17. BRECIA

Salt Lake Valley, Utah

18 months before

I took great delight in watching his face when he saw that Nicole had blocked him on MatchStrike. And not only blocked him, but reported him to the website's admins who suspended his account.

He got the notifications in the moving van around the time we crossed the border into Utah. He pulled into the next rest area, April right behind him in the car with the girls. Then he opened the MatchStrike app.

An error message appeared. This account has been suspended and banned for violating our terms of service agreement. Please contact [emailprotected]or call 1-800-MatchStrike for support.

"Bitch," he hissed through his teeth then slammed the car door and walked to the bathroom, ignoring Emma and Kimmie waving from the car.

He called the number for customer service when we got back on the road. He was down-to-earth and charming at first. It had all been a big misunderstanding, you see. He hadn't pressured Nicole to do anything. They'd had a great time. But he'd declined a second date, and she'd seemed upset. This was apparently her way of sending a pointed message.

The customer service rep—her name was Donna—sounded like she'd heard this line before a few times. She patiently explained that if he would like to appeal the decision, she could escalate his request. It would require a phone interview with both him and Nicole—as a first step.

His tone changed abruptly and he hit the gas a little too hard, making the big van lurch forward. "Are you serious? This is ridiculous. You'll cancel my account just like that, but you'll make me jump through hoops just for the privilege of being part of the worst dating site I've ever been on? What about ‘innocent until proven guilty?'"

"I'm sorry, sir, but we are not a court of law. Our user agreement laid all this out, I'd be happy to send you a copy," Donna replied.

I wanted to hug Donna.

He hung up and stared straight ahead at the road.

I studied the set of his jaw and the white of his knuckles on the steering wheel. Remembering how they'd held the extension cord around my neck so tight, not letting up for even a second.

I wished I'd reported him too.

* * *

For the first few months in Utah, he was a normal dad and husband. He unpacked. He took Kimmie and Emma out for ice cream at the adorable little shop around the corner from the new house with the big yard at the base of Lone Peak. He divided his time between a new home office and a tech startup twenty minutes from the new house in Salt Lake. He went for a walk around the block with April and chatted with the neighbors who emerged from the rows of beautiful brick homes lining the streets. He went to church and raised his hand in Sunday school to offer a thought about Jesus' Sermon on the Mount while April beamed.

He didn't appeal the decision from MatchStrike.

He didn't even try to find Nicole online.

But after three months, on a slow Thursday afternoon while he was supposed to be starting a new project for work, he created a new gmail account—and then a new MatchStrike profile.

Jimmy Carlson.

This time, he was a widower. He didn't mention kids. I guessed he was getting to the age where women got suspicious about why he'd never been married.

I shut down the computer three times in a row. Each time, he clenched his jaw and restarted it.

Finally, I left the room and sat down in the hall, across from Oscar. I imagined myself going on more dates with "Jimmy" and felt a crushing sadness and dread.

Oscar stared at me intently. Then cautiously took a few steps toward me until he was right at my feet.

He closed his eyes and flicked his tail a little. "Good kitty," I whispered. He very quietly began to purr.

* * *

I went on every date with James/Jamie/Jimmy for nine months.

I followed him while he worked. While he ate. While he mowed the lawn. While he cleaned his car. While he watched TV—Chicago PD and Chicago Fire.

Sometimes, he spent hours on the MatchStrike app, flirting and arranging new dates—always a little ways out of town. Other times, he abruptly stopped and turned into a real dad to Emma and Kimmie for a few days, weeks, or even a month. Sometimes, he was cold and dismissive with April. Other times, he could be scarily thoughtful and even funny. Even as his shadow, it was all too easy to believe he was a normal person.

Even on some of his dates.

Sometimes, he eagerly planned to meet the women who responded to his messages. Other times, he ignored them.

Sometimes, he brought the Tic Tac bottle on his dates. Other times, he didn't.

When he did, I could feel it in the way the air churned with sparks and sickness that something was building, the way you feel the barometer start to drop before a storm. The only question was when it would hit.

On those nights I spent the evening whispering—or screaming—into her ear.

Sometimes, it seemed to work.

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.

I'd been wrong, though. The only thing I could actually do now was restart the damn microwave.

Elle's eyes were closed. She was breathing softly, almost peacefully, one arm flung across her partially clothed chest while the other arm hung over the edge of the couch.

He watched her intently for a few minutes until the sound of a muted text notification broke the silence in the room.

It was April. "Sorry to bug you. I know it's a big deadline. But will you be back soon? Emma is sick. She threw up."

He sighed. Then he rolled the phone charger around his hand and traced a thumb slowly over Elle's neck before pulling her skirt back into place and arranging her comfortably on the couch with an afghan.

