Fractured

by Catherine McKenzie

  They were all sympathy in those first conversations. As if they knew exactly what we were going through. Had been through something similar themselves. Had spent the same sleepless nights. The same endless loop of images tracking through their minds, wondering if there was anything, anything, they could’ve done differently.

  They had a job to do, Detective Grey said, the seasoned pro. We could understand that. Someone was dead. A life cut short. She deserved their full attention.

  Our full attention.

  She had that already. She was all we could think about. It was all we were ever going to think about from now on, because how could we think of anything else?

  And even as I thought that, I knew it was a lie. Whatever happened, thoughts of that day, of her, of all of it, would fade as memories do. Life would intrude, and other things, smaller things, would take precedence. Knowing that made me feel incomparably sad. But there was also a glint of hope. Because the stasis we were in already felt unbearable. The possibility that it would lift sometime, someday, was all that was keeping me going.

  The first hint the police thought it was something other than an accident came that Labor Day weekend, accident plus three. If I’d taken a census, I’m sure I would’ve found everyone home that day on Pine Street. Forty houses, fully occupied. Normally, they would’ve fled to parts unknown. A long weekend, the last gasp of summer. Time to take advantage of the country club. Or a lazy few days on their boat on Lake Cumberland.

  But there was too much holding our attention, keeping us from leaving. Even if the police hadn’t asked us to stay put, we’d have been rooted to the spot. By the crush of media vans held back by police tape. Watching those black-suited men going from house to house. Our small stoops became our new living rooms. Meals were taken alfresco. Drinks consumed in sweating glasses.

  Then the tech van arrived. Men in jumpsuits who stared at our street’s cracked surface. Measured the rise and fall of the speed bumps Cindy finally convinced the city to install. Using lasers from the spot in front of Cindy’s house to the corner where the church sat to get a precise distance. Placing small yellow markers in a pattern of numbers I couldn’t decipher. Snapping away with their cameras like they were putting together a wedding album.

  I watched all this from my usual place at the window, one of our lace curtains in my hand. None of us dared leave the house. Necessities were delivered by nervous-looking delivery boys and Hanna’s assistant.

  As the tech van drove away, Hanna came to join me at the window. She watched the activity for a while as I filled her in on what I’d seen the technicians doing.

  “We need to get a lawyer,” was all she said before walking away.

  I hadn’t protested. Hadn’t even asked a question. This was her jurisdiction.

  I’d already done too much.

  Alicia agreed to see us the next day. When we got there, she’d been on the phone to her contacts in the police department. Had heard more than we guessed.

  Hanna wrote her a big check, and she’d gotten down to brass tacks.

  “There’s a problem with the physical evidence,” she said.

  The boardroom she’d placed us in was like a fishbowl, glass on both sides. Behind us was a view of the baseball stadium and the river. The bridge to Kentucky glinted in the sun. Hanna and I had our backs to the view, facing an office of muted grays and blues and dark hardwood floors. Expensive art on the walls. Every time someone passed, I couldn’t help but follow them with my eyes. A young woman in clacking high heels. A senior partner whose white hair shimmered under the bright pot lights. A harassed-looking clerk, his fist full of documents hot off the photocopier.

  “John,” Hanna said, her hand on my arm. “Did you hear that?”

  “No, sorry. I’m . . . it’s been hard to concentrate.”

  “I understand,” Alicia said. “It’s the shock.”

  She had a yellow legal pad in front of her, and she was on her second page of notes. Had Hanna already said so much? How long had I been staring off into space?

  “She was saying that the physical evidence doesn’t seem to support the fact that it was an accident,” Hanna said.

  They had my full attention now.

  “It’s the tire tracks,” Alicia said. “Or the absence of them, I should say.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “If the car braked,” Hanna said. “If it was braking at the moment of impact, then there should be tire tracks on the pavement. Tire tracks before . . . before where she was.”

  I tried to cast my mind back. Squealing tires was one of the sounds that had stayed with me. Even now, I can hear it like a song heard too many times on the radio. Each note imprinted in my long-term memory.

  That, and the screams.

  My hands gripped the edge of the conference table like they did the steering wheel. “And there aren’t? There are no tracks?”

  “Not before. No. After, yes.”

  “Which means that . . .”

  “The car wasn’t slowing down when it hit her. Not suddenly enough to leave tracks, anyway. The brakes were likely applied after the moment of impact.”

  “Is that the only explanation?” I asked. “Couldn’t . . . couldn’t there have been a delay between when the brakes were applied and the . . . impact. It all happened so fast, and the sun . . . it gets in your eyes when you turn that corner. You can’t see anything. Anyone.”

  “Yes, that’s what I understand. And that’s what we’ll argue.”

  “Argue?”

  “If they decide to lay charges.”

  The world swayed. Hanna and I held on to each other, fingers gripping forearms. So hard, in her case, that I’d find bruises on my arms when I got undressed that night.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “If they don’t think it was an accident, then they’ll seek an indictment.”

  “Indictment for what?”

  Alicia reached across the table, placing a hand on each of us so that we formed a triad of connection.

