Look What You Made Me Do

by Elaine Murphy

  I stare dumbly. “What?”

  He smiles, pleased to have fooled me. “Congratulations, Carrie. You’ve been promoted to Novelty Concept Manager. The team at Amari loved your work on the three-hole punch and have placed an order for five thousand, as well as a request for a concept sketch for a whole product line. Well done.”

  My mouth falls open, but no words come out. For so long, all I’ve wanted was this promotion, and with everything that’s been going on, I’ve barely been able to think about it. And now, after a week of terror and funerals and bloody bathtubs and serial killers—something good.

  A smile stretches my face, far bigger than the occasion warrants, but I can’t hide it. “That’s amazing!” I say, relief in every syllable.

  “You deserve it,” Troy says. “The inside office is now yours, and you can move in today.”

  Tears prick my eyes, too many emotions swirling inside me. I think of my stapler picture, finally ready to move out of the closet. “Okay,” I say, still beaming. “Okay. I will.”

  Troy stands, and we awkwardly shake hands. I’m elated. I barely feel the hateful glares when I float back to my desk and pick up my purse and my coat, taking them to my new office. I admire the shiny desk, the leather chair with its high back, the blank space on the wall for which I have the perfect piece of art. It’s not quite as easy moving the rest of my things—two computer monitors, the tower, my printer, the contents of the drawers—but I do it, unassisted. Troy still has his blinds closed and likely hasn’t thought about the logistics of this, and no one else offers to help.

  Still, I don’t care, and when I have everything moved over, I shut the door and text my sister: I got the promotion!

  She writes back right away: That’s fantastic!

  I have an office now.

  How are your co-workers dealing with it?

  Great! I type. Very supportive! I type the words too fast and make myself count to twenty before pressing SEND, so they seem convincing. If I tell Becca the truth, she might kill someone else, and I want to enjoy my promotion without worrying about murder for a few minutes.

  * * *

  It’s dark when I leave the office. I get as far as my driveway before my earlier confidence gives way to fear and common sense. I’d forgotten to leave a light on so, even though the curtains are open, the living room window merely reflects back the night, obscuring whatever fresh horrors wait inside.

  Becca hadn’t offered to stay over again, and I’m too proud to ask her, even as I squirm in my seat, hands gripping the wheel, ready to reverse out of here at the first sign of trouble. I’m still mad at Graham—and apparently he’s still mad at me because he hasn’t called—and even if I weren’t, I couldn’t ask him to come over, since my bathroom’s out of service. As soon as I have the thought, my bladder gives a squeak of annoyance. Technically, the toilet still works, but I’d gagged at the mere thought of using it this morning, skipped the coffee, and peed at the office.

  I can’t do that again.

  Nothing moves in the house, but it still looms, large and dark and unknown. The creaky floors and groaning walls, the furnace sounds and flickering lights—all the things I’d thought made it charming and mine—they’re all too much. I back out of the driveway and drive down the street, like maybe anyone watching will think I just forgot to pick up milk and am heading to the grocery store.

  In reality, I drive into the city center with its bright lights and pedestrians braving the cold, restaurants and shops still open and glowing, alive. I drive in circles for a while before pulling into the underground parking for a large chain hotel. I park and grab my purse and laptop, hurry into the elevator, and jab the button for the ground level. The doors glide open, revealing a large lobby with a water feature burbling happily behind the front desk. A chandelier sparkles overhead, and a handful of guests wait in the seating area, next to a roaring fire.

  Already I feel better.

  I haven’t stayed in a hotel in years, and the price for a room with a queen bed and no view makes me rethink my plan, but the thought of going home has me handing over my brand-new credit card. I take the elevator to my room on the eighth floor, a small cube with a scratchy green bedspread and a clean bathroom. The nightstand has a Bible and a room service menu, and I stand at the window and look down at the twinkling city, safe and anonymous.

  As much as I’d like to pretend I’m someone exciting who spends nights in hotels and does crazy things, the truth is I’m tired. Before I get too lazy, I drag myself back downstairs and visit a few of the nearby shops, picking up a new dress to wear to work tomorrow and a toothbrush. I grab a pizza for dinner and take it all back upstairs, check the closet and under the bed, lock the door, hook the chain, and drag the nightstand in front of the door. I briefly consider opening my laptop but eschew the idea of work in favor of eating and watching TV until I fall asleep at ten, waking up only when the sun streams through the curtains I forgot to close. After my first decent night’s sleep in a week, it takes me thirty seconds to remember I’m in a hotel and another thirty to find the alarm clock, the digital display telling me it’s after eight. I fling myself out of bed, take a much-needed shower, and drive to work with damp hair. I’m hustling toward the building, the sunny November day somehow feeling ten degrees colder than normal, when I hear my name. It’s too bright, and I shield my eyes, shivering in the wind as I try to find the source.

  “Carrie!”

