I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling, replaying Oliver’s voice. What if she’s been watching ever since?
6 AM. Sitting at my kitchen table, coffee within reach, and my laptop open, scouring all the public records I could, looking for Patricia Denton. It didn’t take long to review both public records and a LinkedIn profile she hadn’t updated in at least two years. But she did buy a house on Mulberry Street, fourteen months after Oliver’s accident.
Why did she move here after?
That one detail settled like a rock in my chest.
Oliver’s Fragments
Trauma is funny, especially the way it affects our memories. Oliver’s memories came back in pieces over the next few days. Thankfully, he called me twice more, both times during daylight hours.
I didn’t get to say hello before Oliver rushed through what was on his mind.
“She got out of the car before the ambulance arrived, just standing there. Right at the edge of the intersection. I thought that was strange.”
“You need to let me answer before you bombard me with your flashbacks, Oliver.” I wanted to fire him. Again. Instead, I added, “Please.”
“That day? Everything happened so fast. I guess my brain is starting to catch up with the stuff I missed.” I heard him humming Emma’s song. “So why was she there?”
“I don’t know, Oliver. Look, I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Of course, Thomas. Of course. Bye.” CLICK.
I sighed, wondering when he’d call again.
Two days later, Oliver called me again, this time catching me mid-bite of a Ruben from Erik’s Deli, one of the best sandwich shops in all of Des Moines.
“Herhmo?” I answered, still chewing my first bite.
“Hello, Thomas! She wasn’t upset!”
“Wait, who wasn’t upset?” I forgot all about Patricia and Oliver’s puzzling over why she was there. “What are you talking about?”
“Patricia Denton, of course, Thomas. Did you forget we’re working on why she was there? At the intersection?”
“Honestly, Oliver, I’ve been busy.” It was the truth. I had two new clients, one of whom was terrible at tracking and keeping receipts. I was working diligently to recover what I could so her taxes wouldn’t bankrupt her. My other new client didn’t understand basic business accounting, so it was like trying to unravel a tangled mess of yarn. Both were puzzles needing to be solved and required every bit of my analytical prowess.
“Thomas, everyone else was screaming. Or crying, like me. Even the police, EMTs, and other first responders. A few people had their phones out, taking pictures or filming. But Patricia? She was cool, calm. Like none of it bothered her!”
Not knowing what else to do, I took notes, recording what he was remembering. Hopefully, it would lead somewhere. But right now, I was hungry. And my Ruben was getting cold.
“Oliver? I need to finish my lunch. Call me later, okay?”
“Yes. Of course. Take care.” CLICK. I really hated that he did that!
The Wrong Invoice
Thursday morning, 10:47 AM. Sitting at my desk, I was reviewing stacks of invoices neatly and strategically placed. Somewhere in the mess of invoices, one of the three secretaries managed to botch a few numbers. They weren’t small numbers. They were in the thousands. And, lucky me. It was my responsibility to figure out what happened.
Then, in the middle of my review, my phone buzzed. Denise.
“Thom. What the hell did you do?” I was getting tired of people not at least saying hello before they started talking. First, Oliver, and now? Denise.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I asked Denise, “What are you talking about?”
“A call came in to the Des Moines Police. The report says you were harassing a client. Showed up at her house late last night and wouldn’t leave. Screaming at her about invoices or something like that. They are sending units to your work address.”
“Wait. To my work? How did they get the address?”
“I don’t know. The caller, maybe? You need to leave. Go home. Go to a bar. Anywhere but your office.”
“Denise, I didn’t do anything.”
“You have to leave, Thomas! Are you listening to me? Or at least get your story straight.” CLICK.
I sat very still, staring at the invoices. Closing my eyes, I thought about Oliver’s crowbar incident. The gray shirt that really was red. An anonymous voice knowing exactly what buttons to push.
Someone knew I was looking.
The knock on my office door startled me. “Thomas Hale. This is the Des Moines Police. Open the door.”