  “My source says they’ll be asking for a charge of second-degree murder.”

  Check-In

  Julie

  Seven months ago

  Dear Neighbors!

  I’ve been privileged to serve as your leader since 2009. And as your leader, I’ve become concerned by some SERIOUS EVENTS that have occurred in our wonderful neighborhood recently. While I KNOW we all strive to make our little corner of the world as safe as possible, it has become clear that this is, unfortunately, not everyone’s priority. Since we do not (yet!) have the ability to prescreen who moves into our area (for more on this please go to www.mystreetpetitions.com) we have to STRONGLY ENCOURAGE everyone who does to abide by our policies.

  In case you missed my last few e-mails (spam folders can be tricky!), I thought I’d send this reminder about some of our newest, and most important, rules:

  As previously advised, all dogs will be required to be both LEASHED AND MUZZLED at all times while on the street if they weigh more than five pounds;

  All dogs should also be registered with the PSNA. That way, should there be any further incidents, we’ll know precisely who’s responsible;

  Curfew for all those under the age of 17 is 9:00 p.m. While we cannot force you to keep your child indoors after that time, any child not accompanied by an adult will be assumed to be breaking curfew, and parents will be advised accordingly.

  Remember, all of the rules can be viewed at www.pinestreetneighborhood.com. Or stop by and ask for a laminated copy for your fridge. I have plenty!

  Additionally, our neighborhood watch is now circulating TWICE NIGHTLY. If you see anything suspicious, please let the watch know. They’re the ones wearing the yellow safety vests!

  Finally, I’m excited to announce that our street is now enrolled in iNeighbor. This is a FUN, PRIVATE social network only for those who live on this street! You can learn more about it at www.ineighborhood.com, but I, for one, know that I’m most excited by the
CHECK-IN function. When you get home from work, go to the site (there’s a handy app for your smartphone, too) and “check-in.” Ditto if you go to someone else’s house. And if you leave for work, or to walk your (muzzled and leashed) dog, whatever you’re doing, everyone will know.

  And hey, if you see one of us “forgetting” to participate, don’t fret. We can check one another in, too! You’re all preregistered. Simply go to www.ineighborhood.com and type in—

  “Oh my God, stop. Stop. My stomach hurts,” I said to John.

  We’d just gotten back from a run. March had roared in like a lion, and we’d skipped our usual time because the rain was pouring down like it was coming out of a fire hose. But when the sky broke open after lunch, my phone dinged with a text from John, asking, Is now a good time? I’d readily agreed; 42,634 words in, I’d discovered a huge, gaping hole in Book Two’s plot, and was counting on the run to find a way out of the labyrinth.

  Instead, we’d spent the run discussing Cindy’s ridiculous e-mail from the day before. She’d been sending weekly updates to the “rules” since the day after the “dog incident,” as she was now referring to it. New dog-leash laws. Calls for more volunteers for the neighborhood watch. A street curfew. None of it was binding—Cindy didn’t have legislative power, not yet, anyway—but social pressure can be just as powerful. If the comments on iNeighbor were anything to judge by, and I should’ve known by then that they were not, most people supported her initiatives. I didn’t know anyone other than Susan and John well enough to really understand why that was, and I tried not to take it personally, but that wasn’t a strong suit of mine.

  John could tell I was down about it. While we were paused on his front driveway to stretch, he’d pulled out his phone and read the entire message in a dead-on impersonation of Cindy, until I couldn’t take it anymore because I was laughing so hard.

  “Maybe that should be your new business,” I said, when I could catch my breath. “Impersonations.”

  “Oh, yeah, I can see it now. I’ll put on a few pounds and wear clothes that are too tight . . . I’ll make a killing at barbecues all across the nation.”

  He shifted the way he was standing and sucked in his stomach. Then he touched his hair the way Cindy did, making sure it was still perfectly smooth at all times, and he really was channeling her.

  “Don’t be cruel.”

  “I’m amazed you could say that, given the circumstances.”

  “I don’t like bullying.”

  A familiar feeling overwhelmed me. Like too many kids, I’d been bullied at school. I wore the wrong clothes, I weighed too much, I lived up in my head. I thought I’d put all that behind me long ago, but moving to this place, being the outsider again after so many years of belonging, brought me right back there. I brushed away a tear. It felt cold on my cheek.

  “You okay?” John asked.

  “Yeah. I . . . I was that kid. The fat kid. The kid whose clothes were too tight. The girl with the childbearing hips.”

  “Someone actually called you that?”

  “They did. One girl, anyway. Of course, she was anorexic, so . . . I shouldn’t joke. I certainly wasn’t joking then. I started running track in tenth grade. It helped.”

  “Well, you look great now.”

  “It’s mostly the running, but . . . thank you.”

  I gave him an awkward smile. I never knew how to take a compliment. Was I supposed to repay it? We were both sweaty and a bit unkempt, and John’s nose was red like he might be recovering from a cold. I did find him attractive, but if I said that out loud, where was it going to lead?

  “So,” he said, “what should we do?”

  “About what?”

