I prepare myself not to scream and yank open the doors.
No Becca. No monsters skulking in the dark. My clothing waits on the other side, jammed in whatever order the free hangers dictated, the shelf up top holding my favorite Brampton College sweatshirt. I pull it down and drag it on over the top of my work sweater, immediately feeling better.
I step back to close the doors, frowning as something bright on the floor catches my eye. It’s the corner of my stapler painting. It’s normally jammed all the way against the left wall, held there by a couple of hanging dresses and a pair of tall boots so it can’t tip over, but now it’s been wedged away from the wall, at an angle.
I slowly lever out the picture, about three feet square, canvas wrapped around a plain wood frame, neon staplers on a bright white background. I hold it up to the light and peer carefully to see if Becca added any special details—her initials, a pornographic drawing, the words I killed ANGELICA—but there’s nothing. I turn it over to check the back. It’s bare. I must have bumped it when I was grabbing an outfit this morning and failed to notice. I gather the clothes so I can slip it back into its position flat against the wall, freezing when I see something I never would have thought to look for.
There’s a footprint, right where the picture should have been. It’s just one, and only half, the imprint large and dark and eerily familiar. If this were a TV show, this is the part where they’d compare impressions of the print from the deck and this one, running them through a database to determine exactly which style of boot this was, and where they’re sold, and who last bought one in this town.
This isn’t a TV show, but I don’t need an expert to tell me it’s the same boot. Just like I don’t need anyone to tell me the painting wasn’t moved to hide the footprint. It was moved to hide whoever was standing behind it, and whoever plans to hide there again.
Chapter 4
I spend the night at Graham’s. I wasn’t supposed to, but there was no way I’d be able to sleep knowing Becca’s up to something, and the familiar uneasiness that always creeps in when she’s around has built to unbearable levels. After trying unsuccessfully to keep myself busy, I’d broken down around ten o’clock and messaged him. The harmless creaks and groans of the house had turned into ominous footsteps and sneaking breaths, and if Graham hadn’t answered, I’d have gone to a hotel. Fortunately, he called back right away from his work party, saying the event was horrible and he was desperate for an excuse to flee. A frightened girlfriend would do the trick.
“At least this serial killer business is good for something, right?” he’d cracked, trying to make me laugh. I was shaking too hard to find anything funny, but I’d mustered up a giggle to reward him for the effort and was halfway to my car before we hung up.
When I wake the next morning, it’s after nine, and the sun is fighting its way through the gap in the curtains. Graham’s side of the bed is empty, and I stretch out, calm and comfortable, a complete 180 from my near panic attack less than twelve hours ago.
Graham has a one-bedroom condo in a new building on the opposite side of Brampton, with glass-walled towers for neighbors and a park with a human-made pond installed across the street. I get up and tug back the curtain with a finger, admiring the view. I bought my place because it was a cozy, old neighborhood, each house unique and distinct, with established trees and narrow roads. But Graham’s development has a guard station at the entrance, two places to swipe your key fob, and an eagle-eyed concierge to stop any random person from wandering in. Until now, I’d found those features unnecessary.
Across the street, a guy in shorts and a running jacket jogs around the park with a pit bull on a leash, and two yoga moms push strollers with one hand while balancing coffee cups in the other. The trees in the park are young and spindly, and the park itself takes up the whole small block. Compared with Kilduff, it’s nothing. Compared with Kilduff, it’s a relief.
The smell of frying sausages wafts under the door, and my rumbling stomach nags me to get out of bed. I pull on my Brampton College sweatshirt and wander down the hall to find Graham at the stove, sausage and eggs frying, toast toasting, champagne glasses half full of orange juice.
“Hey,” he says, turning as I enter. “Good morning.” The kitchen is half the size of mine, but everything about it is shiny and new, infinitely nicer. Granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, cupboard doors that close properly.
I stand on my tiptoes to kiss him. “It smells good in here.”
“It’s my new body spray.”
“Sausage-scented?”
“Dogs love it.”
I laugh and take out plates and cutlery. “Can I help?”
“Nope. Everything’s ready. Just take a seat, and I’ll bring it over.”
Even after a year, everything about Graham is foreign to me. His kindness, his consideration. Not just because he’s the complete opposite of Becca, but because he’s not someone who would tolerate Becca. My parents never made hot breakfast because Becca said the smell nauseated her. If they wanted bacon and eggs, they had to go to the diner in town. We couldn’t have sugar cereal because Becca said it would make her fat. No orange juice with pulp. No toaster strudels. No non-organic vegetables. My parents catered to her because it was easier than dealing with her tantrums, and easier to slip me a five-dollar bill once a week and tell me to buy myself something on my way to school. Five dollars, we all knew, could buy nothing.
“Here we go,” Graham says, sliding a steaming plate in front of me. He retrieves the glasses and a bottle of champagne from the fridge, pouring it into the waiting orange juice. “I stole this from the party,” he confesses. “I thought you needed it more than the doctors.”
I take a sip, and it’s perfect. “You have no idea.”
He smiles and cuts a sausage. “I called a locksmith,” he says.
I pause. “Why?”
“So you can change your locks.”
