Monsters Among Us

by Monica Rodden

“Never mind.” Henry gave a swift wave of one hand. “Go ahead. Drive right through the crime scene, see what happens.”

  “Crime scene?” Andrew looked down the street, his face full of some stark realization. “That’s not the murdered girl’s house, is it? The one they found at the clifftop?”

  After a moment’s silence, Henry walked up to Andrew and said something Catherine couldn’t hear. Andrew seemed to say something in response and then shook his head. Henry shoved his hands in his pockets, looking unnerved. Then he walked back to Catherine.

  “Henry,” Catherine said when he reached her. “What—?”

  Henry shot her a look as, behind them, Andrew climbed into his car. “He said murdered. No one else said that’s what happened. How does he know?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know for sure. Maybe it’s just what he heard.”

  “He looked pretty sure, though, didn’t he?”

  Catherine shook her head, her voice just as quiet. “It’s—it’s an unexpected death. I bet a lot of people—also, what’s he doing?” she asked, glancing at Andrew’s car again.

  “I told him to stop being weird and turn off his hazards.” Then he added, very quickly, “He said he got into town yesterday. Last night, in fact.”

  She looked at him incredulously as Andrew’s hazards clicked off. Clearly, Henry had wanted a moment to talk to her alone. To share this information, as though it meant anything at all. “Henry, you can’t possibly…”

  “I just want to talk to him.”

  “God,” she muttered, setting down the coat and tucking the cards into her pocket.

  “You don’t have to talk to him.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, a defensiveness she regretted almost at once, but it couldn’t be helped. “Why wouldn’t I talk to him?”

  “Because you just cut his face open.” Henry ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. Andrew was walking back to them. Henry held up a hand, all pretense forgotten, and Andrew stopped where he was on the walk, looking awkward. “Listen, I don’t know what happened—” he continued.

  “That’s right. You don’t know what happened.”

  “You’re saying that like—like it’s my fault for not knowing or something.”

  “No,” she snapped, trying to keep her voice low. “I’m saying you don’t know because it didn’t happen to you. It happened to me. This is my problem, Henry, not yours.”

  “Then what’s Amy? Is that not my problem too? Or does this only get to affect you?”

  She jerked back, stung. For a moment they stared at each other, something feral between them, like when they were kids and would wrestle, kicking and hitting, bringing bruises to the surface of each other’s skin.

  Then it was gone.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, just as Henry said, “Sorry, Cath—”

  They grinned briefly at each other. Slowly, Henry reached out a hand and brushed her cheek. She stilled under his touch, very aware of Andrew watching them.

  “Sugar,” he said, pulling back. “You going to explain that?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He said nothing to that, but turned and motioned for Andrew to come forward. He did so, the hazards off on his car but his cheeks flushed, as though they’d absorbed the warning color.

  * * *

  —

  His explanation was rushed and halting at the same time. Clearly intimidated by Henry and uncomfortable around her in general, Andrew spoke in words that ran over themselves and braked like the progression of a car accident.

  “My uncle’s a cop. That’s how I know about her. Well, actually he’s not my uncle. His wife is my mom’s best friend, so I’ve called them my aunt and uncle basically since I could talk. Bob and Minda. They live by the rec center. I stayed the night at their place and this morning I woke up to Bob running around, apologizing for waking me and then to Minda for stepping on the cat. Anyway, he was saying that some girl had been killed and did I remember coming to the station last Christmas and a girl dropped by with some bread? Well, that was her and she’d been strangled and he probably wouldn’t see me before I left so have a safe trip back—”

  “She was strangled?” Catherine said. She put her own hand to her throat, feeling the angles of it, feeling sick.

  “That’s what he said. And then got mad at himself for saying it because he wasn’t supposed to…but yeah.”

  “And you knew her?” Henry asked.

  Andrew looked a little exasperated now. “You want to be a cop too? Yes, I met her last Christmas when she came to the station to give everyone bread, but that was it. I didn’t hurt her, and I didn’t—didn’t rape anyone.” He ran a hand over his cut. It had stopped bleeding. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it. And don’t say anything, okay, because I don’t want my uncle to get in trouble either.”

  “We won’t.” Catherine stepped toward him. “But please. I knew her. I knew her really well but I don’t know what happened. Please,” she said again. “I have to know what happened to her.”

  Andrew stared at her. She realized that past the dark shadows, the thin skin, and the cut on his cheek, he wasn’t as alarming-looking as she’d previously thought. He had a sort of fragility to him that reminded her of Amy.

  “You can’t repeat any of this, okay? Even I’m not supposed to know about it.”

  They nodded at once, and Andrew looked resigned.

  “She was out there awhile, they think. Some guy walking his dog found her right at the edge of the clifftop. That’s what’s giving everyone such a weird vibe, according to Bob. Because whoever did it could have just, like, tossed her over. Right before Bob left he said something like Son of a bitch wanted her to be found.”

