by A. R. Torre
“Yes.” I interrupted my mind’s fall down its slippery path. “I think it was just anger. I don’t think I would have killed her.”
“That’s a great exercise to work through, Deanna. We can control anger and reactions.”
“Well, honestly, I don’t care if I did kill her. I was calling you about Jeremy.”
He chuckled, a long, low sound. “Oh… Deanna. We have so much work to do.”
I like midnight Derek. He lectures less and uses his bedroom voice more.
“What’s the issue with Jeremy?”
“He pulled me off of her, pushed me inside. Was mad at me about it.”
“It’s a lot for someone to swallow.”
“Yeah but…” I dropped my head against the wall and looked up. Noticed a healthy collection of cobwebs on the overhead light. “He seemed frustrated. Said he couldn’t deal with it.”
“I’ve told you to be up front with him. To explain your disorder.”
“I have. Mostly. I’ve told him about my urges. He kind of pushes them to the side.” And I didn’t chase the issue and shove it down his throat. If Jeremy didn’t want to believe I was a psychopath, that was fine with me. I didn’t need to roll a dead body in front of him. I kind of liked the starry-eyed way that Jeremy looked at me. And, when I wasn’t shoving him out the door so that I could be locked in, we felt like a normal couple, with a normal relationship, and I felt like a normal girl. I liked that.
“Was this the first time he saw your violent side?” I heard the trap in his question. Derek thought I hid violent activity from him. I’ll just set that sentence to the side and let it be.
“Sorta. I mean, you know what happened when we met.” When I jumped naked off my bed and tried to kill him with my bare hands and later, his box cutter.
“You have to see this hole in your relationship. You have one hiccup and he’s running away.”
“It’s kind of a big hiccup,” I pointed out. “It’s not like I was late to dinner.”
“It’s you. If he’s in love with you, he needs to be in love with all of you, not just your good side.”
My good side. Do I have a good side? That’s a long discussion I needed to have with myself someday. Though a current toss-up of that subject would delay the processing of what Derek just said. And the excellent point that he just made. I leaned forward and examined the dark blue polish on my toes.
“Deanna?” Of course he wanted a response.
“What are you doing right now?” I sat back, away from my polished toes, and closed my eyes.
“I’m in bed.”
“What do you look like?”
“That’s not really an appropriate question.”
“I’ve looked for you online. No pictures. That’s weird. Most people have pictures.” A confession I never thought I’d voice, but it hovered in the air between us.
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
I opened my eyes. “You’ve googled me?”
“In a purely professional sense.”
I looked left, to the mountain of technology that was my cam production. “I’m not big on pictures.”
“Well… neither am I.”
“You can send me a pic. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“You alone right now?” The question jutted out from my lips and hung there, a step in a direction he never lets me take. I closed my eyes and begged him to answer it.
“Yes.” Short and sweet, without the elaboration I would have preferred, but I’d take it.
“Me too.”
“What did Jeremy—”
I spoke quickly, before the sentence grew a point. “Please don’t ask me about Jeremy. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
“Whether you talk about it or not, you need to think about it. What’s healthiest for you is a strong relationship, built on an honest framework.” His voice grew strength when it was on topic.
He and I, by that thought process, could never be in a relationship. I’d buried enough lies between us to dam a river. I wondered what a relationship with Derek would be like. If it’d be a hundred different analyzations or a perfectly executed coordination of emotions. I wondered if it’d be heaven or hell.
“Think I should call him?”
“Yes. Always yes. Communication is what is most important.”
“Okay.” I looked back down at my toes. “Thanks for answering.”
“You know I’m billing you for this, right? I’m on after-hours rates now. Double.”
I smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Send me the bill.”
“Good night, Deanna.” I loved the way he said my name.
“Night, Doc.” I hung up the phone and looked at the display. Eight minutes thirty-two seconds. My average cam session lasted longer. I wondered if my clients end our chats feeling as conflicted as I did right then. I opened my phone log and scrolled down to Jeremy’s name. Communication is what’s most important. I locked the display and pushed myself to my feet. Headed to the closest dresser for something to wear. Grabbed FtypeBaby’s keys off the hook on the way.
CHAPTER 48
Present
IN THE STATE of Oklahoma, there are a variety of conditions that must be met before a warrant is issued. I researched the conditions, did my due diligence, and then waited, my butt on the floor, back against the door, a paperback in hand. On the second day, the second paperback, I hear the elevator, hear the steps, hear the voices. Voices that don’t belong to any of the fifteen residents of this floor. I press my good ear to the door and listen, try to gain a sliver of insider knowledge in the moment before they knock. When I open the door, there is a moment of standoff.
“I’m not sure that you understand, Ms. Madden. You have to let us in.” TheOtherOne. This guy again.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I understand that this is the second time you’ve bothered me in three days.” Is it Jeremy? I want to scream the question but bite my tongue.
“We have a warrant, Ms. Madden, to search your apartment and your vehicle.” I envision dirty hands across FtypeBaby and want to snarl.
“Searching for what?” I snatch the page from his hand.
