Wild, Like Her
The mountain is steep. As the car lurches forward, she rolls down the window. The air is crisp.
The trees are familiar. She turns the radio up and smiles. In the distance, a flock of birds comes into view. Her car rounds a bend, then another, then another, and the flock grows. She leans into the steering wheel, peers up.
A turnout ahead. She pulls in as cars pass her on the road. The gravel is loud under her tires. She gets out, one hand on the roof.
Another car pulls in. It is a man.
“Look at that,” he says. “You don’t see that every day.”
She doesn’t look at him. She’s admiring the view. She hears clicking. He has a camera.
“Those are house sparrows. Can you believe that?’
She can.
“House sparrows don’t migrate.”
No, they don’t.
“I wonder what they’re doing out here.”
She has an idea.
They are going home. They are free. They are untamed.
They are wild, like her.
* * *
11:59 a.m.: Three hours left.
When she woke at dawn Daisy propped herself against the headboard and stared at the strip of sunlight between the gap in the curtains. Blackout curtains, for when Paul sleeps during the day. When he’s away she leaves them open. In the morning she listens to songbirds and watches puddles of sunlight spill onto the floor, the foot of her bed, her face. If it’s cloudy she watches them make shapes above the neighbor’s tree. One time she found a bear in the sky and stayed all afternoon until it faded away.
Last night she closed the curtains. Leaving them open would only tempt her to stay, convince her in the morning that things were all right, that she could be happy. As long as she stayed right here next to her grandfather’s nightstand with the occasional cloud offering her a bit of solace, nothing was ever that bad, not even the bruises.
And yet she couldn’t bring herself to get up.
At the foot of the bed was a light grey storage bench. On top of it was a suitcase. Inside the suitcase were three empty makeup bags and an envelope of cash. To the right of the suitcase was a pile of folded clothes. It was meant to serve as a head start, a way to help her out of bed and into this impossible day. But now it was noon and Paul would be home in three hours. Slowly, peeling the covers off her chest like an extra layer of skin, Daisy crawled to the foot of the bed. Her outfit for today lay folded over the face of the suitcase, jeans and a T-shirt, adorned with a bra and panties on top. A pair of black and white sneakers sat at the foot of the storage bench. Inside both were a pair of folded white socks. Her stomach felt like those socks, folded over on itself.
The first thing she saw when she entered the bathroom was the bruise. It was yellow in the middle and purple around the edges. She lifted a finger to her left eye and prodded gently. It didn’t hurt. Extra makeup would hide it nicely.
No, screw him. No makeup. No hiding. She was leaving.
She ran a hand through her hair. Splashed water on her face. Brushed her teeth and gathered the toiletries. The clock on the wall read twelve-twenty-two. So late! Her hands were shaking.
Now the suitcase lay open in the middle of the bed. The crumpled sheets around it were like fluffy white clouds keeping it safe in the sky. All she had to do was pack it and fly.
She opened the curtains, temptation be damned. Let there be light.
Each time she went to the bathroom her hands shook harder until finally she gripped the edge of the counter and leaned into the mirror.
“Listen to me,” she said. Her eyes were determined slits. “We are doing this, okay? We are leaving. Either you hurry up and pack or he comes home and finds us like this. The faster we get out of here the faster we can get home.” And because the word home activated a lump in the back of her throat, she repeated, “This is not home. This is not home. Amy is home. We are going home.” Now she was crying. Her kneecaps bounced in their sockets. She gripped the counter harder, and then with one hand, placed a palm over her belly. “We’re going home.”
* * *
“They’re beautiful,” she says.
The man agrees. He’s still clicking his camera.
She walks away. The gravel crunches under her feet. She looks up. The sky is blue.
He said they’re house sparrows, that they don’t migrate. Neither did she, before.
The breeze sweeps over her scalp. It feels foreign having no hair. The tiny pieces left behind tickle the inside of her ears. She should’ve showered before leaving. Still, she likes it. It adds to her freedom. She grips the railing with both hands. It’s warm. She leans into it. She wants to fly.
