by Britney King
The doorbell rings. Henry’s eyes dart toward the front of the house.
“It’s probably just a neighbor. You wouldn’t believe how many friends I’m making.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Because that’s exactly what you need.”
“You have no idea.”
The bell chimes again. I pull up the doorbell camera app on my phone. “Nope, it’s someone from the media.”
“How long can this go on?”
“I don’t know.”
“I saw the interview, by the way.”
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I walk around the counter toward the coffee pot where I refill my mug. Eventually, I turn and meet Henry’s eye. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah—and well, let’s just say you put yourself—you put all of us in a compromising position.”
The coffee burns my mouth. I hardly notice. “What was I supposed to do?” I ask, considering how much time a hot cup of coffee might buy me. “I have a life, Henry.”
“So?”
“So this is not what I expected either,” I tell him, thinking about how it could just as easily be my daughter in that video, thinking about how sometimes you get too close to a thing before you realize the trouble you’re in.
You have to be careful. Evil is like a dandelion that spreads and spreads until they’re at your very own back door. Until they’re in your kitchen. And worse, you realize you invited them there. “You think I asked for that guy to shoot up the supermarket? As you can see, there are people all over my lawn. Neighbors are coming ’round at all hours. I can’t even leave the house.”
“And yet somehow you thought talking to the media would help.”
I take another sip of my coffee and consider the least messy way to murder Henry in my kitchen. I really like these pants. “I don’t know. Maybe I did.”
“Face it, Charlotte. You like the attention.”
Considering the odds of killing a person in self-defense twice in one week and getting away with it seem slim, I offer a forced sigh. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I never asked for any of this.”
He motions around the room. “Didn’t you though?”
I set the mug down, realizing the odds are probably not in my favor. Henry will have to die quietly. “What’s your point?”
“My point? My point is you have no idea what it took to get in here.”
He’s wrong. I do know. I watched him scale the wall that surrounds our backyard. Henry in his fancy suit, not a hair out of place. Sometimes I am surprised by how much tougher he is than he looks. “I’m here because they want me to bring you in.” He stabs at his phone. “Now.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Although, who’s to say? I’m just the messenger.”
I was prepared for this. Still, despite everything, Henry siding with the agency stings. “Would they be happier if I’d gotten shot?”
“Did you really need to go on television?”
“I needed a way to get to Dunsmore. I needed to get out of this house. And I figured if I gave a statement—things would die down.”
“You made a statement all right.”
“It was live. I didn’t plan it that way. I was…what do they call it? On the spot.”
“Well, that was a fucking disaster if I ever saw one…”
I look away. “Tell them they’re going to have to come to me.”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“If I leave here with this circus on my lawn, there’s a good chance I’ll be followed. Tell them that.”
Henry stares at me for a long time.
“You drugged me.”
I sip my coffee, peering at him over the mug. “Me? Drug you?” I asked, knitting my brow. “Why would I do that?”
“You shouldn’t lie to me, Charlotte.” He nods toward a vacation photo of Michael and the girls that’s stuck to the refrigerator. “I’m probably the only person who can see right through you.”
“I cannot change your mind if it’s already made up then, can I?”
Henry sighs heavily. I’ve called his bluff and he knows it. He can’t prove anything, and at this point, it doesn’t matter. He has a choice to make. He knows I won’t go with him willingly. Nor will I stand by and let him tear my family apart. “I can’t keep saving your ass, you know.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to tell a good story.”
“Telling stories is not what they pay me for,” he says before turning his attention back to the video.
I wait for him to say more, to argue, to make his move, but when he doesn’t, I walk around the bar and lean in close. “You wouldn’t hurt me would you, Henry?” I say, pressing my cheek to his shoulder, in precisely the kind of singsong voice I know he hates.
“Just watch the goddammned video, Charlotte. Otherwise I might.”
It surprises me that he calls me by my real name a third time. Sometimes I doubt he even remembers. I take it as the positive sign that it is. I’ve gotten him emotional. I’ve made it personal. That’s why he came. And that’s how you win.
I place my hand on his forearm and give it a squeeze. “Do you not like my coffee?”
“I’m not a fan of drugs before noon,” he retorts, and I laugh. Henry and I, despite our disagreements, we understand one another. He points at the screen. “Are you watching?”
“Of course.” The girl glances from one side of the room to the other, and I realize there’s someone else aside from her and the cameraman.
“Drop the shirt and turn slowly,” a gruff voice just out of shot says.
Henry thinks watching this is going to count for something. I know better. It changes nothing. It tells us nothing. The room is bare. The walls are concrete, and the floor is carpeted. It’s not cheap carpet, and still, it could be any room, anywhere. The camera zooms in on her face before pulling back. “Now,” the man demands.
Henry and I watch as the T-shirt falls to the floor.