“Please step aside, ma’am.” Oh, there she is. The pit bull in cheap Dockers. EyelinerCop. I watch her stroll around the man and step forward, into my space, close enough that I can pretty much guarantee you her lunch involved meatballs and onions.
I step aside. I step aside and watch them walk in. Wonder, as the man nods and passes me, how much evidence they’ll find.
How many loose ends I’ve missed.
CHAPTER 49
Present
IT’S HOT IN the house, summer officially here, the sunshine taunting Mike through the windows. Maybe he should open the doors. Let in the breeze. Move to the backyard and sit in the sun. Take off his shirt and actually get a tan. Thinking about it, he pulls his shirt over his head. Grabs at an abandoned bottle of water and finishes it off. Moves to the closet and tosses the shirt in the hamper. Grabs a fresh one, and vows not to sweat through this one. It was finally time for the AC. He flips the switch on the thermostat and prays that it works. Hears the slam of Jamie’s car door and wheels to the living room. Two p.m. The woman is nothing if not regular.
The front door latch switches and the door flies open, one Toms-encased foot the catalyst, a swift kick in its center causing it to slam into the wall. “You expecting a box?” Jamie’s pile of red curls pops through the front door, quickly replaced by her ass, the shimmy of her body working a large cardboard box through the front entryway.
“Not particularly.” This is interesting. Mike hadn’t gotten a package in ages, his last one a “care package” from Mom and Dad, an inappropriate gift for a man his age. But this isn’t a care package; that much is immediately obvious. It’s large, the cardboard heavy duty, a full roll of tape securing it. He moves closer, his head tilting to get a better look, his name printed in clear block font on t
he front, the return address blank.
“No return address,” she says ominously, her head jutting out alongside his. “Maybe it’s a bomb.”
He shoots her a sidelong look. “That’s optimistic.”
“I’m just saying. Let me run across the street before you open it.”
“Grab me a knife to open this with before you run for your life.”
She flounces off and he hefts the box onto his lap. Shaking it, he listens to a muffled shift of contents. It’s not the worst way to go. One bomb. Poof. An end to a lifetime of wanting a woman he’ll never have. How painful is love if you embrace death as an escape from it?
A minute later, a pair of red scissors are thrust before him. “Here. Your knives suck. I couldn’t find a sharp one.”
“Thanks.” He turns the box on his lap and opens the scissors, glancing up at her. “You gonna cross the street or die with me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Go ahead. But note this moment in time as the day I was brave.”
“The day you were nosy,” he corrects.
“Open the damn thing.”
It is pretty exciting, the thousand different possibilities of what this box can hold. The unknown sender, all of the tape, the narrow chance that he is risking his life just by opening it. Sliding the sharp edge of the scissors across the top of the box, he slices through the line of flaps. Undoes the sides, taking his time and prolonging the expectation. He’ll have plenty of time to be disappointed by the contents. Best to ride this high as long as he could. He sets aside the scissors and pulls back the first flap. Braces for an explosion but the air is quiet.
Behind him, Jamie lets out a noisy exhale. “Dodged that bullet.”
“Shh,” he hushes, and flips back the second flap. Slides his hands inside and lifts out a large box, the size of a tool chest, the black wooden lid ornate and carefully carved.
“What’s that?” she whispers loudly and he turns his head to glare at her.
“Sorry.” She holds up both of her hands, then makes the zipping motion across her mouth.
He refocuses on the box, running his hand carefully over the top. Pushes his fingertips into the carved design, over the gold hinges. Picks his fingernail over the lock on the front. Tests the hinge and finds it doesn’t move.
“It’s locked.” Captain Obvious behind him huffs, as if it is her present that is unopenable. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and fights to not snap. Sets the wooden box on the table and reaches back into the box for the card, a yellow envelope that has slipped down into the packing peanuts. The front of the card is blank; he flips it over and works at the seal. Twists away from Jamie and opens it.
You never got this.
The message is written on a blank white card, the edges crisp and expensive, the oddest message he’s ever gotten, via card or any other method. He flips the card over, another message on the back, along with a small key taped to the card. I’ll want these back.
You never got this.
I’ll want these back.
Whoever sent the package needs to work on their tenses. He peels the key away from the card, his excitement growing. Grabs the box from the coffee table and fits the key into the lock. Holds his breath as it turns. Beside him, Jamie leans forward, her cinnamon breath fanning the air between them, the energy in the air high with expectation as he lifts the lid.
There is a long moment as they stare inside.
“Well,” she finally says. “Guess your knife problem is solved.”
He looks down, into the box, his eyes dragging along the neat row of knives, each in their own place, a strip of felt holding them down, the green suede doing nothing to undermine the sharp glint of silver. At least twenty, lined up like soldiers, each primed and ready for action. His mind flips to an image of Deanna, astride a stranger, the flash of a knife in her hand.
At least he knows who the package is from.
cops showed up today
The girl works fast. He closes the lid and wonders how many of the blades are stained with blood.
CHAPTER 50
Present
I THINK, AFTER debating the reasons for most of my life, that I understand why some individuals smoke. It’s the same reason that we instinctively reach for our cell phones during a lull in brain thought. It’s the need to do something with our hands, our mouths, our bodies, something to distract us from that which is life.
