Look What You Made Me Do

by Elaine Murphy

  Icy air puffs out of the heating vent, washing over me like a ghost passing through.

  “Which is it?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant but convincing neither of us. “Does he want to kill me, or frame me?”

  Becca shrugs and flips on her blinker. “Why not both?”

  Chapter 6

  The next day is Angelica’s funeral, and Weston Stationery has closed for the day in her honor. I only found out last night when I got home and saw that Troy had replied to my dental emergency email with the time and location.

  I don’t want to go to a funeral. I don’t want to stand in the cold, mourning someone I never really liked, whom I helped bury and who was then dug up, while my co-workers eyeball me suspiciously. But at nine o’clock the next morning, I’m wearing my best black dress and a long wool coat that’s not going to keep me warm enough in the November drizzle. On television, the local news talks about Angelica’s funeral and three others set for this week for more of Footloose’s victims. With so little else happening in Brampton, it’s shaping up to be the event of the season.

  The news anchor is joined by Fiona McBride’s mother, a pale woman who very closely resembles the missing redheaded girl. It’s a last-ditch, desperate effort to return the focus to the handmade posters that are slowly disappearing around town as time passes and hope fades.

  I turn off the TV and open the door, yelping when I find Becca on the other side, her hand poised to knock. Her diamond-tipped nails gleam in the glow of my porch light.

  “Oh good,” she says. “You’re ready. Let’s go. We can’t be late to a funeral. It’s tacky!”

  My reasons for being sad may be more selfish than sincere, but Becca’s cheerfulness is downright unpleasant. And that’s when I notice her black dress, boots, and coat. She’s even twisted her hair into a prim knot at the nape of her neck, like a princess.

  “What are you doing?” I only realize I’m clenching the doorknob when my hand starts to ache.

  She gestures to our matching outfits. “What does it look like? I’m going to Angela’s funeral.”

  “Angelica.”

  “Whatever. We can’t miss it.”

  I’m still gaping at her. “Why?”

  She sighs and reaches past me to close the door. “This is good, Carrie,” she murmurs, taking the keys from my icy fingers and guiding me down the stairs. “Very convincing.”

  I glance around, confused, and spot Mr. Myer across the street, taking down leftover Halloween decorations and doing a poor job of acting like he’s not watching us.

  “I’m not pretending,” I say from the corner of my mouth. “Why are you going to the funeral?”

  “Because,” Becca replies from the corner of her mouth, “if Footloose is like most bored serial killers, he’ll be at the funeral. And maybe we’ll spot him.”

  I slip on a patch of ice, and my voice comes out too high. “How?”

  “I don’t know. Killer instinct?” She chuckles at her own joke as she opens the car door and ushers me in, before rounding the front and sliding into the driver’s seat.

  “Becca, that’s not funny. What if the police have the same idea? What if they’re looking at everyone at the funeral, and they find you?” Finally goes unsaid.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Becca says dismissively as she starts to drive down the wet road, headlights flickering across the puddles that dot the street. “And we have bigger issues to deal with. I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, you intrigue Footloose.” She waves a hand in my general direction, her tone telling me exactly how distasteful she finds the idea that someone could be interested in me, even if that person is a serial killer. “So let’s use his weakness to our advantage. He knows you worked with Angelica, and it’s safe to assume you’ll be at the funeral. If he’s going to attend any of these things, it’s this one. But everyone in this loser town is going to be there, so we need a way to draw him out. That’s why you’re the bait.”

  My mind flashes to a video I saw online where scientists wanted to find elusive crocodiles. They went out on the river at night and put raw chicken on a line, trailing it through the water. Every few seconds, a pair of invisible jaws sprang out, snapped up the rotting meat, and vanished. All they got was a glimpse of their predator, never a full picture. And they lost all the chicken.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask, not because I want to go along with the plan but because I need to gauge Becca’s true intentions.

  “Nothing.” She takes a right too sharply, and I bang my elbow on the door. “Just be yourself. Apparently you’re his type.”

