Look What You Made Me Do

by Elaine Murphy

  The Newport paper had posted an article online advising of Jacinda’s funeral, including a short piece on her life. She’d been thirty when she disappeared, only two years older than I am now, a high school graduate with a 3.8 GPA and plans for college. A car accident a week after graduation left her with back pain and a prescription for oxycodone that turned into an addiction. She’d spent the next ten years stealing and selling whatever she could to pay for her habit, eventually resorting to selling the only thing she had left. Unnamed “friends” said she’d been working the streets for a year but had plans to get clean and start over somewhere new. When she disappeared, they hoped she’d taken off for greener pastures.

  She hadn’t.

  The Catholic church in Newport is a fraction of the size of the church in Brampton, and the police presence is sized down considerably. The parking lot is full but I find street parking just a block away, and there’s no bottleneck at the doors, just a small cluster of weeping family members handing out pamphlets to those who enter. I take one and murmur my sympathies, feeling like a hypocrite. Like most people here, I never even knew Jacinda.

  Becca had advised me that the best place to sit was near the back, at the end of the pew closest to the aisle so I could surreptitiously film people as they came in and linger at the end of service to film them again as they exited. The church is about three-quarters full, crowded mostly at the front, and I easily find a spot at the back. I sit on the hard wood, feeling immediately guilty and suspect. These two funerals are the only times I’ve set foot in a church in twenty years. I glance around for Greaves but don’t spot him. Apart from the officers directing traffic out front, I see no one in uniform.

  At the front of the church is a long white casket, its lid closed. Next to it is a large picture of Jacinda, the quality grainy, suggesting the original image had been too small when they blew it up. She’s young, wearing a basketball jersey and grinning at the camera, a strand of hair flying across her forehead, like she was in motion when it was taken. I stare down at my hands, clutching the pamphlet so hard it’s crumpled nearly in half. I haven’t even touched my phone. I’m doing a terrible job of spying. But instead of trying harder, I smooth the pamphlet, expecting to see a schedule of the funeral plan like they had for Angelica. Instead it’s a listing of local treatment centers and resources for substance abusers and family members impacted by addiction. At the end, there’s a link to an existing GoFundMe campaign to help the family pay for the burial.

  I fold the brochure and put it in my pocket, willing myself to relax. The doors are propped open behind me, allowing the cool November air to flood in, and I take a deep breath. When my nerves have calmed a bit, I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress and pull my phone from my pocket. I’m in the last pew, and there’s about five feet between me and the family on the other end of the bench, their heads bowed. I turn on the camera and rest my phone on my lap, angled slightly so it can see the doors. Immediately the plan fails. The bright sun outside makes everyone coming in a dark shadow, impossible to identify.

  The sound of a throat clearing echoes throughout the space, and everyone abruptly sits up straighter and faces forward. I stuff my phone back in my pocket as the priest or pastor or whoever, a tall, hearty man in white and purple robes, stands at the dais and says a few words about Jacinda, calling her things like “our lost sister” and “the Lord’s newest angel,” and around me I hear strangers weeping.

  When he finishes, an older, stooped woman takes his place. She talks about Jacinda in the present tense, like she’s still with us. Anyone who wasn’t crying is bawling by the time she’s done, and I have tears in my eyes, too. We stand to sing a few songs to which I know none of the words, but everyone’s lost in their grief, and no one notices. They say when a person goes missing not knowing is the hardest part, but this knowledge doesn’t seem to have helped.

  The entire ceremony lasts twenty minutes, a fraction as long as the celebration of Angelica’s life, and there’s talk of a reception at the family’s home nearby. I’m suddenly incredibly grateful Becca isn’t here because, like the psycho she is, she’d insist we go. It’s bad enough that I linger in my seat, wiping my tears and doing my best to film people’s faces as they file past. The line is long, and they move at a snail’s pace, age and grief slowing them down. I watch on the screen as the app Becca downloaded traces green grids over their faces, sharpening their features for later analysis. I half expect to see the eyes from my closet glaring out at me, but none of these people are familiar. No one looks like a serial killer. Then again, neither does Becca.