  “Cindy. And her insane drive to know what everyone’s doing all the time.”

  “I wish I knew why no one stands up to her.”

  “Speaking from experience, it’s usually easier to go along with what she wants. Besides, her heart really is—”

  “In the right place. So Susan told me. Maybe. But I really don’t like feeling as if I’m being watched.”

  He looked around. The street felt deserted, like it always did in the middle of the day. But maybe that was an illusion. Maybe there were people peering out of the cracks in their curtains, their tablets in hand, logging in our every movement.

  March 8, 1:12 p.m. John Dunbar and Julie Prentice spend much too long talking after their “run” together.

  I shivered. “I should get inside.”

  “Me too. Oh, but I meant to tell you, I’ve applied for a new job. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to get it.”

  “That’s good,” I said, stifling my disappointment. When John went back to work, I’d be all alone again during the day. Even though we didn’t usually see each other except for our runs, it was a comfort knowing there was a friend nearby, especially these last few weeks. “What is it?”

  “I’m going to start my own IT business. Networks, websites, that sort of thing. I’ll be working from home.”

  He grinned. He’d been reading me like an open book.

  “That’s fantastic. I need a new website.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll be my first customer, then.”

  “That’d be great. See you tomorrow morning?”

  “Absent another deluge, you got it. Break a leg this afternoon. With your pages.”

  “That’s what people say to actors.”

  “Same difference, right?”

  “Maybe a broken leg would give me something to write about.”

  I trotted across the road. As I approached my front door, I noticed a white plastic bag hanging from the door handle. As I picked it up, a god-awful smell ran out of it. Rotting feces, possibly of the human variety. Nothing that came out of Sandy—who I could hear on the other side of the door, pissed at me because I’d left her behind—ever smelled this bad.

  As I held my breath and went to tie the two halves of the bag together to cut off the nauseating smell, something crinkled inside. Had someone really left a note in there? One they expected me to read?

  I reached inside with the tip of my fingers and pulled it out.

  I read the block letters once, twice, then once again.

  And then I began to scream.

  My therapist had all kinds of technical explanations for Heather’s obsession with me. Apparently, stalking behavior can be brought on by a combination of loneliness, lack of self-esteem, and an overwhelming feeling of self-importance. How someone who has low self-esteem can feel self-important was never really explained to me. Yet it described Heather Stanhope so well, from the very first time I met her.

  Only a couple of weeks into law school, I was already deeply regretting my choice. I’d ended up there like many of my friends who had good grades and no idea of what they wanted to be. I chose McGill because it seemed exotic and foreign, even though my mother was from Montreal and we’d spent numerous holidays there with her family.

  Such was my thought process at twenty-two.

  It was a bad choice. Everyone in my class actually wanted to be a lawyer, and spending day after day with a group of people who’d never failed at anything was both intimidating and exhausting. So when I found myself standing next to Heather at one of the early first-semester mixers I was still going to because there had to be someone in my class worth hanging out with, I made a concerted effort to talk to her.

  We were in a dive bar on St-Laurent called something that sounded like “Frat Bay.” I’d heard one of the guys say that you could buy cocaine in the bathroom. The music was recycled ’80s songs, and the air smelled of dry ice and stale beer.

  Heather reminded me of me in high school: pudgy, a bad haircut, and clothes that were more aspirational in size than realistic. She was dead smart—she’d already become our property prof’s favorite student, her hand shooting in the air whenever he stopped to take a breath—but she didn’t fit into the slick, khakied crowd.

 
It turned out that she was from Upstate, too, and we talked about ski areas, camping trips, and how bad the economy was. Neither of us was going back there; you didn’t go to law school to end up back in Upstate.

  I asked her how she liked school so far.

  “Harvard is the home of American ideas,” she said in an odd tone, like she was quoting from the Bible. I knew McGill was sometimes referred to as the Harvard of the North, but I was still confused.

  “What’s that?”

  “P. J. O’Rourke. He said that.”

  “Aw,” I said, desperately trying to remember who P. J. O’Rourke was and why he might be considered quotable in this context. “This party is lame. I said that.”

  She laughed, but not as hard as I thought she would. I don’t think she got the Dylan reference, either, but then again, she hadn’t spent high school in love with a Dylan freak.

  We were standing at the bar, holding gin and tonics because it was that or watery beer.

  “How do you think they do that?” Heather asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Just . . . blend in?”

  She pointed to our classmates, who were sitting at group tables, playing pool, flirting, arguing. They had, in the two weeks we’d been there, congealed. The Class of 1999. A moniker they’d always carry.

  “By sublimating their identity?” I said.

  This time I did get the laugh.

  “You’re funny,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “How come you’re not out there?”

  “Sometimes I get shy in social situations.”

  “Me too, but that’s because I look like this.”

  She swept the hand holding the gin and tonic up and down her torso, splashing some of it onto the flower-patterned shirt she was wearing.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t be the one who puts yourself down. There are enough people in the world who will do that for you.”

  “That’s good advice. Do you follow it?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  She barked then, an actual bark that was followed by her clapping her hand over her mouth.