On the Other Side(83)

The next day, Damita decided she was done hiding and being afraid.

Damita felt and looked strong and devoid of fear. “Constance, are you ready to fight back? We need to put all of this to an end right here and now. Aren’t you done running and hiding? I know I am and you’ve certainly been at it a lot longer than I have. Instead of standing by waiting for them to find us, I say we go looking for them. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you,” Constance said reluctantly.

“First, we’re going to find out where that bastard of an ex-husband of yours is.”

Damita combed the Internet looking for any information on Constance’s ex-husband, Jack Somersby. She also searched Neal Westman, but found no reports of his murder. She then searched her own name, Damita Whitmore and Damita Westman. Finally, she searched Constance’s maiden name, Sandra Jones, and her married name, Sandra Somersby. The only thing she found of any significance was an address for Jack Somersby in Oakland, California. She decided she would turn the tables on him. She wrote a cryptic note of her own. Damita’s note read I know what you are. She put the note in an envelope, sealed the enveloped, addressed it to Jack Somersby, and waited. Constance tried to stop her.

“Damita, I don’t think you should do that. It will make things worse.”

“Constance, that’s your fear talking. That is exactly what men like Jack Somersby count on. They want that fear to sink in and take hold because they know that even when those they victimize are far from their grasp, they can still have hold of their minds. You don’t want to be one of those women. You’re too smart for that. Don’t let him win.”

“Okay,” Constance agreed quietly.

Damita watched as Constance dissolved from an energetic, vivacious woman into a frightened and withdrawn child. She was nineteen all over again and waiting for Jack Somersby to tell her what to do.

The next thing Damita decided to do was to find out about the mysterious man in the Towers. All along she had held him up as a hero and a savior. She wondered if there was more to him than she was aware of. She couldn’t help but remember that Neal had gone to the great lengths of hiring someone to rape her, when she didn’t do exactly what he wanted her to. Was is so far a stretch to believe that the man who saved her was actually there to do her harm and got caught up in the tragedy of the terrorist attack? Otherwise, why would he be keeping tabs on her from a distance? It didn’t make any sense. She wondered if he was the one leaving the notes; but why? If he had been hired by Neal and Neal was now dead, what need would he have to continue with what he was doing?

Even though Damita was talking strength and power and fighting back, she still didn’t like the idea of a gun in the house. Once Lester heard all Damita had to say, he was convinced that having a gun around was a necessity.

Even though Damita had stopped working overtime, one night they were short-staffed and her supervisor explained to her that she basically had to do it. Damita was angry, but she needed the job and she didn’t have the time or the energy to look for another. So, she worked late and dragged herself home sometime around ten o’clock. The late hours brought back memories; some good and some bad.

As soon as she walked in the apartment she knew something was wrong. It was nothing she could immediately put her finger on but she was apprehensive upon entering. When she was finally inside the apartment, she called the Lester.

“Lester, honey, it’s Damita. I’m home!”

He didn’t answer her. She wondered if he might have gone out, but knew that he would not have gone out without telling her, especially given everything that was going on. She went into the bedroom and Lester was laid out on the bed with a gunshot wound to his head.

Damita’s face screwed up into a pained express. She screamed an agonizing cry.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she kept saying.

She tried to perform CPR but he was already dead. She held on to him, rocking his body back and forth, hoping it was all a bad dream. She would have to call Constance eventually but, for now, she had to figure out whether she should call the police or not.

“Constance, something bad has happened.”

“What’s wrong with Lester? Tell me, Damita, what’s wrong with Lester!”

“Constance, he was shot in the head. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, he’s gone?”

“He’s dead, Constance. He’s dead.”

“I’m coming now. I’ll be there in a few minutes. We have to take him to the hospital. He can’t be dead. He can’t be.”

Constance arrived, walked into the bedroom and collapsed on top of her brother’s body. Damita watched as the tears and pain she was feeling convulsed her body. She jerked back and forth, having lost control of her movements.