  When there are only a few people remaining huddled at the front, I stand and pull on my coat, squinting against the sun as I step outside. There’s a man on the steps in a suit and tie, solemnly thanking everyone for coming, and a guilty lump lodges itself in my throat at his words. I keep my head down and nod quickly, scurrying down the steps in the direction of my car.

  “Hey,” someone says.

  I keep walking.

  “Hey,” they say again. The voice is female, raspy, vaguely familiar.

  I’m nearly at the sidewalk when I stop and glance around, freezing when I spot two familiar faces. It’s the women we met behind Spark, Shanté and Fur Coat, dressed in their funeral finest. Shanté’s dark braids are twisted into an elaborate knot on the top of her head, a strand of pearls peeking out in the open vee of her dark jacket. Fur Coat now wears a different fur coat, long and shiny, too heavy for the day’s weather. Her skin is deathly pale and caked with cheap makeup, tear tracks cutting a swath through the powder. I expect them to be outraged to see me here, but their eyes are sad, not angry.

  “Um.” I shuffle closer so we don’t have to raise our voices to be heard. People are looking, but they’re looking at them, not me. “Hi. How—how are you?”

  Fur Coat sniffles and shrugs. “Not good.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, because I can’t think of anything original.

  “How you doing?” Shanté scans me from head to toe, making me grateful again that Becca didn’t come along.

  “Sad,” I say, because that seems right. “Like everyone else. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Why wouldn’t we be? She was our friend.”

  “That’s not—” I stop myself, hearing the defensive note in my voice. As soon as Becca gets you on the defensive, she pounces. “That’s not what I meant,” I say, more calmly. “It’s a long way from Brampton.”

  “We hitchhiked,” Fur Coat offers. “It took two hours to get here, and they wouldn’t even let us in.”

  That’s why I didn’t see them during my reconnaissance. And why they didn’t see me, thank God.

  “It was a nice ceremony,” I say. “She was really loved.”

  Shanté scoffs. “Yeah. That’s why they didn’t notice she was gone. Didn’t even look!” She raises her voice on the last point, and a few more heads turn.

  “Did you?” I ask. “Look?”

  She plants her hands on her hips. “Of course we did! But that lunatic got her! We couldn’t find a thing.”

  “Where did you look?” I press, channeling my inner Becca. If the footage I got in the church doesn’t turn out to be useful, maybe I can get something here. What, I don’t know, but anything is better than nothing.

  Fur Coat purses her lips. “Around.”

  “The guys she was…with?”

  “Yeah. Mostly. I don’t know who she saw last, but most of the men we meet are nice guys. A little sad, but harmless. They like to talk, they like us. I thought maybe she mentioned something to one of them, someone who seemed a little…unusual…but they all said the same thing. Nothing.”

  “What about you guys? Did you ever have any ‘unusual’ customers?”

  “Of course,” Shanté answers. “We all do. But not that unusual. Not chop-off-your-foot-and-bury-you-in-a-park unusual.”

  Fur Coat nods her agreement, eyes darting around uncomfortably. Used to being judged, maybe,
but not in broad daylight.

  Then it strikes me. “Are they here?” I ask, my head swiveling. “Any of the guys?”

  Shanté snorts. “Yeah. They’re here. I recognize a few.”

  “Where?”

  “All over. It’s not like they’re wearing signs.”

  I slide my phone out of my pocket as covertly as possible, though no one is watching me. I turn on the camera and aim it at my two new friends. Shanté is about to balk, but I channel Becca again. “Smile,” I order. They falter, but do it. “One more.” I pretend to take another picture, but I’m filming the crowd over their shoulders, letting the app zoom in on faces, triangulate, analyze, whatever the hell it’s supposed to do. The service is over, but dozens of people still linger on the church lawn, all manner of age, race, and gender. Just like I couldn’t pick out a serial killer from the crowd, I couldn’t finger any of these men for availing themselves of my new friends’ services, but apparently it’s more common than I know.

