this far.

I decide to just say it, in one string of words. It isn’t like I committed murder or anything.

“Because the catty-corner house with the murder out front? It belongs to my parents, Herbert and Mildred Finley.”

Dr. Abbott shakes her head again, then places one hand on her phone. I assume she’s going to call 9-1-1, but maybe she’s scared of me. Maybe I’d be scared of me, too.

“Annie,” she says in a somber voice. “Please tell me you checked on your parents, to make sure they were okay. Or that you, at least, sent authorities to do so. If a murder happened outside, I shudder to think…”

I raise a hand, wiping a tear from my eye. “It’s complicated.”

“How can it possibly be so complicated that you don’t fear for your parents’ safety? Tell me what on Earth could cause you to come here instead of handling that situation like a responsible adult?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

More tears come.

I feel ashamed. I also feel attacked now, and I don’t like it one bit.

Maybe I was wrong to come here. Or at least, maybe I was wrong to choose Dr. Abbott. There are several psychologists on the island. I could choose a different one. I could always go to Dr. Watkins, the guy I used to see when I lived here before-- if he’s still around. He was old back then. He might well have retired and closed up shop.

“I think you do know,” Dr. Abbott insists. “I want you to tell me. What, Annie? What?”

Her words rain down on me. I can’t seem to keep them out, despite trying hard to do so. The truth is on the tip of my tongue, but this isn’t going the way I imagined. This isn’t how I wanted to tell my secret. It could backfire, big time.

“Someone else probably called 9-1-1,” I try. “Although, I do feel bad. Like maybe I was supposed to stop those murders from happening. Like it was expected of me.”

“Okay, fine,” she replies. “Let’s suppose someone else did call for help. What, then, made you pick up the phone and call me? You said it was an emergency.”

“It was, in my mind.”

“So, you had kids-- and parents-- you left behind when you went to New York to be with Greg Langley seven years ago. Do I have that right?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“And you disappeared without telling them where you were going? But you returned to Hideaway Isle recently and bought a house catty-corner to your parents?”

I nod.

“Have they been looking for you all this time?”

I take a breath and shake my head. “No.”

“Why not?” she asks, her voice measured as if she’s already figured it out.

“Because they believe I’m dead,” I admit, tears pouring down my face. “I let them believe I was killed in an accident. In Miami. A dump truck ran over a woman on a bike, ending her life instantly. I was close by when it happened. My girls weren’t far either, and when they caught up to the scene, they thought it was me who’d been hit. I watched from a distance as they cried over what they thought was my mangled body. And then… I seized the opportunity... to run far away.”

“My God, Annie,” Dr. Abbott says, one hand covering her heart. “What have you done?”