All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  Following my Google map directions, I head to an older area of the city, one that weaves in and out of destitute areas and gentrification. Like most big cities, one street is filled with well-manicured lawns and pride of ownership, while the other side of the road is littered with vacant eyes and lost souls.

  A blur of orange flashing in front of my vehicle brings me back to the present. I slam on my brakes reactively, unsure of what crossed my path.

  An animal.

  It’s a cat, a puffy, overweight feline that can run amazingly fast for its size. It’s bright orange with a dab of white fur covering the tail.

  I notice it has reddish brown streaks on one side. Even his paws seems to be covered in what looks like dried paint.

  It couldn’t be blood, could it?

  He might be hurt.

  Did his paw catch the tire as it flew underneath my vehicle? Or maybe he’s feral. I dismiss that idea when I see a blue collar around his neck, where a gold tag hangs from it. Maybe his owner lets him roam the neighborhood and he caught a bird for breakfast.

  I slow down to a crawl but before I can stop, he scurries off into a rose bush, the branches shaking as he disappears from sight.

  So much for that, I think.

  I’m picking up someone from the next street over. The house has a small yard with a patch of grass and a plethora of strategically placed flowers lining the walkway. A couple of flower boxes on the window sills remind me of my grandmother’s place.

  This is a bungalow, a quaint but adorable-looking house that has a large front porch and character. A California Craftsman, I believe they’re called, born out of the early nineteen-hundreds. This one has a heavy stone porch column with dormer windows, the house painted olive green with cream trim. Shaker shingles line the top of the low-pitched roof. There is no garage, just an empty concrete slab with an older tan Volvo parked in it.

  Glancing at my phone, I double check the address.

  My agreed-upon arrival time is 7 A.M. I’m a few minutes early.

  I take a glimpse in the rearview mirror and see the same cat strolling up the drive, his deliberate steps towards the porch.

  He watches me, alert, as we both stare each other down.

  Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I keep one eye trained on him and the other on the front door.

  A number is provided with the order and when the clock hits 7:05 on the dash, I call my airport run-it goes to voicemail. I expect to hear a man speaking, except Talin belongs to a young-sounding woman. I don’t leave a message.

  I open my car door carefully, the cat now standing at the front door, mewing loudly. He stretches out and lays down by the dark-colored mahogany door, three stained glass panels in the upper portion, his tongue licking his paws. I walk towards the front stoop while dialing Talin one more time.

  Straight to voicemail. Maybe her phone’s off or she overslept.

  The cat regards me warily as I take the three steps towards him. He’s on a welcome mat, his paws matted with the dark liquid.

  My stomach drops. I wish it were paint, but it looks like blood.

  I swivel to look around the neighborhood. All the homes are similar, small bungalow-style homes that have been remodeled and lovingly restored to a Leave it to Beaver suburbia mentality of the idyllic family life. All of the homes are similar, small front yards with flowers and metal mailboxes. The porches are wide, and swings hang from most. This is the kind of street I imagine in black and white images - pre-technology, where families still sat down together for dinner.

  Pushing the doorbell, I hear it chime through the house. I try to peep through the two large picture windows, but the shades are drawn.

  No answer. I shift from one leg to the other, impatient. We need to get a move on if we’re going to stay on schedule.

  I notice a brass metal door knocker and bang it against the wood, a loud thump sounding as it slams against the mahogany. The door’s ajar, and it’s enough to cause it to slowly creak open.

  I slam the door shut. I don’t want Talin to think I’m trying to enter her house without permission.

  I cross my arms, waiting for her hurried footsteps to come to the door. At any moment, she’ll acknowledge her ride to the airport.

  The house is silent.

  A pit forms like a tightly wound ball in my stomach.

  Fumbling with my phone, I dial her again. And again. I leave a winded message.

  I don’t want the neighbors to grow suspicious of a strange man on her porch. Is she married? Maybe a roommate?

  My annoyance grows. She probably woke up late and is in the shower.

  Jabbing the doorbell, I press it again.