  “But why?” Henry asked. “That makes no sense.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Catherine said. She was remembering that afternoon: broad daylight in a wide front yard. “Some psychos don’t care about being obvious. Some of them just come right over and—” She wiped her face. “Can I talk to your uncle, or whoever he is? Because I think I know who might have done it. Is he at Amy’s house now? Can I see him?”

  Andrew looked uncomfortable at that. “He’s not lead on the force or anything. He does other stuff, usually. Like, people stealing DVDs from the library to pawn. That’s why it was such a big deal when he got called in this morning. It’s, like, all hands on deck. I can try, though. See what he says.”

  “Thanks.”

  The front door opened and Catherine’s mother appeared on the porch. She started to say something but then saw Andrew and looked confused.

  “Mom?” Catherine prompted.

  Her mother shook her head as though to clear it. “The dog. Henry, she’s got something in her mouth and there’s broken—”

  “I’m on it,” Henry said, moving toward the front door, but Catherine stayed where she was, arms crossed. Henry looked at her expectantly, his expression the twin of her mother’s.

  “Be there in a second,” she said with an encouraging nod to both of them. “Seriously. Just a minute.”

  She heard her father say something from farther inside the house and her mother, with great reluctance and a final look at Andrew, went back inside. Henry followed her but left the door half open.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said again, once Henry was out of earshot.

  Andrew shrugged. “It’s not a lot. I’m sorry you knew her.” A pause. “Actually, that’s a weird thing to say. I meant—”

  “No, it’s okay.” She shook her head. “Thank you, for finding me. Giving me my things back. There was all this stuff I was going to have to do. DMV, you know.”

  “Yeah.” He was looking at her as though he wanted to say something more, maybe apologize again, but she put a hand up. She was very aware of how hard the cold asphalt felt under her boots, how it seemed to press ba
ck against her weight.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tell me. I—I know you probably know who did it. If you live on his hall, saw his room. But I can’t know. Not—not yet.”

  He looked surprised, even a little alarmed, and she wanted to say more but didn’t know how. How could she explain to this near-stranger that she was on the edge of a cliff too? That she hadn’t felt like herself since it happened, that she hadn’t felt real, like a real actual person, and instead was like a ghost haunting this place she used to know? A long-ago familiarity replaced with strangeness in the slow dying of dogs and hovering mothers and newly distant fathers and nightmare-laced sleep and a girl she loved like a daughter-sister killed in the night, and she hadn’t been there.

  She thought about how it had felt when she’d seen Andrew and the coat and how her mind had put that together wrong. How she’d gone mad and struck out and drawn blood, so certain, so goddamn sure. But she’d been wrong. And maybe what Andrew was going to say wouldn’t be wrong. He probably had it right; he’d gotten her coat, after all. But that wasn’t what she was worried about. It wasn’t about right or wrong anymore. It was about alive and not. Functioning and not. In a tree or not. Already she was regretting asking Andrew to tell her what he knew about Amy—strangled—images swinging down at her like ropes with strands of brown hair on them—

  “Sure,” Andrew said, though he didn’t look very sure. “Uh, whatever you want.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Do you still want me to talk to Bob?”

  She nodded, then, with a quick look behind her, held out a hand. “Give me your phone.” He did so, and she typed in her number. “Let me know what he says.”

  He took his phone back and looked at her number as though unable to believe it. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Yeah.”

  “That way you don’t have to drive all the way over here like a stalker. That was a joke,” she added, but he grinned.

  “Nah, I know it’s weird. All of it.” He paused. “You know, you could probably just go to the station yourself, or the cops at the house. I bet they’d take any leads at this point.”

  But she shook her head. She had no name, and barely a face in her memory. It wasn’t a lot to go on, she knew, and this was Amy. If Andrew’s uncle or whoever it was could help in the least, she wasn’t going to turn that opportunity away by looking stupid in front of someone else.

  “Let me know,” she said as she turned to walk to the front door, but Andrew called to her, and she looked back at him.

  “I think your brother hates me,” he said.

  She laughed without thinking, and it was nice, she thought, that her body could still do that. “He’s not my brother,” she said. “But I think you got the other part right.”

  “We’re going to the church,” Catherine’s mother told her as soon as Catherine walked inside the house; Catherine thought she’d probably spent all of a minute lying down. Henry was leaning against the counter, watching her parents shrug on their jackets, a strange, inscrutable look on his face. Molly was at his feet, looking guilty, her muzzle dusted with sugar. The broken pieces of the sugar canister had been cleaned up, and a mini-dustpan and broom sat on the counter.

  “First Faith?” Catherine said, surprised. They hadn’t gone to church—besides the occasional Christmas or Easter service, and even those holiday visits had pretty much fallen by the wayside—since she was maybe ten.

  “John Pechman is organizing the neighborhood,” her mother explained. “To support the Porters. Obviously as the pastor he wants to help, though I don’t know how…Anyway, everyone’s meeting at the church to see what we can do, make food, give donations…” She trailed off again. Her coat was misbuttoned, the collar too high on one side. Catherine watched her dad put a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

  “It’s going to be okay,” her dad said.