Graham had agreed to come over today to help install a floodlight in my backyard and do a thorough run-through of my house in case Becca had prepared any other hiding spots, but we hadn’t talked about changing the locks. I’d told him every detail of last night’s discoveries, and he’d listened, patient and concerned. At no point had he told me I was being dramatic or ridiculous. He’d listened and then offered to help.
“We were just supposed to install the floodlight.”
“I know. But what’s the point of shining a light on Becca while she unlocks your door?”
“Well, how much does that cost?” Brampton is not an expensive city but my job only pays so much, and the cost of maintaining an old home is high. I’ve been tackling projects as finances and enthusiasm allowed—an updated bathroom, insulated windows, new roof. Until now, new locks had not even factored into my thoughts.
“It’s not a lot,” he answers. “And if it’s too much, I’ll pay. I’m thrilled you’re here, Carrie, but I’d rather you not be here because you’re too scared to be at home.”
“I’m not—”
He gives me a look that says there’s no point finishing the sentence. “You love that place,” he says. “And you shouldn’t be afraid to live there. Let me help you.”
I study my plate. I know he’s just being kind. And I have money in the bank, so I can pay for the locksmith. In fact, I should have done it before. There are just so many things I want to do to thwart Becca, but I don’t do anything because she always finds a way to circumvent my efforts. And I’m not great at accepting help from people. My parents loved me, but anything they did for me, they had to do double for Becca. I had a scholarship that paid half my college tuition. Becca had no interest in going to school, but when she learned I was going, she applied, too. No scholarship, so my parents had to fork over the whole amount from their retirement savings. If I went on a school trip, Becca demanded the same amount in spending money. If I got a new pair of jeans from Abercrombie, Becca needed two new pairs from Nordstrom’s. We don’t even have a Nordstrom�
��s, so my parents paid for expedited shipping. Eventually, I stopped asking for help, and they stopped offering. Becca never stopped.
“I’ll cancel the locksmith,” Graham says when the silence has stretched on too long. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. When you’re ready, you can—”
“No,” I interrupt. “It’s a good idea. I need to change the locks. I’m not sure how much of a defense it will be against Becca, but it’s worth a try.”
“We’ll get a bunch of garlic, too,” Graham says. He sometimes jokes that she’s a vampire because she’s pale and bloodthirsty. “And hang mirrors all over the place.”
“Not the mirrors,” I tell him, sipping my mimosa. “Then she’ll never leave.”
* * *
Graham’s dad was a general contractor, and Graham worked with him growing up, which is the only way we’re able to get a floodlight installed on a hundred-year-old home without an electrical fire or a four-figure invoice.
When we arrive at my place, we do a quick check of the house, even the creepy basement, and find nothing out of order. Outside, there are no new footprints, and the back door is still locked, both good signs. Or not. If Becca’s been back, she’s been more careful.
It takes three hours to get the floodlight working, and during that time the locksmith shows up. He inspects the locks on both doors, gives an efficient nod, and gets to work. It takes him less than half an hour, and by the time he’s done I’m feeling much better. We head around to the front of the house so I can retrieve my purse from the hall table. The morning is again bright and sunny, the cold air drifting in as the locksmith props open the door with his boot and waits on the steps. Graham disappears into the kitchen to make tea, and I shiver as I fish out my wallet and sort through the myriad cards, hunting for the right one. I don’t see it.
I mutter an apology and sift through the cards more carefully, setting them on the table next to my keys. Points card for the grocery store, another for the drugstore, a gift card for a clothing store at the mall, one for the movie theater, one for a coffee shop.
And no credit card.
I seldom use my card unless I’m buying something online. I can’t actually recall the last time I looked at it because I have the number memorized. I don’t even check the statement. At the end of every month, I glance at the balance online and pay it without verifying the charges. They’ve never been outlandish enough to concern me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the locksmith, forcing a smile even while my hands shake. I know I’m overreacting. It’s just misplaced. Just like I forgot I closed the curtains and didn’t shut my car door. I jam the cards back into my wallet as Graham comes into the room.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“I can’t find my credit card,” I say, my smile tight. “I might have left it in my other purse.”
Graham falters for a second but then smiles back. He knows I don’t have another purse, and he knows I don’t use the card. He’s always chastising me for paying with debit when I could be racking up travel miles.
“I’ll get this,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. “No harm done.”
And while the words are easy enough and the locksmith is entirely unconcerned, the fact that we’re changing the locks suggests some type of harm has been done. Or will be done. And the combination of the floodlight and the footprints and the moved picture and the unlocked door and the missing card—on their own, they’re insignificant. But taken together? I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Because as much as I dislike Becca, she’s not subtle. She’s not patient. She’s big scares and mocking laughs and jabs designed to get reactions. This isn’t her style.
And that’s the scariest thing of all.
The locksmith leaves, and Graham puts away his wallet. He’s about to say something when the kettle whistles from the kitchen, making us both jump.
He laughs, breaking the tension. “Forgot about that,” he says.
“I’m sorry.” I follow him down the hall. “I don’t know where my card—”
“I don’t care about your card,” he says mildly, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard and carefully closing the door that never really closes. “I’m just glad it’s done and you’ll feel better.”