When she turns around the camera is pointed at her. The man lowers it quickly. Her blood goes cold.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m a journalist for the L.A. Times. Here, I have a business card.” He reaches in his back pocket. She takes the card.
Her stomach tumbles. Or something tumbles in her stomach. She wants to run.
“I just take pictures for fun. There’s a migration of house sparrows coming in from the south, probably a storm, so I brought the family with me to check it out. It’s actually just me and my husband and our dog. He’s right there.” He points to the car. “We’re here for the weekend.” He says this to comfort her. He means her no harm.
“Okay,” she says. “That’s all right.” It’s not, she’s terrified.
“Do you come to Big Bear often?”
“My sister lives here.”
“Lucky her. It’s beautiful here.”
He tilts the camera toward down and shows her the picture he took of her. He comments on her shaved head, asks if she has cancer. Because she doesn’t, she’s not offended.
“Why don’t I take a picture of you with the trees in the back?”
She doesn’t mind. She likes these trees. Sugar Pines and Ponderosas. She smiles, and for the first time doesn’t feel false doing it. She smiles again. Now she’s laughing. What a release! She throws her head back. The sky is blue, cloudless. She misses the clouds.
Overhead, the flock of sparrows veer west and disappear behind the face of the mountain.
* * *
1:15 p.m.: An hour and forty-five minutes left.
The house was quiet. A resting heartbeat. In the living room, behind the couch, white curtains hovered an inch above the hardwood floor, motionless. Near the right-hand corner, by the arm of the couch, a faint bloodstain caught the sunlight. It looked like a patch of orange light, a beauty mark on an otherwise clear face. It was not.
On the mantel above the fireplace was a clock. Its circular face was small, indiscrete. The steady ticking was the only sound. That, and the hum of the fridge.
Upstairs, something rolled across the ceiling, followed by footsteps. Then Daisy emerged between the wooden slats in the banister, her hair sprawled haplessly around her shoulders. One hand guided herself down the stairs, the other gripped the handle of her suitcase. Her pace wasn’t a run, but it wasn’t quite a walk. She stopped at the bottom. Her suitcase rolled onto the front doormat. She lowered the neck down. She was out of breath.
Five minutes. Maybe less.
The white sheer curtains, the oakwood coffee table, the matching side tables on either side of the couch. The couch, with all its memories. Her favorite spot to read, in the corner by the fireplace. All the books that rested on that table. All the stories that took her away from here. One time, Paul punched her in the face, right where she sat, because her quietness upset him. Her nose bled. She covered it to prevent it from spilling, and then he pulled her hair and she panicked, gripped the curtain, got blood everywhere. She woke up the next morning with swollen eye bags, discoloration, and a broken nose. She would not miss it, any of it. And yet she would. All of it. Everything this house harbored. It made her sick. But there was no time – in five minutes she’d be out of here. Gone. Nothing left except her blood, sweat, and tears etched into the fabrics and floorboards.
She glanced at her phone.
Your Uber driver is on the way. Walter (4.9 stars) will arrive in five minutes.
There was no checklist. Too dangerous, Amy said. They talked it out over the phone, went over everything. Money, first and foremost. Daisy had a separate bank account. She withdrew it all two days ago. Now it was in a manila envelope at the bottom of her suitcase. A car – she did not have one; Amy would help with that. Clothes – no need to pack all of them; she’d grow out of them in four months. They could buy more later. Everything else, Amy said, could wait. You just need to get out of there first. We’ll figure out the rest later.
The clock on the mantel read one-fifteen. Daisy breathed, deep and long. Now that it was here, she could hardly believe it. And yet she knew, always knew, deep down, that she’d get out of here. This wasn’t her life. This wasn’t her town. Wayward was Paul’s hometown. It was his life. She was going home.
