It'd been three days since Michael had returned to apartment 336, and he had yet to walk out the front door. Stubble was growing thick on his unshaven face. Dishes had begun to pile high into the sink. The first morning he thought about going through his old routine, but the thought got pushed aside as he rolled over and slept until noon. His aches were no longer from getting shot, but from sitting idle on the living room couch.
Kat had been told he would be gone for a week. This was the fifth day, and Michael planned on taking all seven. He couldn't hide forever, but also wasn't sure if he could go back. He figured he had two days to decide what would come next.
He sat on the sofa, watching lulling daytime television. A cup of coffee from yesterday's pot sat on a coaster next to him. His hand was halfway into a box of dry cereal when the landline telephone rang. He walked to the receiver, muted it, and returned to the couch. A minute later, the phone rang again. He muted the phone a second time. The third time got his attention.
He stood to his feet and looked at the phone. The ID read “Unknown Caller.”
He let it ring out the entire thirty seconds before it went to voicemail. If it was the company, they'd just show up at his door, they didn't seem to have a sense of boundaries. The Bissett's didn't have the landline number. Gary only had his cell phone, which Michael had smashed, and the private phone he'd given Michael himself that Michael had dropped somewhere in Alaska.
By the time the phone rang a fourth time, Michael was down the hall throwing on the first pants and shirt he could grab from his dresser. Not today. Whoever it was that was desperately trying to talk could wait. Moments ago he'd wondered how he could ever leave his apartment again, now he couldn't get out fast enough.
Michael closed and locked the door behind himself, turned the doorknob, and shook the door just to be safe. He walked halfway down the interior hallway before checking a third time. People seemed to not care much for his privacy lately. As he stepped outside, he had to pause for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright painful glow. He mindlessly checked his mailbox and headed to the parking lot.
He felt like a changed person but he found himself mindlessly going into old habits. He turned on the radio as he pulled onto the freeway. It wasn't until he was pulling off the highway onto the street of the academy he came to his senses. It was summer break, he didn't have work, and he did not want to see any individual of the Bissett family.
He continued straight past the academy's parking lot without giving the school a glance. It took him ten minutes, in a roundabout route, to reach the familiar neighborhood. He checked his rearview mirror and was pleased to find no other cars turning onto the street. It was possible someone was watching him from a parked car, but at least no one was following him anymore.
Michael was nervous as he pulled into the driveway of Mimsy's small three-bedroom house. He wasn't sure how this would go. She'd grill him about the distressed voicemail. He wasn't one for sappy emotions. What could he possibly tell her? The old lady had a sixth sense when he was lying. Christine had given him permission to talk to anyone he wanted about the events prior, but he wasn't sure how Mimsy could ever believe it even if he did tell her. And if she did accept it, she'd go to the police without batting an eye.
Michael walked up the driveway to the front door. The flowers potted across the porch were full blossom as they always were. Mimsy never let a single petal get out of place. When he stepped into the house, he could hear a radio playing oldies in the kitchen. Something seemed out of place. Had she rearranged? No. Then it hit him. The smell. It lacked a distinctive smell. Mimsy always had a candle or two burning. She might have just run out candles.
"Mimsy," He shouted, trying to be heard over Elvis's croon, "Sorry I didn't tell you I was coming, it's been a long week." He walked into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He slipped off both shoes and waited for the lady to answer.
"Mimsy?" He said again getting to his feet. He walked into the kitchen. He pushed the swinging door open to find the kitchen empty. He walked to the sink and turned off the old antenna radio sitting on the window seal. He froze and stared at the dirty pan sitting in the tub. Panic swept over him. Candles were one thing, this was another. Something was wrong. "Mimsy?" Michael yelled running down the hallway. What if something had happened when he was in Alaska? In the past she had called him when she broke her wrist. He was the only person she would contact. What if she'd called while he was in Alaska?
He pounded on the bedroom door, "Are you alright?" He knocked harder, getting no response, "Mimsy, are you alright? I'm coming in."