“She could be older,” I say, even though I doubt it. “Fifteen…sixteen.”
“A little slower,” the man tells her. His accent is decidedly American. To me, it doesn’t sound like Geoffrey Dunsmore.
The girl turns clockwise. When she faces the camera again, she is asked to state her name.
“Elena.” It comes out as a whisper. The way her index finger scrapes back and forth against the cuticle of her thumb leads me to believe she’s probably telling the truth. “And how old are you, Elena?”
Her gaze remains fixed on the floor. “Twelve.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Elena?”
“A dancer.”
There’s a distinct rattling sound off camera before the video ends abruptly.
“Motherfucker,” Henry spits. “This has Dunsmore written all over it. And yet—it gives us nothing.”
“Not nothing.”
“She’ll be dead in forty-eight hours.”
“She’s dead now,” I say.
Henry’s eyes meet mine as he realizes I’ve gotten the point he has come here to make. This is not the first video of its kind we’ve seen. Nor will it be the last. It’s certainly not the worst of them. “Maybe we should watch it again.”
“We can watch it a billion times,” I tell him, taking the phone. “And still it will be the same.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we have what we need.”
“And what’s that?”
“A reason to tell the agency to go to hell—to let me do my job. And for you to get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
Chapter Sixteen
JC
She’s not one of those people who shies away from the limelight, something I find equally surprising and fun to watch. It’s charming, even slightly endearing, in a sad kind of way.
She pretends not to like the attention, although it’s clear that she does, something that becomes very apparent when she gives the second interview. I do
n’t think she means to offer herself up to the cameras in the way that she does, but there they are, happily camped on her lawn, after all. When she opens her mouth and tells the world what a terrible burden this all has become for her, it’s almost like she becomes someone entirely new. Fake. Fake. Fake.
She certainly doesn’t appear burdened, and it only looks like she’s crying when she dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse and begs for space for her children’s sake.
One thing is for sure: she’s developed a pretty big jones for drama.
She wants privacy. But she looks phenomenal. Sensational. Like the kind of woman who could bring a madman to his knees. How misguided she is. I don’t know who could turn away from that.
Not me, that’s for sure. It’s a beast that feeds itself, consuming her. No matter how much I watch, or how close I get, the feeling that I missed something remains. It’s there, deep in the pit of my stomach, an itch or a longing, it’s hard to tell, but there’s the lingering notion that I haven’t experienced all of her. Seeing that we can’t be together all the time—not yet, anyway— I get a nagging feeling that I’ve rushed through moments when I should have been paying attention.
For a bit of perspective, I managed to dig up an old yearbook, back from her sophomore year of high school.
She was only featured three times. Once alphabetically—in the typical headshot type of photo, once for debate team (I should have guessed), and then there was the candid shot. That was the one that interested me most.
She was seated on a classroom floor, legs crossed, a slip of paper in her hand. Her hair was longer and lighter, her cheeks fuller, but otherwise she looks like a slightly younger version of the woman I’m coming to know.
I guess that’s why I cut the photo out. I carry it with me.
It wasn’t until today, until her second interview, that I saw the full potential of the situation. That’s when I knew. I’m not going to rush this. I’m fully aware that it might take a long time to sort out what she means to me. Looking at her sitting crisscross applesauce in that candid photo, I realize it might be more than I had originally thought. Maybe even more than the others. Whatever the case, I want to be that photographer. I want to know her that intimately.
It’s become important, both her and the photo, the kind of thing you wouldn’t want to lose. Taking it from the pocket of my suit, I position it next to my computer monitor, and I stare at her face for a long time. It’s funny how the things you most want turn out to be the things money can’t buy. Tracing the outline of her face, I imagine us having breakfast, for the simple fact that it seems more intimate than dinner. She won’t have to worry about intrusions. I’ll make sure it’s just the two of us in the restaurant. If privacy is truly important to her, that’s what I’ll give her.
I’ll give her anything she wants.
Of course, I imagine us doing ordinary things, as well. Given enough time, I’m sure she’ll share my hobbies. I picture us whitewater rafting, bungee jumping, climbing Kilimanjaro. Knowing her, she’ll probably insist on throwing something impetuous into the mix, something like deep sea diving. I’m claustrophobic, but I’ll go anyway, because I’ll be the only one watching.
Opening a new tab, I click over to the local news site. I hate that the media is bothering her so much, yet at the same time, I love how easy they are making things on my end. Every day a new detail is revealed. At the top of the latest story, is a video, the thumbnail features her standing in her driveway. Her house is one of the most unique houses I’ve ever seen, sleek and modern, nothing like I would have pictured.
I hated it from the first time I saw it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she likes it.