  Nothing but the chiming noise.

  Stepping off the porch, I check the wooden fence that wraps around the house. The gate is locked. I pause, stopping to eyeball her car. I pull the handle on the driver’s side. It’s locked. It looks decently clean and organized. The front seat has a pair of sunglasses lying on it. There’s a pack of gum on the console.

  Checking over my shoulder, I notice a man getting in a cherry red Honda down the street. It might be paranoia, but he seems to stare at me with curiosity.

  Her neighbors are probably calling me in as we speak. Me and my nondescript SUV.

  I’m trying to decide my next move when the cat lets out an ear-splitting howl. I jump as he butts his nose against the door. His eyes are narrowed at me, as if I’m the reason he’s not inside.

  I take a deep breath.

  Being arrested for breaking and entering isn’t an aspiration I have. What if she’s inside and I startle her? I’ll be fired. My wife and I will be in more dire straits than we already are.

  I ignore the cat and head back to my waiting vehicle.

  Climbing inside, I call my office to check if they have heard from my client.

  The dispatcher, Roseanne, answers. She smokes a pack a day and her voice reflects that in the hoarse way she talks. “Elite Transportation. Rose speaking.”

  “Hey Rose, it’s Rafael. Car seventeen.”

  “Hi Rafael, top of the morning to you.” She coughs, hacking up a lung.

  “I’ve got a 7 A.M. that hasn’t shown. She’s not answering her phone or door. Name’s Talin Forrester. Have we had any cancellations?”

  “Lemme check. Please hold.” I hear loud, top forty music as she disappears for a minute.

  “Nope, no cancellations. Looks like two airport runs for the same company-RGMP Technology Solutions. You’ve got Talin Forrester and the other customer is Richard Garrett.”

  “Ok, double checking, address I’m in front of is 1237 E Mountain Aire Road.”

  “Yep.” I hear Rose clicking her keyboard. “Want me to try her?”

  “Yes please.”

  The hold music comes back on. I grimace at the obnoxious lyrics. It’s all pop tinged with electronic dance music.

  I get back out of the vehicle. The cat circles my leg, groaning. I lean down to touch him, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear. I expect him to run but he freezes, his back arched. I run my eyes over him, checking for contusions. I don’t see any open wounds or cuts.

  I can smell it now. A metallic odor. A pungent, coppery smell.

  Blood.

  My fingers start to shake, the phone positioned awkwardly next to my ear. I jerk upright, dropping it. My call with Rose disconnected, the hard plastic case taking the brunt of the fall. I pick it back up and put it in my pocket.

  I’m starting to think there’s a good reason Talin Forrester isn’t answering the door.

  She can’t.

  I feel like I’m falling, my stomach tumbling to my feet. A sense of dread overcomes me and I struggle to breathe. I rest my hand on the doorknob. I want to turn around, go back to my waiting Tahoe, and drive off. Maybe I can go next door, ask a neighbor to check on her or call the police, do a welfare visit.

  But what if nothing’s wrong and I’ve made a big deal out of a misplaced woman? Maybe she isn’t home. I’m unsu
re how old she is, but what if she stayed somewhere else last night? She could be running late.

  Premonition tells me this isn’t the case. The skittish cat chatters at the door, unleashing his own epithet. Maybe she forgot to let him in last night and he’s starved to death.

  Death.

  I shake my head. I need to stop thinking everything is related to death. Just because my wife is sick doesn’t mean everyone else is about to die. A therapist would tell me I’m transferring my own concerns onto someone else.

  Transference, that’s it.

  The cat startles me when it starts clawing at the door, his paws scratching at the dark wood.

  Great, now he’s damaging what’s hopefully his own front door.

  I interrupt him by pushing the handle in, a small click as I haltingly open it.

  “Hello?” I yell out. “Mrs. Forrester? Talin?”

  I’m instantly overwhelmed by an odor. It’s putrid, and it invades my nostrils - filling them with the smell of something rotting. I rub my nose, the cat whizzing past my feet, a blur as it takes off down the hallway.