Above the fireplace hung a painting. Paul’s favorite. A park with a patch of green lawn in the middle, surrounded by mountains. A blurry cargo train cut through the mountains, heading west. Daisy spent countless hours imagining what it would feel like to board that train. When she wasn’t reading or nursing a bloody nose, she leaned into it like a Jesuit gazing upon the tortured eyes of Jesus, praying for salvation.
She crossed the room. What she would give to tear it down, rip it to shreds, be a fly on the wall when he came home. There was no time. She leaned into the mantelpiece, one last time, and released the breath she’d been holding. Her ring, twenty-karat white gold, reflected sunlight onto the ceiling as she slipped it off the third finger of her left hand and set it on the mantel, right below the painting.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Your Uber is arriving now. Your driver will wait 2 min before leaving. Enjoy the ride!
She looked at the ring; the painting.
“Goodbye, Paul. Burn in hell.”
Her driver arrived in a red Nissan Altima; crimson, the color her blood once made on the white sheer curtains. She unlocked the front door, pulled the suitcase handle out of its socket, and kicked it back on its wheels. She knew without having to open the door that the figure standing outside the red Nissan Altima, although distorted from the decorative glass, was not her driver, Walter (4.9 stars).
He had one hand on the roof of the car. His head tilted downward, toward the driver. He shook his head, slowly and with great effort. The driver did the same, but his movements looked frazzled behind the wheel, jerky; he was glancing back and forth between the front door and his phone. And then, after a moment of stillness, Paul took his hand off the roof of the car and pointed in her direction.
She jerked backward. Then she was halfway up the stairs, her suitcase flying behind her, colliding with every other step. She flung it into the room. Shut the door. Her hands were shaking. She started to cry.
* * *
He extends a hand. “I’m Blake.”
“Daisy.”
“That’s our dog’s name.” He points to his car. She can’t see through the glare. “She’s a golden retriever. And there’s my husband snoring as usual in the front. Nice co-pilot, eh?”
She doesn’t comment. He’s nice but she wants him to leave.
“Do you visit your sister often?” he asks.
She keeps her eyes on the dog, a black shadow behind the glare. “No.”
“Well, hopefully we run into each other this weekend. I should probably get back on the road. I’ve learned not to keep a hungry husband waiting.” Before turning to leave he says, “It was nice to meet you, Daisy. Thanks again for the picture. If you want, we have an extra icepack.”
She looks at him. Blinks.
“For the bruise.”
She raises a finger to her left eye. “No. No, thank you.”
“No worries. Enjoy your time with your sister.”
She watches him get back inside the car. She doesn’t move until it’s out of sight and the last particle of dust settles back to the ground.
* * *
The curtains. She drew them quickly. Darkness collapsed upon the room. She had only seconds.
She unzipped the suitcase. Her hands were shaking. The T-shirts and jeans stared at her like weeds in a garden. She yanked them out in clumps. She hid the contents of the makeup bags underneath the mound of clothes and as she stuffed the small black bags back inside the suitcase the front door slammed. She froze, but only for a second to swallow her scream, then she slapped herself across the face, one, two, three times. The tears stopped. She took a raggedy breath.
“DAISY!”
She chucked the suitcase in the corner of the closet, only slightly out of place, nothing noticeable. It was lightweight. Two minutes ago, it contained her entire life.
“Up here, honey!”
She ran a hand through her hair, messed it up a bit. Slapped herself once more. The shaking stopped. She had control.
She cocked an ear for his footsteps.
“What are you doing?”
In the doorway, he wore a brown shirt and baseball cap with a duffle bag at his side. The hand gripping the bag had white knuckles.
“Just doing some spring cleaning, honey. You’re home early.”
She shouldn’t have said that. She forced a smile.
“Did you order that Uber outside?”
Composure. Stay calm. Nothing to hide.
“What Uber?” she said, smoothing out wrinkles on a blouse.
“There’s an Uber right outside the house.”
“Hmm. It’s probably for one of the neighbors. They never pick up at the right spot.”
“I asked him who he was picking up.”