  “Let me make sure I got some good ones,” I say, turning the phone away from the women and aiming it at a new group of people, squinting at the screen as though scrutinizing the picture.

  “What are you doing?” Fur Coat asks suspiciously.

  “Getting some video,” I answer. “Just play along.”

  Shanté hesitates before getting her own phone from her bag and snapping a few selfies. After a second, Fur Coat does the same. All the people who weren’t looking at me before are scowling at me now, thinking the three of us are Jacinda’s friends and co-workers, using the funeral to beef up the content on our social media pages. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than them knowing what I’m really doing.

  Shanté and Fur Coat ham it up for the crowd, and when I think I’ve filmed everyone in the vicinity, I upload the videos to a file transfer site and send Becca a link. I plaster on a smile and put away my phone. “That’s good,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime,” Shanté says, though I can’t imagine there’ll be a second time. Their other missing friend, Donna-Marie, was from Boston, her body flown home. I don’t think anybody’s making the trip to Massachusetts.

  I fish my car keys out of my pocket, noticing clusters of people talking angrily, hands flapping in our direction. I turn to the women. “You guys need a ride?”

  * * *

  Graham is quiet that night, sitting at his kitchen table, cartons of takeout scattered between us. I chew a mouthful of pad Thai, still in my dress, my mind racing. As distasteful as my undercover funeral activities may be, there’s something exhilarating about the experience. A change from my dull day-to-day, work and home and work, repeat. For once, I’m being active, not reactive. I’m the one in charge.

  “I’m worried about you,” Graham says finally.

  I pause, mid-chew. “Why?”

  He gestures at me, eyes wide. “Why? Because of this! You’re going to strangers’ funerals.”

  “I knew Angelica.”

  “And the girl today? The sex worker? Did you know her?”

  My eyes skitter away. The sex worker. That’s kind of formal. Or maybe it’s just politically correct. Or maybe it’s how Footloose thinks of his victims.

  I swallow past the guilty lump in my throat. Graham has never been anything but great to me. I can’t let Becca—of all people—be the one to make me doubt him. She’s the murderer, not him.

  “No,” I say finally. “I didn’t know her.” I didn’t know Jacinda, but I spent an hour with her friends on the drive home, and I liked them. They were nice, smart, funny, and grieving. With the exception of Graham, the only person I really spend any time with outside of work is Becca. For so long, I’ve been afraid of what she might do to any friends I manage to make that I’ve managed not to make very many at all. And while Shanté and Laurel and I might not have made brunch plans, today still felt like more of a human connection than I’ve had in a long time.

  He arches an eyebrow, doubtful and judging.

  “A lot of people are stressed about what’s been going on,” I insist when he doesn’t speak. “And there’s safety in numbers. They feel comfortable at the funerals. It’s how they grieve. They’re not being weird, they’re being human.”

  “You work in an office,” Graham points out. “And you have me. And your sister. You’re not exactly alone.”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  He grunts and drags his fork along the edge of his plate, scooping up a stray piece of papaya. “No kidding.”

  The food that tasted amazing a minute ago now tastes like dust. “I’m going to another funeral tomorrow,” I say, a bit defiantly. I stand and take my plate, scraping it into the compost bin.

  Graham looks at me in surprise. “What?”

  “It’s in Paige. For one of the homeless men.”

  “What the fuck, Carrie?”

  I want to flinch, but I hide it. Graham seldom gets mad and never curses at me, but a lifetime with Becca has taught me how to hide my feelings anyway.

  I turn and stick my plate in the dishwasher. “I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it helps—”

  “What the hell are you grieving?” He’s standing now. “You didn’t even like Angelica. She stole your design, and she was trying to steal your promotion!”

  I stare at him, my whole body going numb, hiding the stress bubbling beneath the surface, even as my heart pounds.