  “You hear how awful that is, right?” I mutter, rubbing my sore arm. “To be a serial killer’s type?”

  She glances at me. “I guess you have a knack for it.”

  I shudder, and she laughs.

  “Oh, relax, Carrie. You just show up, stand there, and do your usual nothing. I’ll do the real work.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  She laughs again, as though we’re not driving to a funeral. “God. You’re so wound up. Maybe you should take a Valium.”

  “What? Do you have some?”

  “No, do you?”

  I huff and glare out the window, refusing to play her game.

  “I’m not going to do anything crazy,” Becca says, her tone patronizing. “I’m not stupid. How do you think I’ve gone this long without ever being a suspect? The only time I’ve even spoken to a police officer was the day I got yelled at for shoplifting. I know how to stay off people’s radar when I need to.”

  I don’t bother answering. What Becca wants and what Becca actually needs are two things she’s never been able to distinguish between.

  Three blocks from the cemetery, the streets are full. The church, enormous by Brampton standards, looms large, its sand-colored stone flat and dull in the gray weather, the stained-glass windows too dark to appreciate. Police officers in neon vests dripping with rainwater stand at the intersections, directing traffic.

  “Wow,” Becca muses, taking it all in. “This really is the party of the century. I’m glad I got my nails done!” She claims her manicures as a work expense on her income tax returns, saying they help her sell jewelry as she models the rings.

  We find parking on a side street several blocks away, huge, leafless trees standing sentry along the sidewalks, showering the car with drops of rain that sound like gunshots when they hit the roof. I open my umbrella and duck out, the heel of my boot immediately sinking into the grass. Freeing myself, I wait on the sidewalk for Becca, who’s touching up her lipstick. She must have noticed the news vans.

  I shiver in the damp cold and stuff my free hand in my pocket, starting in the direction of the cemetery when Becca is finally ready. The rain increases steadily, pelting our matching black umbrellas, and after two blocks my toes are wet and freezing. My teeth chatter, and I quell my feelings of resentment for Angelica. If she hadn’t stolen my work, I wouldn’t have hated her and she wouldn’t have died. If she’d stayed buried, there’d be no funeral. And if things weren’t so suspicious, I wouldn’t have to go to pretend I cared. I’d be safe and warm and minding my own business, no new serial killers on the horizon or in my closets.

  We reach the end of the third block, and the cemetery and church come back into view. Becca and I halt, taking in the sea of people, an undulating mass of black umbrellas and sad faces. The only color comes from the bright jackets of the reporters lining the street, angling themselves so the church is in the shot. On quick study, I count no fewer than eight news vans, more than Brampton sees in half a year, never mind one morning. Becca turns to me with raised eyebrows, impressed.

  The gated entrance to the church is about fifteen feet wide, flanked by heavy wrought-iron doors on either side and now staffed by a dozen police officers, all of whom watch silently as the mourners flow in. It’s a bottleneck, and we’re soon absorbed into the swarm. Becca grips my elbow so we don’t get separated, and we shuffle forward,
no option but to go with the crowd.

  As we near the doors, a strange feeling washes over me, like I’m being watched. I think immediately of those eyes in the woods and the ones in the closet, and terror grips me. Becca’s right. He’s here. But when I suck in an icy breath and whip around, the only familiar face I find is Detective Greaves, standing next to two officers in uniform, rain sliding off the shiny brims of their hats.

  He holds my stare, unblinking and unsmiling. Just observing. I don’t know what to do. If I continue to look terrified, I’ll look guilty. And if I smile, I’ll look creepy. I jerk my head back to the front as though I hadn’t seen him and let myself disappear into the sea of people.

  It takes forever, but eventually we’re inside the church, the air thick and damp and uncomfortably cloying. It’s a huge, cavernous space, but already it’s standing room only. People are being funneled to the upper balcony, and I crane my neck to see a row of onlookers gripping the rail.

  “Up or down?” I ask Becca when we near the stairs and have to decide to head for the balcony or stand crammed along the walls down here.