  I hear it again and turn back toward the parking lot, freezing when I see Graham jump out of his car and hurry toward me, a bouquet of flowers in his arms.

  “I—What are you doing here?” I ask, still squinting against the sun.

  Graham stops a few feet away, uncharacteristically uncertain. And, when he shifts so he’s blocking the sun and I can see him better, unshaven. He’s always clean-cut and tidy, his hair trimmed at the barber every six weeks, his shirts ironed, suits dry-cleaned, socks thrown away at the first sign of a hole. Now he looks how I feel, like he’s coming apart.

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says, his voice tense and awkward. “I called you a dozen times last night, and you never answered. I even called Becca.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Saying he called Becca is the equivalent of saying he kicked a puppy. Graham would never do that.

  “My phone—” I begin. I’d turned it off last night, halfway through the bottle of wine and paranoid that Becca or Footloose could somehow use it to track me.

  “I drove to your house,” he adds. “I rang the bell. I knocked. I went inside.”

  My stomach plummets. Graham has a key, and he’s usually welcome at my place whenever he wants. But not right now.

  “It—”

  “I was worried about you!” he exclaims, dragging his fingers through his normally perfect hair and leaving it tousled. “I felt bad about our fight, and when I couldn’t reach you, I thought about Footloose and how I said I wasn’t his type. Then I started thinking how Angelica was his type, and you knew her, and—” He breaks off and shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm.

  But he moves away. “Where were you? I mean, I’m glad you’re okay, but…” He gestures to me, the wet hair, the late arrival. “That’s a new dress, right?”

  For a second, I’m too stunned to speak. Graham thinks I was cheating on him. I’m the least likely person in the world to cheat on someone. I barely even have one option, never mind several. The worst part is that I’m relieved that’s his biggest fear. Because it means he didn’t see the bathroom and he doesn’t know the truth, which is far worse than anything his imagination could conjure.

  “I stayed in a hotel,” I say. “Alone. I was paranoid about Footloose, and I didn’t want to go home, and we…” I’m not faking it when I let the sentence trail off, unsure how to identify exactly what we are right now. But I’ve also seen Becca do this too many times, leaving the other person to fill in the blanks, letting them determine the cours
e of the conversation and then decide if she likes the direction it’s heading.

  Graham is stricken. “Carrie. You stayed in a hotel because you were afraid?”

  I shrug, embarrassed, since it’s true. For most people it would be an overreaction, but in my case it’s fully justified. “I haven’t been sleeping,” I admit. “So I turned off my phone and just crashed.”

  He studies me, but he’s no longer suspicious. He trusts me. He’s checking to make sure I’m okay, that I’m well rested. “Do you feel better?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry I said you were like your sister. You’re not. You’re nothing like her.”

  I force a smile. “That’s good to hear.”

  “And she told me about your promotion. Congratulations. It’s about time.”

  The smile becomes more real. “Thank you.”

  He extends the flowers, slightly wilted. “These are for you. Sorry, they’re half dead. I left them in the car last night when I couldn’t find you.”

  I accept the bouquet, my nose running too much to actually smell the roses. “They’re perfect. I’ll put them in my new office.”

  “Have you hung your painting?”

  “No. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “I can help you, if you like. I can drive over to your place and—”

  “No,” I say too quickly. Graham flinches, like maybe I’m still mad. I hesitate when Rudy from Accounting passes by, giving me a wide berth, like I might brain him with my bouquet. I wait until he’s inside, the doors closed behind him. “They still think I had something to do with Angelica’s disappearance,” I say, my voice low, even though Rudy’s gone. “I don’t want to rub it in their faces.”

  Graham sighs. “They know you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Angelica. They just want someone to blame. They feel powerless, and this is their way of feeling like they’re in control of something.”

  I think of the funerals I’ve attended, the video I’ve taken. The funerals Becca will attend and record. The one thing we have a say in, in this whole, horrible mess.

  “You’re right,” I say, though he’s not. “They’ll get over it. But in the meantime, I’m going to keep a low profile.”

  Graham arches an eyebrow and looks me over, the appreciation in his gaze making me blush. “In that dress?”

  I hadn’t bothered trying it on at the store yesterday, and though I’m wearing it with dark tights, there’s no missing the fact that the dress stops a few inches above my knee, much shorter than anything I’d normally wear.

  “I bought it yesterday,” I admit.

  Graham smiles, glancing around as he steps close. “Well, I’m glad you did. Can I see you later? Do you want to have dinner?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Wear the dress.”

  My lips are frozen from the cold when he kisses me, and so are his, but we’re both smiling when we step apart.

  * * *

  It’s a quarter to three in the morning, and I’m wide awake, crouched on the floor in Graham’s guest bathroom. Like everything in his apartment, it’s small but nice. Fancy vanity, shower with marble tile, gleaming fixtures. He even has a picture on the wall. But while I normally spare a moment of envy for these things, tonight I can’t. Tonight I’m listening to the tinny sound of Becca’s voicemail greeting when she doesn’t answer—again—and I’m asked to leave a message—again.