  “Mrs. Forrester?” I call. “Are you here?”

  My voice echoes. I’m in a foyer, and light oak hardwood floors cover the entry. There’s a beige sofa with multi-colored throw pillows. An ornate grandfather clock sits on a ledge, ticking down the minutes, the seconds.

  My brain’s on fire, screaming at me to turn back around and exit the house.

  Something is not right.

  The smell is not natural.

  Garbage.

  She probably hasn’t been home to take out the trash.

  Maybe it’s leftovers sitting in the fridge.

  My eyes drift around the room. There’s a stone fireplace with lots of built-ins and nooks and crannies that are filled with various books, decorative vases, and knick-knacks. Gingham print curtains cover the two picture windows that face out the front.

  The kitchen is straight ahead, an arched entryway that has patterned black and white tile floors and appliances that are meant to look like they’re from another decade. The refrigerator hums. I grasp the door and open it, hoping to see it piled full of leftovers.

  A couple bottles of water. Wine. A tub of cream cheese and various accoutrements - mustard, mayo, ketchup. There’s a container of leftover pasta - a dish of what looks like Alfredo sauce.

  I feel weird going through a stranger’s fridge in their own house. I slam it shut quickly, as if the half-eaten slice of cherry cheesecake will reach out and bite me.

  There’s a small pantry in an alcove. I open the door, the garbage can hidden from view in here. Cat food and kitty litter, along with protein bars and various boxes of pasta and canned goods, line the shelves.

  I jump when I hear a thud behind me, and I swivel around in surprise.

  Orangie, my new nickname for the cat, his tag too small for me to read, has landed on the speckled granite countertop.

  He’s walking as if he’s on a tightrope, hugging what would be the center of the island.

  I see stains on the counter.

  How did I miss those?

  My throat closes. These are fresh. His paws have new reddish stains on them, now in the shape of his paw prints as he tracks them across the surface.

  Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I don’t know why, but I snap a quick photo.

  Just in case.

  I start to quiver. My hands tremble as I reach forward to catch myself on the edge of the counter, evidence that Talin Forrester didn’t come home last night wishful thinking.

  Does she have children? A crazy ex? Disgruntled colleague? I haven’t seen any family photos, and I haven’t spotted any toys to suggest a kid lives here.

  It’s surreal, standing in the house of someone I’ve never met, their most intimate details on display for me to see. It’s as if I’m an extra on the set of a movie, watching what I have no control over, the dialogue and scene already in motion. I’m just waiting for someone to yell ‘cut.’

  Just go, I tell myself, go back to the Tahoe and call the police. You don’t need to look for trouble. My mama always said you would find trouble if you went looking for it.

  I start to stride out of the kitchen but I turn my head to the right, to the hallway that leads to the rest of the rooms.

  Holding on to the wall for support, I tentatively step as if I’m stuck slogging through mud, dragging one foot at a time.

  “Hello, Talin, I’m your driver. I wanted to come inside and check on you. Your cat seems to think that there’s something wrong,” I babble. “I hope it’s okay I came inside. I’m happy to help you with your luggage. We better get going or you’re going to miss your flight.”

  The first room to the left is open. I hold my breath as I peek inside, my body tense.

  Judging by the bare necessities and the feel of stagnation, this must be a guest room. A queen-size bed, made up with a flowered duvet cover, untouched, covered in matching pillows, takes up most of the space. A side table has a small lamp in the shape of a rabbit, with a brand-new looking candle by the amount of wax still in the glass. A small chest of dressers and a flowery painting hang above the bed, with curtains that match the rest of the room covering a small window.

  I peek out. I’m looking at the side yard. Her trash cans and some lawn fertilizer are visible.

  The closet knobs stare at me.

  Someone could be hiding in there.

  I inhale at the same time I pull them open, exposing the contents.