She hesitated, but not really, not enough to notice. “What’d he say?”
“Riley.”
Bless you, Amy. Bless you for convincing me to use a different name.
“I asked him where he was picking up and he pointed here. At our house.” Paul stepped inside, set the duffle bag by the foot of the bed. He smelled like fire. “He had our address.”
Daisy turned around, “I don’t know, honey. But I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.” She placed a hand on his chest and kissed his cheek. He grabbed her wrist.
“Where were you going?”
“I didn’t order the Uber, honey. The neighbors across the street have a daughter named Riley. She probably used our address to sneak out.
This put him at ease. She kissed him on the cheek again and returned to her clothes.
“It was a shit-show at the station this morning,” he said, unzipping his duffle bag.
“What happened?”
He waved off the question. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her palms grew sweaty while they worked in silence. And then, from the corner of the room, somewhere deep inside the closet, something fell. Thump! Paul turned slowly. Daisy froze.
Her suitcase had fallen over.
* * *
She brings the phone to her ear. It rings twice.
“Daisy is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Is everything all right? Did something happen?”
“I’m fine.”
“All right.” She pauses. “Are you… okay?”
“Fine.” She’s not. She doesn’t know what she is.
“Okay, I’ll see you when you get here. I’m waiting at the window but text me anyways, so I know it’s you. I’ll make us some coffee.”
“Thanks, Amy. Love you.”
“Love you too, sis. Everything’s going to be all right.”
She hangs up.
* * *
She ran. Her feet remained planted to the floor, but in her mind, she ran. As fast as her feet could carry her, down the stairs and out the front door. Parked by the curb, the red Nissan Altima; behind the wheel, Walter (4.9 stars). Her savior, her protector. She clamored into the backseat. It smelled of cigarettes and coffee. Drive! And they did, down the street and around the corner.
“Were you leaving me?”
It came as a whisper from inside the closet. Shirt hangers scooted across a wooden post. Something jingled; a zipper, maybe. Daisy scanned the room, for what, she didn’t know. Then –
Paul emerged from the closet with her black suitcase in his hand. His eyes were on the ground.
“That was your Uber. You were leaving me.”
She stepped forward, reached out a hand. “No, honey, please. It was for the girl across the –”
The suitcase grazed the top of her head; she ducked, sprinted, clipped the side of the door with her arm. She was halfway down the first step when a sharp pain erupted from her scalp and her legs shot out in front of her, and the last thing she recalled before everything went out of focus was how light the color of her hair looked in Paul’s hand, how strange it felt seeing it from this angle, upside down while he dragged her down the stairs, every other step colliding with her shoulder blade, her tailbone, her spine.
Later, when Amy asks Daisy what transpired, how things unfolded the way they did, she’ll tell her she doesn’t remember, because that’s the truth. What she sees in her head is not a memory, but an aged film dug up after a hundred years of collecting dust. Only parts stick out, like Paul dragging her across the sitting room floor, spitting in her face, slapping her over and over again, and the unrecognizable sound of her voice trying to come through her throat. Then standing by the fireplace with Paul slumped in her arms, cooing him, letting him cry into her shoulder, seeing her blood drip off her face onto the floorboard. And then his question into her ear, a whisper; asking what her ring is doing on the fireplace mantel…
She tells Amy that’s all, that’s all she can recall. She never tells her about the fight in the kitchen, not because she doesn’t want to but because it hurts to remember. When she’s alone, staring at the ceiling in the minutes before sleep, she sees his cell phone hurling across the room, colliding with her face, right between the eyes. The fight for the kitchen knife. Then the flames, small ones. Then the wedding ring hovering above the flames. Then the smell of burning flesh as he held it to her neck. But that’s it, that’s all she remembers. She describes it to Amy as a film-jump. A poor-quality film strip. It jumps, skips, goes black, comes back for a second, and then she’s in the car with her suitcase and the envelope of cash and the radio playing Maren Morris’s, My Church, and her hand is on her belly.