I grabbed my laptop, my hands surprisingly steady. There was a back exit through the supply room. I’d worked in this building for eight years. I knew every door. Every hallway. Slipping out of my chair, I moved toward the rear wall, keeping my footsteps silent on the worn carpet.“Mr. Hale, we know you’re in there. Open up.”By the time Molly, the building manager, got there to unlock my office door, I was already three blocks away, walking calmly toward the parking garage where I kept my car. My phone buzzed again. Denise. I sent it to voicemail. First, I needed distance. Then, I needed answers.
The Bench at Henderson’s
Two hours later, sitting outside Henderson Hardware, almost the exact spot where everything happened a few weeks ago, Oliver watched. He loved the ordinary rhythm of people coming and going. That’s when she approached him.
“Excuse me. Mr. Oliver Finch?”
Oliver was busy watching two boys driving their mother crazy as they played tag in the busy parking lot at Aldi. When he looked up, that’s when he noticed her. A woman in her mid-fifties, with brown hair slowly going gray, stood before him. Her face was pale white, like she’d seen a ghost. She was holding her keys between her fingers, like a weapon, knuckles white, ready to strike. If need be.
“I think we should talk.”
Oliver never moved, just watched her, studying her face, wondering why this woman, the one standing at the intersection, stood still while his world crashed and burned.
“I know you.” His voice was soft, calm. “You were there. On my Thursday.”
She sat as far away from Oliver as she could, at the other end of the bench. She never denied his claim, but she was nervous.
“Yes. I was. And, Mr. Finch? I need to explain to you why I was there.”
What I Wanted
Oliver felt the bench in his rear. It felt harder than it should have. Oliver gripped his umbrella across his knees, pale blue, white stars. Emma’s umbrella. Detective Shaw personally returned it to him yesterday. His knuckles were white against the handle, matching Patricia’s grip on her keys. A tremor ran through his left hand, the one Emma used to hold. He pressed it flat against his thigh, willing it to be still.
Patricia stared at the asphalt parking lot, cars pulling in and out. A beat-up silver Dodge truck backed up near the entrance of the store, three young men loading two-by-fours into the bed in record time.
Her foot nervously tapped the ground under the bench. “I was on my way to the river, driving to the old bridge on County Road 12.” She stopped, taking a deep breath before she continued. “It took me four days to get the courage to do it. I had it all planned out.”
Oliver sat motionless, not responding to her in the slightest. He wasn’t sure he was breathing. He was listening and oblivious to her presence all at the same time. The woman who didn’t react at all was sharing something with him. Something that he was only halfway listening to.
“I was done,” she continued. “Letters were written. My apartment was cleaned, spotless. I was done.” She stopped again, turning to look at Oliver. “My daughter. Leukemia. Three years of fighting, and then… nothing. Just an empty house and her violin still sitting in the corner. Six months of that silence before I decided to drive to that bridge.” She continued, “That’s when I came up to the intersection. Your car was in the middle, the truck hitting you less than thirty seconds earlier. Glass from your car? It was everywhere. Spread throughout the middle of the intersection. The passenger door caved in. The EMTs were using that thing that cuts through steel to get into the passenger side. And I just stood there.”
She stopped, her hands shaking in her lap.
“The only thing I knew to do, I did. I pulled over. I got out. Screaming. Running people shouting, “Call 911!” All I could do was stand there, because I wanted what your wife now had. I selfishly wanted that for me. She got it, and I didn’t. So I was jealous while also recognizing it was the most horrifying thing I’d ever seen.”
A UPS ground semi-truck rumbled past, rumbling the wooden bench.
Patricia looked down at her feet. “I didn’t help. I couldn’t move. By the time the ambulance came? I was back in my car. I drove home, instead of to the bridge. I burned all the letters and I never went to that bridge.”