  Exhaling loudly, windbreakers and extra jackets are hanging, no body shoved in with the clothing or an intruder waiting to pounce. A cardboard box sits on the floor and a clear plastic case filled with pictures is on the shelf above. The pictures that’re visible are of a blonde girl, though I can’t tell if they’re recent photographs.

  Her eyes pierce me from their resting spot.

  Stepping back into the hall, I pause before I push open the door directly across from the guest room.

  Expecting the worst, I cup my hands into fists.

  It’s a tiny bathroom. A shower curtain with a map of the world hangs over the bathtub. I yank it open. The contents of her shower stall show this bathroom is barely used. A full bottle of shampoo and conditioner along with a new bar of soap rest on the fiberglass enclosure.

  The bathroom has old love letters from around the world decorating the walls in gilded frames. One’s from Germany, looks to be during World War Two, one is a soldier deployed, and another from high school lovers in Berlin.

  Marika would love this. She’s a history buff and loves reading historical romance novels. This bathroom has wallpaper, gold and burgundy embossed stripes, giving it a regal look. The hanging towels look unused, as if they’ve never wiped anyone’s hands or face. I inspect them, and a smear covers one edge of the cotton.

  It looks to be blood. I pull my hand back as if I’ve been slapped.

  A fleeting image comes to mind. What if they think I had something to do with this? Whatever this is?

  My mind races. I need to get out of here. Call the cops.

  I step back into the hall.

  I’m about to go the other direction, head outside, when a low growl followed by a screech reverberates through the small hallway of the bungalow.

  The door at the end of the hallway is closed.

  My eyes drift down. A bright burgundy stain has seeped underneath the door. The liquid is trailing out, a mass of congealed blood. The dark color contrasts with the light-colored oak flooring. Orangie is lying in it, his cries getting fiercer as he rolls in it.

  I tell myself it’s spilled Kool-Aid as I start taking steps backward.

  Shutting my eyes, my fingers resting lightly on the wall, I keep moving away from the mess. Turning to run, I hesitate.

  What if Talin is hurt and needs medical attention ASAP? It could be a matter of life or death. I think of my wife.

  Spinning around, I take steps forward. Careful not to step in the blood, I grasp the
doorknob, my hand trembling in trepidation.

  Slowly I push the door open, my body shaking in fear, unsure what I’m going to encounter.

  Or who.

  I scream, my voice startling myself and the feline that disappears in a flash of orange, red, and white. My mind takes a second to comprehend the sight in front of me as my eyes drift around the semi-dark bedroom, blinds closed over what is surely a patio door.

  Liquid blood has pooled underneath the bloated flesh on the floor.

  A body. A naked, dead body, lying on her side. Just a cotton towel covering her face.

  It’s clearly a woman, who I assume to be my client, Talin Forrester.

  One of her hands is clasped, as if she was trying to close her fist around something…or someone.

  Her body has a glow, a sheen, as if she just worked out, her skin puffy as if she was filled with helium and expanded into a balloon.

  Instinctively I reach out a hand to feel for a pulse, knowing there’s no need. Her body is stiff, and rigor mortis has set in. She’s a grayish-purple color, unnatural to the living, standard for the dead.

  I clamp a hand over my mouth, turning away from the body to vomit. I sink to my knees, careful to avoid descending into the congealed blood.

  On her wrist, a thin gold bracelet contrasts with the snow-white skin, blue nail polish flaking off on her fingers. Defensive wounds cover her hands.

  The other arm is laid at her side in a weird angle, as if it was twisted behind her back at one point. I glance behind her to the side table where a picture frame sits. The girl in the photo is gorgeous, model-like, an infectious smile on her face. How she looked in life is not how she looks in death. I see no correlation minus the white-blonde hair.

  I carefully push the towel away from her face.

  This person is unrecognizable. Dark bruises cover the canvas of her face, cuts jagged across the surface, her nose surely broken.

  Multiple stab wounds, I presume by the slash marks that cover her body. I can’t count how many, I don’t want to count how many. She was a cutting board for her perpetrator, the anger apparent in every gash.