  “No,” she said. “Not for Jennifer. Not without her daughter—” She went to Catherine then, wrapping her arms around her tightly. “Are you okay?” she asked into Catherine’s hair. “Who was that, outside?”

  “No one.” Catherine pulled away as gently as she could, then looked down at herself, at her sweats and boots. “I’ll meet you there,” she said.

  “Oh, but we can wait,” her mother said at once. “Of course—”

  “No,” Catherine said. “You go. I’m a mess. I need to shower and change and—”

  I need a moment. Alone.

  Catherine watched her shift, uncertain, then glance around the room, giving a little start when her eyes landed on Henry, as though she’d just remembered he was there.

  “Henry!” she said. “Your parents—will they be at the church as well?”

  Henry spoke without hesitation. “They’ll be there.”

  “Your mother’s always so good at that,” Catherine’s mother said distractedly. “Your whole family, really. Church functions, never missed…” She looked back at Catherine’s father, who gestured to the door, but she still frowned. “Are you sure?” she asked Catherine.

  “I’m sure,” Catherine said. “I’ll be there. I just need…”

  Time.

  Or rather, to undo it. Undo all of it. Everything. Yesterday. This entire last week.

  “Let’s go, Susan,” her father said. “Henry has to be getting back home to his parents now.”

  Henry took the cue, leading Molly to the door so he would be out of the house before Catherine’s parents. “See you later,” he said.

  Catherine watched him go, feeling oddly regretful, an unease that intensified even more when her parents closed the door behind them and she heard the dead bolt grind home.

  * * *

  —

  For the first time in she didn’t even know how long, Catherine got ready to go to church. She showered, put on a dress, tights, and makeup, and looked in her bathroom mirror, trying to pull herself together. It was pointless.

  Amy

  Amy

  Amy

  The name repeated in her head like a nail being driven down by a hammer, deeper and deeper with each blow. By the time she arrived at the church, her eyes were red, her teeth clicking, and it took all her resolve just to navigate the already-busy parking lot without hitting anyone. It was different from how she remembered it—the parking lot. They must have expanded it, because there was a large square section off to the side, the asphalt slightly darker, newer. The church itself, however, looked the same: brown and gray with a sharply slanted roof and a tall cross stretching into the blue sky. She could see it, even through the gently falling rain, the mist that still hung on the air, and she had to admit there was something kind of comforting about it.

  It made her wonder, not for the first time, why they’d stopped going to First Faith.

  Sure, her family wasn’t that devout. And her mother was hardly a morning person after her long nursing shifts that sometimes fell on weekends, while her father craved sleep after a long workweek. But still. So much of the neighborhood attended, well, religiously. She didn’t even know of any other major churches in the area, though there was a synagogue on the edge of West Falls that did host a decent kosher food truck event every September. But First Faith was kind of everywhere. It wasn’t necessarily the religion aspect, she didn’t think, but the community part: bake sales and outdoor concerts in the summer, so many things secular and open.

  She had begun to make her way to the tall church doors, topped with stained glass, when she realized that the dozen or so people in the parking lot were all heading to the attached reception hall on the left-hand side. After a moment, Catherine followed them. Her feet were freezing on the asphalt in her black ballet flats and when she entered the reception hall with a group of low-murmuring women, she exhaled at the sudden warmth.

  It was a wide, square room with tables along one wall and stacks of chairs people took down and arranged in
to small clusters. There was coffee in the corner, small paper cups people held as they spoke. Everyone was gathered in groups, either standing or sitting in the chairs they’d angled into almost-circles: little cliques that made Catherine’s sense of awkwardness spike.

  “Excuse me, dear,” said a voice behind her, and Catherine jumped.

  She was still standing in front of the door.

  “Sorry,” she said, moving to the side, her shoulder nearly hitting the large bulletin board on the wall. It was hung above a narrow table covered with even narrower brochures. As a group of people passed her, her eyes flicked over the different-colored papers, hardly even reading them—until one in particular caught her eye.

  COMMUNITY SOUP KITCHEN

  2nd and 4th Thursday of each month

  6:30 p.m.

  West Falls Food Bank

  Acceptable donations permitted, see John Pechman for details.

  Whoever has a bountiful eye will be blessed, for he shares his bread with the poor.

  —Proverbs 22:9

  What did he look like? Henry had asked her.

  “Homeless,” she breathed now, her fingers hovering millimeters from the pale blue brochure.

  Was that what had happened? Had the man seen Amy at the soup kitchen? But…had Amy even volunteered at the soup kitchen? It seemed like something she would do—acceptable donations permitted—but it struck Catherine that she didn’t know if Amy had ever been to the West Falls Food Bank. She thought she knew so much about Amy, but there were holes. Of course there were holes, she told herself sternly. No one could know everything about another person.

  But she’s mine.

  She was mine.

  Her fingers touched the paper, her ring gleaming under the lights. Was she right, or was she wrong again, like she had been with Andrew? She thought of all the bread Amy must have baked over the past few years, delivering to God knew how many houses, selling it to countless people in town. Giving it away for free, maybe, to those with the greatest need.