She has no idea what happened to Paul.
Can I get a hallelujah
Can I get an amen
Feels like the Holy Ghost running through ya
When I play the highway FM
I find my soul revival
Singing every single verse
Yeah I guess that’s my church
* * *
Preliminary Notes on Investigation: Detective Julio {March 16th, 2:00 p.m. Grizzly Manor Café – Big Bear, CA}
10:15 a.m. – Troy family moves to the front of the line, sits on a bench outside the entrance. Husband, Jack Troy leans against a newspaper stand. Wife, Suzie Troy scrolls through her cell phone. The two girls, Holly and Poppy poke and giggle at each other.
10:25 a.m. – The name Troy is called. Jack Troy picks up newspaper, ushers children and wife inside, follows host to table in the back.
10:30 a.m. – Holly Troy bounces up and down in her chair. Server arrives. The family orders. Suzie Troy tells Holly to sit still.
10:45 a.m. – Jack Troy leans into wife, gestures to article in bottom right-hand corner. Suzie gasps. Holly asks what’s wrong. Suzie says nothing.
11:26 a.m. – Jack Troy pays for bill. Looks at newspaper one more time, turns to page 3, closes it. He gathers the family’s belongings. Server returns, wishes them a good day.
11:32 a.m. – Poppy Troy cries on the way out. Suzie and Jack console her. Holly grips her teddy bear, sees a woman with a shaved head sitting with another female. The woman with the shaved head smiles. Holly waves. Jack and Suzie do not see this. The Troy family exits the restaurant.
11:33 a.m. – Jack Troy places newspaper back on top of newspaper stack. Picks Poppy up. Hurries family through the parking lot. The woman with the shaved head looks outside the window, sees Troy family leave. Holly notices. They smile at each other.
Inside the newspaper stand, page 3, bottom right-hand corner:
Big Bear
GRIZZLY
SAN FERNANDO VALLEY MURDER
Wife Brutally Burns Firefighter Husband Alive
Big Bear (CA) – Karen Weathers
March 16, 2020
March 12, 2020, 2:13 p.m. – local firefighter and lifetime Wayward resident, Paul Anderson Prescott was found murdered in his childhood home on Norrington Avenue, just two miles north of Porter Ranch and seven miles east of the infamous 1993 Northridge Earthquake. Officer Gerald and Officer Drummer arrived at the Prescott residence after numerous phone calls from neighbors suggesting a potential domestic violence case. According to police, this was not the first domestic violence call on Mr. and Mrs. Prescott. Sheriff Vanbuek arrived shortly after with Deputy Howard and Detective Julio. Vanbuek went on record saying, “We see hundreds of domestic violence cases every month, it’s unfortunate, but I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.” Prescott’s body was found in the kitchen, scorched, the whole front of his face melted off. Officials say the gas stove was running on high when they entered the house. The smell, according to Vanbuek, was “unlike anything I’ve experienced. A mix between burnt rubber and turned milk.”
“We believe this to be a crime of passion,” says Sherriff Vanbuek. “The methods by which Mr. Prescott was killed are severe and devastating. We believe Daisy Prescott held her husband’s face to the flame and left him to die. This woman is extremely dangerous. Anyone with news of her whereabouts is encouraged to call the Los Angeles County Police Department or the Wayward Police Department immediately.”
Los Angeles Times reporter, Blake Hovakzian contacted Wayward authorities days after the incident with news of Mrs. Prescott’s potential whereabouts. Hovakzian says he believes he crossed paths with Prescott on a drive up to Big Bear with his family. He shared a photo with the Times in which a potential Mrs. Prescott sports a shaved head while laughing. Hovakzian said she looked about as normal as any solo traveler he’s met. “She seemed happy to me.” Officials have not confirmed yet if the photo is indeed Daisy Prescott.
It seems what started out as an unfortunate domestic violence call has turned into a deadly and worrisome manhunt, or more appropriately, womanhunt.
THE END