All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  My pulse sped up. She knew. About that night, what we had and hadn’t done.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something had to have changed,” Vera said, scratching a patch of skin beneath her ear. Her breaths came ragged, and her hand continued to worry at the same spot, and when she pulled it away, there was a flash of blood beneath her nail; a tiny trickle of red crawled down her neck. I grabbed a tissue from the pack I’d shoved into my pocket and pressed it into her hand. Vera held it to her neck. I watched her, crumpled like that, cracking beneath her grief, and for a split second, I wondered: Why had she gone to the cabin this morning? Were there things she wasn’t telling me? Things she knew but didn’t trust me with?

  Was there any way she could have . . .

  The idea sickened me, but it came all the same.

  Could she have seen John and me, gotten angry, changed her plan . . .

  “Vera,” I said, as carefully as I could manage. “Why were you over there? You were supposed to wait for him to contact you.”

  She stiffened. “He’s my husband, Lucy, and I just knew—this morning, I woke up early, and, god, I just had this feeling,” she said. “I had this awful, terrifying feeling. I don’t know how, but I knew something was wrong, and I—I was right.”

  Her shoulders sank, and sobs took her over.

  Waves of nausea hit me, acid rising in my throat. I felt guilty for having asked the question, for doubting her even for a minute. She loved him, she was his wife, and now she’d lost him.

  “I found him, just lying there,” Vera went on, her eyes clouding as she again began to scratch, this time at her throat. “In a pool of blood. It was awful. But even worse than that, he was just . . . blue.”

  Trying to push the images away, I took her hand in mine, laced my fingers through hers, and squeezed.

  “You really don’t know anything?” she asked.

  I disentangled her hand from mine. “No,” I said softly. “No, of course not.”

  Was that the truth? I knew Davis was angry, that he wanted to pay me back, that he could very well know where I was by now. That he kept a knife on him—always.

  Careful, rigorous, perfectionist Davis. Murder was an escalation, but hardly an impossibility.

  “I’m just as shocked as you are,” I said. “You have to believe me.”

  She nodded, tears leaking from her eyes. “I do. I just . . .” She paused. “I don’t understand what happened. It was never supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be just us. It was . . .” She gasped. “It was supposed to be a new start for us.”

  Her body shook all over, and I held her again, pulling her close. Then, suddenly, she looked up. “You’re not going, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Davis,” she said. “I know you were eager to leave, but you must see that you can’t now. I’m lost without John. You have to stay.”

  Panic flashed within me, stiffening my limbs. She couldn’t think I could stay now, could she? Not with Davis out there, knowing or on his way to knowing where I was.

  Not when I thought there was a chance he might have . . .

  I blinked slowly, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, to put together a plan when the one I’d had had been ripped to shreds.

  “I’m here,” I said finally. “I promised the police I’d go down to the station tomorrow and give a statement. Don’t worry.”

  Vera’s sigh was so instinctual, so relieved, that I couldn’t bear to go on. Of course I had to leave; she should know that. I had to stay one or two more nights, or else it would look suspicious and I’d have McKnight on my tail before I even left town. If I did anything cagey, anything to make myself even more of a suspect, who knew how long he’d ask me to stay?

  But after that . . .

  I’d push for a speedy memorial—true crime documentaries had taught me the body wouldn’t be ready for who knew how long—then go. Back West, to L.A.—hell, maybe even to Seattle—back where I should have gone in the first place.

  “I can keep you company,” I offered, too scared to be on my own.

  Vera nodded. “I was hoping you would. Stay with me tonight—please. I need you now more than ever.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  After going back to get Dusty—I couldn’t bear to leave him on his own—the three of us huddled together in the bed she’d shared with John—a trio of a different sort.

  Vera’s spare bedroom was full of John’s art supplies, so I’d offered to crash on the couch, but she’d asked me to sleep beside her, where he used to. Strange as it was, I’d said yes, and Dusty cuddled between us like this was our new family.

  In the morning, I headed back to my cottage, holding my breath as I turned the key in the lock, inspecting all the entrances to make sure no one had been inside, looking under the floorboard beneath my bed to check that everything important was still there, heart pounding as I asked myself if I should just leave. Screw the police and their routines. Grab my dad’s hammer and my mother’s scarf and go.

  But I showered and got ready instead, telling myself I could get through this. Be careful these next couple of days. Look over my shoulder. Examine every lock. Not give the police a single reason to suspect me.

  Be smarter than Davis thought I was.

  * * *

  • • •

  Just before eleven, I parked in front of the station, a one-story building a mile or so off the main strip.

  It looked like it had been built in the fifties, and was nestled among a parking lot and woods. I parked near the back, hands trembling as I scanned the lot. Only one exit, the road I’d entered on. Again, I quelled the desire to escape, to drive off, become a shadow person, like John was supposed to be. Get the hell out of Dodge—and away from Davis. That would come soon, I told myself, only not just yet. I had to tread carefully. I knew this.