Before he let himself out of the house and into the dark summer night, he opened the MatchStrike app. He looked at her profile, then scrutinized her sleeping form on the couch in the dark.

He was clearly trying to make a decision. About what, I didn't know. But finally, he sent her a message. "Hope your headache went away. Would love to see you again sometime. I haven't had this much fun since … well, it's been a long time."

The microwave beeped a third time in the dark room as he sent the message. He rolled his eyes, but his teeth glinted in the dim light as he smiled.

* * *

He went out with Elle one more time.

She didn't invite him into her house again. And when he offered to pick her up at her place, she demurred, saying that she was planning to swing by her dad's place afterward: He was sick.

When they met at the bar, the look in her eyes told me she was studying him. That she knew—but didn't know—that something was wrong. That something had happened the last time they went out.

I pushed on that feeling as hard as I could, leaning close to her ear when she studied him during dinner. When she finished her drink before visiting the ladies' room. When she told the waitress she just wanted a glass of water instead of a second drink. And when she, almost shyly, asked him about what they'd done at her place the night he dropped her off. Because—it was weird—she couldn't remember much.

He smiled in response, but his eyes shifted sideways. He's lying, I told her. He did something really bad to you. He's not a good person.

"You don't remember?" he asked in response, looking hurt. "I guess we really did have too much to drink." Then he grinned, like he'd said something funny.

Elle laughed and didn't press any further. But when she left the restaurant—long before closing time—she stopped responding to messages.

I expected him to block her, like he had the other women as soon as things started to go tits up. Instead, he sent her message after message. He pretended to be worried at first. Then a little annoyed. Then a little irritated. Like he'd done with me when I told him we were over. He refreshed the app constantly while he worked in the basement at home. He even called customer service at one point, certain that something in the messaging feature was broken. Because Elle wasn't writing back. Why wouldn't she write back?

On the third day with no response, he told April he'd been called into another last-minute work project, despite the fact that there was a church activity that night he'd been talking up to the girls.

I had sort of been looking forward to the church activity myself. They were going to have a bonfire at the base of the mountains, and Kimmie and Emma were dying of excitement. April looked hurt but didn't say anything. She never did.

He brought the phone charger with him in his back pocket and drove to Elle's house.

I studied the expression on his face, eager and agitated as he sat in the car a few houses away, just beyond the glow of a street light. He opened up the app and typed and retyped another message to Elle. In this one, he stopped with the pretenses.

At least tell me what I did? You SLEEP with me and then pretend like it never happened and ghost? What kind of person does that? No wonder your brother needed those drugs.

He hovered over the send button for a few seconds, then shook his head and erased the message, peering toward the house. There was a light on in the kitchen. A few minutes passed before Elle appeared at the kitchen sink. She appeared to be rinsing dishes and turned to say something over her shoulder with a smile on her face.

She wasn't alone. He saw it too.

He opened the car door and shut it carefully, quietly—but not before he'd grabbed the seatbelt cutter tool tucked into the dash. I could feel myself panicking, the fear and terror turning the air charged and heavy as I scrambled after him. What could I do?

The street light a few yards away blinked rapidly then went out, if anything making it easier for him to approach the house unseen. I screamed after him, unheard and unnoticed.

He glanced around the empty street then continued toward Elle's driveway.

I rushed to the window, where I could see Elle inside with an older man. Maybe her dad. They were sitting down at the table, watching a basketball game while they ate pizza. "Don't answer the door, don't go outside," I shrieked, knowing they wouldn't hear. As far as I could tell, the only time anyone stood a chance of listening was when I was closer than humanly possible. Basically inside their ear canal. Even then, it only seemed to work if they were open to the suggestion. Screaming never did a thing.

I screamed anyway.

As I turned around, I saw his dark form standing in the driveway at the edges of the porch lights.

He glanced around one more time, then knelt down and pressed the blade of the seatbelt cutter into all four of her tires.

"Bitch," he whispered softly.

Then he turned back around and walked toward his parked car down the road.

I followed him. Because I didn't know what else to do. Because I had chosen this path and wasn't ready to give up yet.

Before he drove away, he blocked Elle on the dating app. Made me uncomfortable.

When he got home, he went straight downstairs and started sending out new messages on MatchStrike before even saying hello to April, who must have just gotten home from the bonfire with the girls since their bedroom light was on.

When the first woman responded, he eagerly opened up the app to read the full message.

She had shoulder-length light-brown hair and was wearing bright pink lipstick. Her lips were quirked in the kind of grin that told me she had a sarcastic side.

Her name was Meghan.