  “Up,” she says, slipping into the line.

  I follow her and pick my way up the narrow staircase. Compared with the rest of the church, the balcony is small, only four rows deep, but there are a smattering of random seats still empty, and Becca asks people to move down so we can sit together.

  By the time we’re seated, I’m sweating, stray curls stuck to the back of my neck, a hot rivulet of sweat trickling over my belly. I shrug out of my jacket and hold it in my lap, and I’m not the only one. Around me and below me, mourners fan themselves with the funeral program, Angelica’s smiling face waving at us.

  I look down at my own program, and that’s when I see Becca. She’s got her phone out, and she’s recording. Surreptitiously, but she’s still recording. At a funeral.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper sharply, glancing around for Greaves.

  Becca frowns. “What does it look like?” She zooms in on the lower level and scans the rows of faces. “Do you have a photographic memory? No? Me either. And there are a ton of people here. We’re going to need something to compare to.”

  “To compare to what?”

  “The other videos from the other funerals.”

  My eyes bulge. “You plan to go to the other funerals?”

  “Of course! Everyone will be there. It’ll be weird if we’re not. Plus, we need the footage. Someone’s going to look familiar, and afterward we can head back to Spark and ask if anyone recognizes the guy.”

  “What are you even looking for?” I squint at the screen. Because of the dim lighting and everyone’s dark clothes, the picture resembles a storm cloud.

  “I’m not sure,” she admits. I can see her cheek move as she bites it, a tinge of blood on her lower lip. She hasn’t chewed her cheek in years, confirming she’s not quite as cool as she’s pretending to be. “Someone staring at you, maybe? Have you noticed anybody weird?”

  “Just you.”

  “Try harder.”

  I shift in the chair and try to look around casually, like I’m at a bar, searching for my friends. Except I’m looking for a serial killer who’s not seated to my immediate right. Most of the people up here are engrossed in conversation, texting on their phones, or reading their pamphlets. I spot a couple of tears, but for the most part they, like us, are here to be part of something, not because they care.

  I turn my attention to the lower level. At the front is a gleaming dark casket, its lid closed, accompanied by an oversized picture of a smiling Angelica, beatific and carefree. The people in the front row are sobbing, and a few others approach tentatively, offering their condolences. Halfway back, I spot a pop of color, and when the man shifts I see that it’s Troy and one of his hideous ties. He’s with Rudy from Accounting and Gene from Concepts, all of them looking lost and sad.

  There’s movement in the main aisle, and I watch the top of Greaves’s head as he walks in. He wears a dark suit and carries a jacket under his arm, shiny with rain. He’s with the female detective with whom he’d visited our office and another, shorter man I assume is also a detective. He doesn’t look up.

  Somewhere behind me, whispered voices come into focus, talking about the closed casket. “…other ones I get,” a scratchy woman’s voice is saying, “but she was only missing for two days—why the closed casket? When my Jenny was buried…”

  “I heard the damage to her face was too bad,” another woman’s voice replies. “It couldn’t be fixed.”

  “And after the business with her foot…,” someone else adds, her tone full of meaning that the others all seem to get, murmuring their understanding.

  I glance at Becca, who’s watching me, her brow furrowed. She swears that when we left Angelica, she was not only buried but fully intact. She had both feet attached, and her face hadn’t been damaged from its run-in with Becca’s car. The only thing marring her skin was that stupid kiss of death, which the police haven’t shared or even asked about. Because her face was too damaged to discover it? Is it possible that Footloose watched us bury Angelica and then dug her up, chopped off her foot, and destroyed her face, thus obliterating the only thing that could possibly connect Becca to Angelica and lump her in with the dozen other bodies in the park?

  My heart thumps painfully in my chest as Becca’s earlier theory resurfaces. If Footloose wanted to kill me, he’s certainly had the opportunity. He’s been in my car, my house. He knows where I live, where I work. And yet he hasn’t done it. I hate myself for thinking the words, but Becca is right. The only reason for him to mask Angelica’s murder in the burials at the park is not for him to take credit for her death but to add one more body to the pile for which I can take the blame.