He pushed the door open worried about what he was going to find. The room was empty, and so was the private restroom. He quickly jogged to the guest room, his room, then out to the backyard. Mimsy wasn't there. He felt a rush of relief when he found her car parked safely in the garage. Her house keys weren't on the hook, and her sun hat was gone. She'd just gone out for her afternoon walk.
Michael moseyed back into the kitchen. Mimsy wasn't the type to put off tasks, but she hadn't been expecting him, so maybe she was just less strict without him around. He scrubbed the bits off the pan with soap and hung it on the rack to dry. To his surprise, the cabinet was full of unused candles. He removed three and placed them in the living room candle holders. The smell of peach potpourri soon filled the air, and the house felt normal again.
Michael wrote a note and left it on the counter in case she came back while he was still in the shower. He grabbed a plastic bag beneath the sink to wrap the sling and a t-shirt and sweats from his childhood bedroom. The warm streams of water felt like heaven.
Could he tell her everything? He had a bullet wound to validate his story, but what could she do? All it would do would worry her. She'd go to the police, and that'd cause more problems for both of them. He'd tell her he fell on a metal rod and panicked. It hurt so bad he was afraid he might die. She knew he was a wimp, so she might even believe it. She'd worry and pamper him, but it'd be over.
Mimsy was still gone when he got back to the kitchen. He went through her fridge and pieced together two salads. He smiled, thinking about what she'd say at his attempt. "You call this a salad? Do I look like a rabbit?" Or "Thank you, Michael, but please let me do the cooking."
He wrapped the plates with plastic and pushed them back into the fridge. To kill time, he flipped through an old family album on the mantel. A seed of doubt was growing in his stomach as the minutes turned to hours. At the three hour mark, he was pacing in the living room. She should be back by now. She should've been back a long time ago.
He blew out the candles and hurried out the door. Mimsy always walked to the right. If she left this morning, she would've gone down the street, over the overpass to Dave's Coffee, for a cup and a scone. Michael tried walking, but shortly found himself in a full run. He kept scanning the street, not sure what he was looking for, but hoping he'd just see the old lady appear.
Michael slowed to a jog as he veered into the parking lot. He nearly got hit as he cut in front of a rolling car. He gave an apologetic wave as the driver laid on the horn.
He entered the cafe' and saw a familiar face behind the counter.
"Michael, how have you been? I apologize, we're all out of donuts. Had I known you were coming, I would've saved you one. Is Mimsy with you?" Dave was the only person outside of his family that called her Mimsy.
"That's actually why I'm here." Michael said, distraught, "Was she here this morning?"
Dave gave Michael a concerning look. "I haven't seen her in a few days now. Is everything alright?"
Michael's heart dropped. "I—I don't know where she is," he said, shuffling back towards the door, "If she comes in..I don't have my phone..but tell her I'm looking for her," He thought for a moment with the door half-open, "Tell her I'm at her place. Please."
"Absolutely, is there anything I can do? Please let me know," Carl looked intently at Michael, "Do you need anything?"
"No, I’m sure she's ok, sorry for bothering you," the door closed as Dave tried to respond. Michael hurried back to Mimsy's house and paced the living room again. They said there wouldn't be any repercussions, and they wouldn't harm anyone. He was supposed to be free. Had Stuart reported the call? Even if they did know about the voicemail, he hadn't said anything that even slightly pointed towards the company. He didn't disclose any information. Stuart was the only one that heard him leave the message, what had he told them he said?
Michael's panic grew as the sun began to set. He scraped the salad into the trash and took a second shower. He was helpless and tried to do anything to keep himself from punching a hole in the wall. He hadn't been left any means of contacting the company. He had no way of finding the company, but he couldn't just sit around and wait. She'd been taken or possibly worse. They could've killed her and disposed of her. He pushed the thought from his mind. No, she was a fighter, she was alive somewhere, and he needed to find her.
He scribbled a second note stating he'd be coming back that night just in case she did return. He locked the door behind himself and ran to his car. He sped down the backstreets weaving in and out of thin traffic. He couldn't do anything, but maybe the police could. The company certainly didn't expect him to go to the police, but Christine had said if he desired to tell them he could.