With a quick search, I got my answer. Her husband is an architect; he designed the place. All of a sudden, it made sense. She couldn’t tell him that she hates it, even if it’s the truth. I picture it going up in flames, the fire eating away the memories, erasing the history, and maybe even him.
She won’t be sad. Not for long. I’ll build her a house that she adores, maybe with my own two hands. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but not that. We’ll design it together from start to finish and all will be right in the world, and she’ll forget she ever lived in that other house, with that other guy.
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte
In every life, there’s a moment, or rather, likely a series of them—say, the birth of a child, or an engagement, or a divorce—the kind of event where you realize that from that moment on, nothing is ever going to be the same again. This is, for me, one of those moments. Standing in the kitchen, my husband at my heels, listening to the slow drip of the coffee pot, my mind wanders. You can have pretty much anything instantaneously these days. Everything except coffee, apparently. Good coffee, Michael swears, takes time.
“Good morning,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around my waist. His body firmly pressed against mine, he moves into position, pinning me against the counter. The stubble on his face grazes the back of my neck as he buries his face into my shoulder, his lips lingering on what we both know is my weak spot. “Morning.”
“You’re up early.”
“Yeah.” I’m contemplating what I’ve done, and then, pushing away from the counter, I turn to face him. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Our eyes meet briefly before he pulls me against his chest. My head rests perfectly in the space beneath his chin. “It’s Wednesday,” he says. “Did you forget?”
“No—”
“Good thing we don’t have anywhere we have to be.”
“Good thing,” I tell him with a half-hearted smile. He has taken the week off to be with me and the girls. Ever since the shooting, he’s been unbearably attentive, as though it has suddenly dawned on him that life is short and unexpected and then you die. This is essentially my worst nightmare. Every relationship has its own flavor. But, we are not, and never have been, that kind of couple. I am not looking to change that now, not this far in.
“Just think,” he says. “We can do anything we want.”
We cannot do anything we want. I press my lips together tightly. “Mmhmm.”
He slips his hand up my shirt. “Have any ideas?”
I try to come up with something, with anything. “Um…”
No one tells you how hard it can be to occupy all the hours in a day. I know he’s referring to sex, but without coffee coursing through my veins, I’m not feeling particularly creative. “I think I have an appointment.”
“An appointment? What appointment?” He seems surprised, and then I realize why. “I took a peek at your calendar. I saw book club on there…but not anything about an appointment.”
“Really?” It’s actually surprising how clingy he’s become, so unlike the man I’ve been married to for the last decade and a half. For days now, all he’s done is wander the house, hovering, unsure what to do with himself or what to say. His insistence that we keep the girls home from school—to recover—has been less than ideal. They are bored, I am bored, and now Michael is bored. Nevertheless, he was adamant about it—even after I pointed out that almost all psychologists say sticking to a normal routine is best after trauma. I was overruled. Three to one.
It hasn’t exactly helped that none of us can leave the house without being accosted. But this—all of this togetherness, being holed up in our home—doesn’t exactly amount to privacy either.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I tell him, untangling our bodies, moving toward the window. The street is quiet but far from empty. “Maybe it’s tomorrow.”
“Didn’t see anything about an appointment tomorrow either…”
“Maybe it’s on my work calendar.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you’re just tired. You haven’t slept in days.”
“I slept a little. On the couch. Didn’t wanna wake you.”
“It’s understandable, Charlotte,” he replies with an edge I know. “You don’t have to pretend everything is fine—wh
en it clearly isn’t.”
“I know it isn’t,” I say with a nod toward the stairs. “Hayley isn’t sleeping either.”
After several long beats, he sighs. “I think we’re going to have to talk about it, don’t you?”
“We are talking about it.”
“I mean—really talk.”
Turning away from him, my eyes close slowly. I squeeze them shut and count to five, making sure to keep my voice calm and even. When it comes to lying, practice doesn’t make perfect. There are always telltale signs. Tone is one of them. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for one, I’d like to know how it is possible that my wife is basically a sharpshooter and I had no idea.”
I knew that Michael was going to have questions about the gun, so this does not exactly come as a surprise. I turn to face him. “I’m hardly a sharpshooter. I shot him point blank.”
“Jesus.”
Chewing at my bottom lip, I realize his expression is why it’s important to manage this conversation appropriately. I assumed he would want to know how I knew to shoot, where I got the gun, and why I had it to begin with. For the most part, the answers to those questions are easy. “It’s really not a big deal. I’m fine—Hayley is fine—this will all blow—”
“You killed a man, Charlotte. You just said it yourself. You shot him point blank in the face. Who could be fine after that?”
“In the head,” I say, correcting him.
He glares at me wide-eyed with his mouth slightly open.
“It wasn’t exactly for sport.”
“I know,” he says crossing the kitchen. He takes my hands into his. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound insensitive. This is just a lot to take in.”