  He’s framing me for his killings, making me the scapegoat of not one, but two serial killers. No wonder Becca thinks it’s funny.

  * * *

  Two days later, I turn into a gas station parking lot on the edge of town and stop next to Becca’s car. We’d agreed to meet here at noon to drive together to the funeral for Jacinda Moon, one of Footloose’s victims who, according to best estimates, disappeared approximately a year ago and whose friends we’d met in an alley a few nights earlier. She’s being buried in her hometown of Newport Village, a quaint oceanside town forty minutes east of Brampton.

  I climb out of my car, squinting against the bright November sun. I’d gone into work for a few hours this morning, explained I had to leave early for a follow-up dentist appointment, and then driven here. In an hour, I’ll call Troy and tell him my root canal needs to be redone and take off tomorrow as well so I can attend my third funeral of the week.

  I step toward Becca’s car, frowning as she gets out. Instead of respectful black, she’s wearing a bright-red sweater and white jeans, paired with heels I’m pretty sure I last saw in my own closet with the rest of my belongings.

  “What are you wearing?” I ask, praying she has a change of clothes in the trunk.

  “Work clothes.” She snaps her gum and sticks out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

  I don’t. “Why?”

  “Because I was checking the film I took at Angela’s funeral—”

  “Angelica.”

  “—and most of the people were too far away to get a good look at them. The lighting in the church was terrible and even the ones I did manage to zoom in on are still hard to identify. I found an app that will help.”

  “Why didn’t you install it on your phone?”

  “I did. But I can’t come to the funeral today so I need to put it on yours so you can get some good footage.”

  My jaw drops. “What do you mean you can’t come? It was your idea!”

  “It’s still my idea,” Becca points out, flicking her fingers impatiently. “And you can still go. Some of us have a job we can’t just skip out on whenever we feel like it. Now give me your phone, Carrie. You can’t be late to a funeral. It’s bad form.”

  “
Everything about this is bad form,” I protest, even as I hand over the phone.

  “Do you want to go to jail for killing a dozen people?”

  “Of course not.” Though I’ve lived with the possibility of exactly that lurking in the back of my brain for nearly a decade, this is the first time it’s truly seemed possible.

  “Then be grateful I’m helping you and stop complaining about everything. This app will help you zoom in on people’s faces and analyze their features. I downloaded the other part onto my laptop so later we can use the program to compare faces and see what matches we come up with.”

  “There’ll be a ton,” I argue halfheartedly. “Everyone within a hundred miles will be attending the funerals, just to feel like they’re part of the action.”

  “They’ll lose interest.” Becca covers her mouth as she yawns, underscoring her point. Angelica’s funeral had lasted nearly an hour, tearful speeches and tributes and a particularly bad original song sung by a second cousin. If Jacinda’s funeral is anything like it, only half the audience will bother to attend the next.

  “Okay, all done.” Becca passes back my phone and wipes her hands, like she’s accomplished something more than abandoning me in my time of need. “It’s pretty straightforward. Zoom in as best you can, make sure there’s nothing too bright in the background to ruin the focus, and hold the camera steady. No shaky hands.”

  I look at my shaky hands.

  “Email me the footage, and I’ll add it to my file,” she continues. “You’ll get more at tomorrow’s funeral, and then the fun part begins.”

  “None of this is fun.”

  She pulls open her car door. “Not with that attitude. Bye. Good luck.” She drops into the seat, slams the door, and drives off with a half-assed wave.

  I get into my own car and make the trip to Newport, the radio playing quietly. I change the channel whenever the news comes on because all anyone can talk about is Footloose and the funerals. Even though I had nothing to do with Jacinda’s murder, I can’t shake the queasy feeling that I’m just as bad as all the other busybodies, sticking their noses in now when they wouldn’t have given her the time of day when she was alive.