I have never smoked, yet right now, I want a cigarette. I lean against the wall and watch three bodies search my space. The room gets darker when the front door opens and Chelsea Fucking Evans waltzes in, wearing a black vest with Crime Scene Investigation on the back. I bite back an objection and wonder if she’s blabbed to EyelinerCop our tussle in the hall. I’m sure she has. Chelsea seems to like to talk. I feel her eyes on me and stare straight ahead, find EyelinerCop and track her movements. That woman I like. There’s no rhyme or reason why; she seems to hate me with every vein in her body, and maybe that’s why I like her. She doesn’t hide her feelings, lets her venom show, has practically lifted her middle finger in my direction with her body language and words. I respect that, want that. Should I meet her in a dark alley at night, it would be my pleasure to fight her to the death. Chelsea doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve to stand in my apartment, doesn’t deserve to touch my stuff. Chelsea deserves to starve to death chained to a stake in the middle of the Ozarks.
Speaking of deaths, the man… he’ll die quietly. Will probably grasp his chest and say something poetic in his final moments. I spend the next ten minutes of their search trying to figure out who he reminds me of and I think it’s Denzel Washington. But a softer, sweeter Denzel… like that guy who played the president in 24. TheOtherOne would make a good president, seems fair and honest, two good qualities to have when tossing my apartment.
The other guy in the mix is someone I’ve never seen before. He shook my hand when he came in, introduced himself as Mark. Hasn’t looked in my direction since, but blushed bright red as he went through my camming bedroom. The woman finally pulled him out, said she’d tackle that, and sent him to the bathroom. He’s probably going through my tampon wrappers in the trash now. How embarrassing. Thank God I flushed the applicators, but still. Would super absorbency wrappers be lined up in a photo at my trial? Deanna Madden, members of the jury, obviously likes blood. I stifle a smile and look to my feet. I can smell the bleach. I hope they can’t. They haven’t reached for the luminol yet, but I can see it on their cart, alongside evidence baggies and Tupperware containers holding who knows what. Thank God Chelsea walked in empty-handed. I don’t trust her with a cartful of things, don’t trust that the vest she’s wearing isn’t packed with incriminating evidence she plans to plant. I switch my gaze to her, watching her shift through my fridge, and think of Jeremy. It’s now Tuesday and my hope for our relationship is draining fast. I didn’t sleep last night, my mind ticking through the hundreds of possibilities for his silence, his absence from work, his phone going straight to voice mail. None of the possibilities are good, and the knot in my stomach has reached ulcer proportions. After these assholes leave, I will go to his house. See if he answers, sick with a dead cell phone battery—that is my most hopeful scenario right now.
I slide down the wall and sit, kicking out my feet. Watch the foursome closely and try to keep track of what is going into the evidence bags. They’ve taken both of my cells, my cam line and my personal one. Packed up all three of my laptops, taping them shut and wrapping them in bubble paper. Without them, without my phones… I feel lost. Floating. How will I survive in here without a line to the outside world? When EyelinerCop reaches for FtypeBaby’s keys, I almost sob. They can’t take my car, surely they wouldn’t do that. Aren’t there laws? Restrictions? They’ve barely asked me anything, and nothing I’ve said would incriminate me in my crimes. What do they have? I clamp my hands over my head and try to muffle the shouts of my thoughts. Try not to think about these invaders in my space, Chelsea touching my things,
Jeremy’s disappearance. A hundred stresses on an already frail ecosystem. I almost miss the movement of the female detective, her step into the center of the room, her slow stop, facing away from me. But I hear her, through my hand headphones, through the screams of my mind. I hear her call the man, and I lift my head in time to see him join her in the center of the room.
They are looking at my window. I stare at them, confused, and watch them step toward it, the man, at one point, crouching then standing, the woman pointing as if that accomplishes something. I strain to hear their words but can’t, their low mumble facing away from me. The woman turns suddenly and catches me watching. Stares at me, and I raise my shoulders, stare back as if to say So what? I mean, seriously. It’s a fucking window. She turns back, tilts her head toward the man, then steps forward and tugs on the frame. Tugs harder.
I smile. It’s a bitch to get that thing open. For one, it’s a tall window, the builders overcompensating for the fact that it’s the only one this apartment gets. For another, it’s got four years of me being wishy-washy, bits of dried paint all along its tracks. She finally gets it open, then she and the man kneel before it. Smart move. You look out of that bitch standing and you’re one awkward skip away from falling. Though, how awesome would it be if they fell? If this whole situation disappeared in one easy moment, with the added bonus of me getting to hear screams, the crunch of bones, maybe a few agonizing last shrieks. EyelinerCop would cooperate. Give me a few bloodcurdling ones. TheOtherOne… Like I said earlier, he’d be a massive disappointment. They’d fall, MarkyMark and Chelsea would come rushing over, and I’d plant a big foot in their backs. I could kick that high, definitely. Or, should my flexibility not cooperate, I could be unimaginative and just push. Hold on to the window frame and watch them fall. Enjoy the landing, then go and get my cell phone back. Computers back. Whatever they took out of my bathroom back.