  Grabbing my phone, I called Ellie again. But like each time I’d dialed her in the last twenty-four hours, the call went straight to voice mail. She wouldn’t recognize my new number—she was probably screening—only I hoped to catch her anyway, hear her indignant tone, the words I craved: No, I didn’t tell him. I promised you, didn’t I? Prove to myself I was only being paranoid, that Davis had nothing to do with John’s death, that it was someone else. Sam Alby, probably—or maybe even someone random, some crazed serial killer living deep in the woods like you always saw in movies, hiding away in John’s unlocked cabin. Wrong place, wrong time.

  One more unanswered call, and I shoved the phone into my bag and traipsed across the parking lot.

  Inside, the station was dead, nothing like the station in Brooklyn where I’d once filed a police report over a stolen delivery of high-end linens. In that station, there’d been a cacophony of buzzers and radios, bells and whistles. Here, it was pin-drop still. A woman in uniform at the counter tapped away at a PC begging to be put out of its misery. Parker was nowhere in sight, but of course she wouldn’t be. She was a DEC officer, concerned with business on state land, where the hike had been; not Ulster County, where John’s cabin was, only a few miles away but an entirely different jurisdiction.

  The officer looked up. “Help you?”

  “I’m Lucy King,” I managed. “Detective McKnight asked me to come in at eleven?”

  She kept tapping away; then, without looking up, “You can have a seat, Miss King.”

  It was fifteen minutes before he came out, giving me time to rehearse what I was about to say: I heard a scream and I stepped out into the clearing. I didn’t see John, but I saw his backpack and water bottle. That’s why I thought he had fallen. It wasn’t what I’d initially told Parker yesterday, but I figured hammering down that narrative wasn’t going to do me any good.

  McKnight walked out. He nodded at me, then did a one-eighty. I waited a half second too long before I realized I was meant to follow him.


  A dusty linoleum hallway. Then a room, glass windows and a table in the center, just like on TV. I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath. This was only a formality, like he’d said.

  “Coffee?” he asked as I took a seat.

  “Please.”

  He returned a few minutes later with two steaming Styrofoam cups and tossed a couple of packets of sugar and creamer onto the table. He pointed to a camera in the corner. “We’re required to tape interviews.”

  It was an announcement, not a question. He sat down. I did, too.

  “All right,” McKnight said, getting straight to it. “Why don’t you tell me again exactly what happened on November second?” He glanced at his notes. “Two days ago.”

  I once watched this spy show where one of the spies told an informant that to lie properly, you only had to stare at the tip of the person’s nose—it would look like you were looking them in the eye. So after going through the details—slowly, meticulously—when I got to the part in question, that’s what I did. Eyes on the bulbous tip of McKnight’s nose, I delivered my line as smoothly as I could, raising my volume slightly in an attempt to quell any quaking of my voice. “I heard a scream, and I stepped out into the clearing. I didn’t see John, but I saw his backpack and his water bottle. I assumed he had fallen.”

  McKnight’s fingers drummed on the table. “So you didn’t see him fall?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you say you did?”

  Keep it simple, stupid. That’s what my dad used to say.

  “It all happened so fast. I got mixed up.”

  “You’re not mixed up now?”

  “No.”

  McKnight leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his paunch. He was pushing 250 pounds, I guessed, and he teetered on his chair, balancing on its back two legs—I swore it was going to slip right out from under him.

  He let the chair fall forward, its front legs clattering against the linoleum, making me jump.

  “Sorry,” he said, grabbing his cup. “Refill. You want one?”

  Mine had hardly been touched. “I’m okay, I think.”

  “Great. Just give me a second.”

  That “second” turned into five minutes. Ten. My hands became clammy; I wiped them against my jeans.

  By the time he returned, I had partially calmed myself down. My story had been told, my portion complete. It was his job to look into the rest, the cobwebbed corners, the covered-up cracks. He took his seat and leaned back in the chair. He was the one who had to figure out if Davis—or Sam—or someone else entirely—had done this. I had to protect myself.

  “Miss King, as far as you know, was Mr. Nolan faithful to his wife?”

  Fuck.

  “I think so,” I said, our night together flickering through my mind like film through a projector. “Why?”

  McKnight leaned forward. “We’ve been talking to people in town. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Nolan wasn’t exactly next in line for Person of the Year.” He grinned slightly at his own joke.

  I only nodded.

  “There’s talk of, well . . . extramarital activity. Any thoughts on that?”

  I ran my tongue over my teeth. My mouth suddenly felt unbearably dry. “I heard there were rumors about him,” I said. “After the art classes and the private lessons and all that.”

  McKnight nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.” He folded his hands across his belly. “If it’s true about Claire Alby, well, that’s a very troubling allegation. So young, you know.”

  A pause stretched between us, and I felt the need to fill it. “He and Vera, they were crazy about each other. He wouldn’t . . . I don’t believe that’s true.”

  McKnight’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? A woman like you. A feminist, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling instantly judged. His definition of feminism and mine were very different, I’d put money on that.

  “You guys are supposed to believe each other,” he said. “Right?”