  “Why aren’t you grieving?” I hear myself say, deploying Becca’s familiar turn-the-tables tactic. “Why aren’t you scared? There’s a serial killer in our town, and you—”

  “And I what?” Graham snaps. “I’m not homeless? I’m not addicted? I’m not a sex worker? I’m not saying anyone deserves what happened, but I’m not afraid because I’m not his type, and I’m not grieving because I didn’t know those people! What you’re doing is—is—unwell. You’re taking part in someone else’s pain and pretending it’s your own, and I don’t know what you get out of it, but it’s—”

  “Unwell?” I finish.

  “It’s something your sister would do.”

  The words land like a physical blow. I knew people in school who loathed being compared with their siblings because they couldn’t measure up—their sister was so popular, their brother so athletic. But I’ve always feared that any comparison to Becca meant I was soulless, like her. That deep down, buried beneath years of propriety and cautiousness, is someone dangerous, festering in the shadows, waiting for the slightest crack to slip through and wreak havoc.

  My hands are trembling, tears stinging my eyes. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  But Graham doesn’t back down at the sign of my tears. “I can’t believe you can’t see it. You’re the one who told me how, when you had your appendix removed, she faked kidney stones and got herself hospitalized beside you, ordering flowers for herself so your side looked empty. How when your friend’s father died, she spread the rumor that he’d tried to molest her. She gets off on the attention, Carrie. She does these things because she gets something out of it.”

  “What am I getting out of this?”

  “I don’t know! You tell me.”

  But I can’t. I can’t tell him anything. I can’t tell anyone anything because the whole situation has been so fucked-up for so long that the truth is beyond comprehension. He’s not the one with a serial killer in his closet and his family tree. And even though Graham doesn’t know the half of it, the way he’s looking at me now still threatens to break my heart.

  * * *

  The funeral for Ron Anderson is a fraction of the size of Jacinda’s and not a tenth of the spectacle they set up for Angelica. The church is small but even then it’s not full, half the parking spaces are available, and there are no police officers directing traffic or anywhere in sight.

  The sun is absent, thunderstorms promised in the low, dark clouds, and I clutch my coat to my chest as I hurry toward the church door, propped open with a rock. There’s
no one on the steps to greet us, no funeral program, no enlarged photo in a gilt frame at the front. The church is dim, and flecks of dust float down from the rafters, captured in the weak light spilling through the windows. A dozen pews line either side of the narrow aisle, just the first few rows dotted with people, and a closed casket waits at the front, small and brown. No one is crying.

  A few heads turn as I enter, my heels making too much noise. My plan was to sit in the back pew as before, but now that there are witnesses, my feet carry me toward the casket to pay my respects. I’d seen Ron Anderson’s picture in the paper, gap-toothed grin and wild eyes, untreated mental illness the excuse given to explain his lifestyle. Propped on the casket is a small photo in a plastic frame, taken years earlier. His hair is combed, pale-orange freckles dotting his cheeks and nose. The paper said he was nearly sixty at the time of his death, but he can’t be any older than thirty in this picture.

  I turn, my eyes downcast, intending to retreat to the back of the church, but something compels me to raise my head, and when I do, I spot Greaves in the fourth row, alone in the pew. Watching me.

  I hurry past, feeling his eyes on me as I go. But I can’t leave, not just because it will look bad but because I still need to film. Becca was right about the rapidly dwindling interest. There are only twenty or thirty people here, and if Footloose is among them, it will be easy to cross-reference this group against the larger number at Jacinda’s and Angelica’s funerals.

  Still, I can’t sit at the very back without looking like an interloper so I sit in the sixth row, far enough away that Greaves can’t watch me without openly turning his head and staring, which he doesn’t seem opposed to doing, since he’s doing it now. He lifts an eyebrow in inquiry, and I scramble to think of an appropriate response. A smile seems horrible, a glare confrontational, tears insincere. In the end, I settle on a helpless shrug, a tiny gesture that says, I don’t know either. He watches me for a moment longer and then turns back to face the front, his expression never changing.