Oliver’s voice came out thin and tinny. “You stood there, watching my family die.” Without realizing it, Oliver’s hands were balled up into fists, ready to punch something. The umbrella handle creaked under his grip. For a moment, his vision blurred, not with tears, but with something darker. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, could taste copper in his mouth from biting his tongue.
“Yes.” Patricia’s voice was quivering.
“You’ve been watching me ever since. For four years, you’ve been following me.”
Patricia nodded, still staring at her feet. “I had to know. I needed to believe that you would survive. That it was possible to keep living after such a terrible tragedy.” A few tears streaked her cheeks. “You brought the umbrella with you everywhere. Hummed her song. Took the bus instead of driving. You spent time working on rebuilding the deck at your apartment, even though it wasn’t your responsibility. Somehow, Oliver, you kept on living. I needed to see that someone could do it. The death of your family kept me from ending my own life.”
Oliver’s chest shifted. Something inside him changed. It wasn’t forgiveness. At least not yet, maybe not ever. But the knot in his chest was loosening. The one he didn’t know, until right then, was there.
“The phone call to the police. The crowbar. That was all you.”
She nodded, still staring at her feet. “I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t quite sure how. I thought if something happened, something small, I could show up and help you. I could finally do what I couldn’t do on that Thursday. I could help.” She shook her head, crying. “It was stupid. And wrong. All I did was make everything worse.”
“Hello. You could have started with that.”
“I know,” she cried, laying her head in her own lap.
“I would have listened.”
Her voice cracked. “I’ve been broken so long I forgot how normal people work. I couldn’t figure it out.”
They sat in silence, watching the patrons of Henderson Hardware. The automatic doors whooshed open and closed. A young girl ran past them, laughing, clutching the string attached to a balloon.
“I will not forgive you,” Oliver said.
“I’m not asking.”
“But,” he turned to face her, “I won’t hate you, either. Truth is, I don’t have space for it in my head.”
Patricia wiped her face with the back of her hand, her eyes bright red, mascara smeared all around her eyes. “Thomas. Your friend? I made a call today, about him, too. I panicked. I thought he was getting too close.”
Oliver’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. You need to fix that. Right now.”
“I’ll go to the station right now,” she said, standing up. “I’ll tell them I lied. Both times.”
“Not good enough.” He stood up. “I’m going with you. Just to make sure you follow through.” He crossed his arms. “You tried to take away my Thursday. Then you had me arrested. And now? You are going to have my friend arrested. I’m not listening to you anymore. Let’s go.”
“Yes,” She stood up. Her keys were still clutched between the fingers of her right hand. “Mr. Finch, I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough. But, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care, Patricia. You’ve hurt enough people. Let’s go,” he motioned toward her blue Honda Civic. She held Oliver’s gaze for a long moment. Then she walked across the parking lot to her car, parked three spaces from the bus shelter. Unlocking the doors, Oliver didn’t ask, just hopped in the passenger side.
Oliver’s phone buzzed on their way to the police station, neither of them saying a word. It was Thomas.
“Oliver.”
“Yeah, Thomas. I’m on my way.”
“Wait. You know someone called the cops on me?”
“Yes. I know. I’m on my way. It’s being,” he paused for a second, just long enough to glare at Patricia. “handled.”
“How do you know? When did you find out?”
“Less than five minutes ago. Where are you now? Are you safe?”
“I got out before they could grab me. I’m at the Roasters Coffee shop on Grand Avenue.”
“Good. Stay there. We’ll be there in ten minutes. This whole mess will be cleared up within the hour.”
“Oliver. What’s going on? How did you?”
“No time, Thomas. Later, I promise. I’ll explain everything. Later.”
CLICK!
The line went dead. I stared at my phone, then at my cooling coffee. Oliver Finch was handling things? That should have worried me more than it did.
A hardware store. An anonymous tip. A man with a crowbar who hasn’t driven in four years. Sometimes the most ordinary Saturday holds the most extraordinary truths. But Patricia Denton’s truth was only the beginning.
5 Minute Observations 
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