  “Has anyone actually accused John of anything? As far as I know, it’s just small-town gossip.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “And some talk of harassment on the part of Ms. Abernathy. As well as a potential lawsuit from Claire Alby’s father.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  McKnight held a hand up. “Nothing. Maybe you’re right. Maybe with him, it is all just gossip. But either way, it’s got me thinking. Isn’t it strange that stories like that would just pop up out of nowhere? Maybe, whether with her or someone else, Mr. Nolan wasn’t as devoted to his wife as you seem to think. Sound possible?”

  He didn’t. We didn’t. Nothing happened. A vision of our lips connecting, pleasure and guilt intertwined as one.

  “I don’t know why you’re asking me and not Vera,” I said. “He was my friend, yes, but I can’t pretend to know the ins and outs of someone else’s marriage.”

  McKnight leaned back in his chair. “You’re right about that. Marriage is long, with lots of ups and downs. You ever been married?”

  I shook my head.

  “Didn’t think so.” He shot me a smile that I didn’t trust in the slightest—his teeth were too long in the front, gums too red, like he was ready to devour me at any moment. He drummed his thick fingers against the table, waiting. “Is there anything else you think I should know?”

  Davis came to mind, but the thought of handing over his name on a silver platter, asking them to go poking around in my past, broadcasting my current whereabouts—it was too dangerous. What if Ellie hadn’t told him after all? What if I was wrong? I couldn’t risk it.

  “What is it?” McKnight asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure about that, Miss King?”

  I clenched my jaw. “I’m sure.”

  “You and Mr. Nolan,” McKnight said. “You were just friends?”

  Heat rose to my cheeks, giving me away. I should’ve been better at this, like Vera, able to turn on the grief in her voice at the drop of a hat, able to give the 911 performance of a lifetime, a performance that had become her reality.

  “Miss King?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We were just friends. I’m friends with Vera, too, remember?”

  McKnight pulled a pen from his pocket, clicked it three times. “Yes, Ms. Abernathy mentioned that. And we followed up with some of your neighbors, and they agree with how she portrayed it, that you all were quite close.”

  My thoughts turned to Maggie, who’d comforted me only yesterday. Could she have said something like that, cast doubt on me so easily?

  “Yes,” I said. “We were. Are.”

  He tucked his pen away. “Most women I know, women Ms. Abernathy’s age, at least, not sure they’d be too happy with a woman like you around all the time.”

  “A woman like me?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Younger. You know.”

  My eyes widened. Sometimes I swore that men were incapable of seeing women as anything but objects. To McKnight, I was evidence. A point-by-point analysis in his case. “What do you even mean by that?”

  He tossed his hands in the air. “My point is, was Ms. Abernathy okay with you constantly hanging around her husband?”

  I felt as if I’d been slapped, and for a second I was back at college, watching that stupid video for the first time. Remembering how you could be judged—snap, like that—how, at the end of the day, it was always your fault. Not the guys goading you on, or the ones passing images of you around like porn. No, you were guilty until proven innocent; men, the opposite.

  “Miss King?”

  I practically spit out the words. “I wasn’t hanging around her husband. I was spending time with them. We were friends. That’s all. I would never do anything to hurt Vera.”

>   It was true and untrue at the same time. I hated myself for it.

  “Let me be even more direct,” McKnight said, letting his words hang in the air as my heart thumped murderously. “Were you and Mr. Nolan romantically involved?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “No, of course not. Like I said, we were friends. Good friends.”

  There was that smile again—fake, disbelieving. I couldn’t help it: I remembered the smell of John in my bed, the note in my backpack, all the times I’d woken up having dreamed of him.

  McKnight scooted his chair back and turned off the camera. “That’s all for now, Miss King. Thank you for coming in. We really appreciate it. An officer will take your prints on your way out.”

  I got up, steadying myself against the table, then moved for the door.

  “Oh, and Miss King?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get home safe, okay? They say it’s supposed to rain, and I know you have trouble seeing clearly when the weather’s acting up.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Back in my house, after locking the door tight behind me, I headed straight to the bathroom, needing to scrub the fingerprint ink from my hands.

  As I flipped on the light, I stopped short, the image searing itself into my brain.

  The faucet was running, a tiny stream trickling into the sink.

  Stomach twisting, I switched the water off, my mind flashing to the faucet in our prewar bathroom in Brooklyn. It used to stick, and Davis had a habit of not twisting it all the way off, leaving it dripping. It drove me nuts, and one day I playfully stuck a Post-it on the bathroom mirror with a message scribbled out in bright blue Sharpie—Remember to twist the faucet all the way!

  Thanks, babe! he’d written on his own Post-it, and later I’d told Ellie and our friends about living with a dude, about our passive-aggressive but sweet notes to each other; we’d all laughed about it.

  It was only that weekend, when I picked up my laundry from the wash-and-fold and the lady had yelled at me that I could have ruined her machine, that I realized that very same Sharpie had gotten into my hamper. My clothes were ruined. Permanent blue ink on every one of my whites. When I confronted him, Davis swore up and down that I must have left it in my pocket—God, Lucy, what kind of maniac do you think I am? Who would do something like that?