I swallow and watch him pour hot water into each cup before adding a tea bag. The light, the locks, the boyfriend to check for strangers hiding in closets—it should make me feel better. But it doesn’t.
“I’m going to cancel the card,” I say, instead of acknowledging my feelings. Or anything else. “I haven’t used it in forever. I could have lost it a month ago and not noticed.”
“You’d notice it more if you were collecting travel miles,” Graham teases as he passes me the steaming mug. “And we were on a beach in Bali.”
“I’d definitely notice if we were in Bali.”
My laptop is on the kitchen table so I sip my tea as I wait for it to wake up and then log into my bank account. I’m about to click the button to cancel my card when Graham stops me. I hadn’t realized he was right over my shoulder.
“Hang on,” he says. “Don’t cancel until you’ve looked at the charges. I had to cancel a card once, and they closed the account right away. I couldn’t see it again until the new card was activated. You don’t want to wait a week to find out if someone’s been subscribing to porn sites at your expense.”
I force a smile. A porn subscription is the least of my worries. But he makes a good point, and I haven’t bought anything I care about him seeing so I click on the account and wait as it loads up the recent transactions. There are only a handful, nothing a credit card company would consider suspicious.
I skim the most recent charges, only six in the last month. A specialty lightbulb I had to order online for an antique fixture in the bathroom; new door handles for the kitchen, to go on the doors I haven’t ordered. A bill payment for my cable, my electricity, and something for $38.99 at H-S Loc 49 four days ago. I definitely didn’t use my credit card four days ago.
“I don’t know what that is,” I tell Graham, pointing. “Do you?”
He’s shaking his head. “Never heard of it.”
I do an internet search for the name but nothing comes up, and I stare at the screen, perturbed. For the most part, my life motors along at a steady, uninterrupted pace. Approximately once a year, Becca calls me to move furniture, but that’s the biggest anomaly in my otherwise-boring life. Then it’s back to normal. These tiny irritations are like speed bumps that keep popping up without warning, sending me off course, making me uneasy.
“You can dispute the charge,” Graham says, patting my shoulder reassuringly. “Just tell the credit card company. It’s not much, they’ll believe you.”
“Right.” But my mind is racing, trying desperately to think of any business Becca frequents with 49 in the name and coming up empty.
“Though it seems like a waste of a good credit card,” Graham remarks, sitting down across from me. “Forty bucks? At least buy a computer or something, you know? Who the hell steals a credit card and buys something for thirty-eight dollars and ninety-nine cents?”
That’s exactly what I’m worried about.
* * *
Detective Greaves comes by the next day. He just knocks on the door like a regular person, calm and unhurried. I, on the other hand, am a nervous wreck. To prove to Graham just how fine I was, I’d insisted on sleeping alone at my place, and had done nothing more than sit bolt upright on the couch in the dark living room, waiting for an attack that never came.
My hair is tangled, I have bags under my eyes, and five cups of coffee between midnight and 9:00 a.m. have left me a twitchy mess. There’s a brown stain on the front of my Brampton sweatshirt, and my sweatpants have a hole in the knee. When I open the door and blink in wonder at Greaves, I must look like the most guilty suspect in the world. Especially when my eyes immediately start darting around behind him, waiting for the SWAT team to descend, guns drawn, arrest warrants
at the ready.
None of that happens. Greaves is alone. He’s wearing the leather jacket and jeans from before, his eyes cool and assessing as he gives me a tiny smile. “Good morning.”
It’s another beautiful, sunny day, the sky bright and blue, the air crisp and clean. But it’s the furthest thing from a good morning, no matter what he says.
“Um, hi.” I gulp nervously. I brushed my teeth—thank God—but I had another cup of coffee after and still look like I woke up ten minutes ago.
“I’m Detective Greaves,” he reminds me, passing over a business card. I take it, though I still have the first one.
“I know.” My eyes flicker to my car, still parked in the driveway. Doors still closed. That’s a good sign.
“May I come in?”
I hesitate before stepping back and gesturing him inside. He wipes his feet on the entry mat as he glances around, taking in the surroundings. The closet beside him, the staircase that shares the same wall. The kitchen is visible at the end of the hall, its fake yellow glow clashing with the natural light of the sun spilling through the window.
At least the living room is tidy, now that Becca has stopped coming around. No cereal bowls, soda cans, or stray socks. The television is off, the lamps dark. It looks just like a normal, innocent living room on a normal day.
“New lock?” Greaves asks, making me jump. He’s nodding at the door, the shiny new silver knob.
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
I shake my head and swipe a hand over my eyes. “S-sorry,” I say, faking a smile. “First cup of coffee always makes me jittery. Um, yes, it’s a new lock. I had it installed yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Because it was old. Is everything okay?”
“I have a few follow-up questions, if that’s all right.”
I glance out the front window. We’re still alone.
“Where’s your partner?”
He smiles. “Asking someone else follow-up questions.”
He’s already inside so I can’t very well say no. I wish I’d let Graham stay the night when he’d offered. He’d know what to do.
Look What You Made Me Do Page 8