  She’d texted me that afternoon to say she’d gotten some good video at the latest funeral and was heading home to start comparing the images. She’d uploaded the link so I could download it, too, if I wanted to help. I’d been in a meeting with Troy when she’d called later, leaving me a rambling, excited message. I play it again now, for the tenth time, though I already know it by heart.

  “Carrie!” she exclaims, sounding triumphant and exasperated. “I found him! I can’t believe this fucking worked, but I found him. He’s on your tape and my tape, and I bet he’ll be at tomorrow’s funeral as well. I bought a tracking device on my way home, and I’m going to follow him to his car and put it on his bumper, and then we’ll know where this fucker lives. We’ll destroy him, Carrie. Promise.” There’s a pause, like she’s distracted by something, and then, “Graham called me last night, by the way. He wanted to know where you were. He didn’t even know you got a promotion, and when I told him about it, he didn’t sound very happy for you. What a dick. I don’t know what you see—”

  A shrill beep cuts her off, signaling the end of the message.

  My heartbeat is so loud I can hear it thrumming in my ears, nearly drowning out the recorded voice asking if I want to save the message or delete it.

  I’m equal parts excited and terrified by the news that we might have a lead on Footloose, but I know Becca too well to take her at her word. If she’s lying—or just plain wrong—about finding him, I don’t want to get my hopes up. And I really don’t want to have a hand in helping her torment another innocent person.

  In tenth grade, I had my sights set on being student council treasurer, something only my family knew. There was another kid at school, a scrap of a girl named Thindi Gill, and one day Becca and I arrived at school to see that Thindi had made posters. They were beautiful. Full-sized poster board with glitter and sequins and even a slogan: GILL FITS THE BILL! She must have spent hours on them.

  I was devastated, seeing my silly dream slip away before I’d even made a single effort toward achieving it. But Becca was irate. In her mind, Thindi’s efforts were a personal attack. That night, while I went to the art store and overspent on supplies, staying up well past my bedtime to make my own posters—CARRIE THE ONE!—Thindi’s house was burning to the ground. Everyone except the family’s pet rabbit got out safely, but because the fire was deemed suspicious, they endured a lengthy legal battle with the insurance company and had to move out of our area and into a new school district. I was student council treasurer for the next three years.

  I watch the video Becca uploaded—again—trying to find a face in the crowd that looks like a serial killer. But none of them do. I’d even watched the clumsy videos I’d taken at Jacinda’s and Ron’s funerals and didn’t find a match.

  My eyes start to blur, weariness and worry battling for dominance. After Becca’s message, I’d tried to reach her all afternoon, but she’d been pretty pissed that I’d shut off my phone during my hotel stay and is holding a grudge. She’s probably just ignoring me to hold on to her purported insight just a little bit longer, but I can’t stop the invisible fingers of fear slowly tightening their grip on my spine, telling me that’s not the case.

  * * *

  I can’t concentrate.

  I’m in my new office, staring at the blank spot on the wall where my stapler picture will hang if it’s ever safe to go home again, and I can’t do anything but think of the one person I’m constantly hoping to forget.

  I called Becca when I woke up this morning, but the call went straight to voicemail. I’ve called three more times with the same result. Becca can be petty and wretched, but she’s not one to pass up the opportunity to gloat about finding Footloose, and since I’m the only person who could give her an audience, her silence is frightening. It’s more frightening than finding a man in my closet or having Greaves knock on my door or discovering a bathtub full of blood. Those things have happened. They’re horrible, but they’re known. This is not. I can’t just climb the stairs with a baseball bat and get answers. I can’t do anything.

  But I can’t stay here either.

  It’s eleven o’clock, and the funeral Becca is supposed to attend today is in nearby Marlo, just a twenty-minute drive. According to the newspaper website, it’s supposed to start in half an hour. It occurs to me that, if Becca found yesterday’s funeral boring, this would be the perfect way to ensure that I attend today’s. She has to know I’ll try to find her, and the most likely scenario is that I’ll sit through an
other awkward service, an interloper with a phone in her hand, and she’ll be laughing in the parking lot when I come out, boasting about how she got me to do her work.

  The mere thought makes resentment burn in my chest, but it doesn’t do enough to replace the fear nestled alongside it. Not once in my life have I been afraid for my sister. She’s always been the biggest predator in the room, the one sitting at the top of the food chain, picking and choosing her next meal. But that was before Footloose.

  I stand up and grab my coat, pulling it on as I cross the floor to Troy’s office. I’m aware of heads turning as I walk, but I ignore them. No one has congratulated me on my promotion.

  I knock on Troy’s door, and he looks up from a sudoku puzzle, hastily shoving it under the desk with the same panic he’d display if he were hiding a copy of Hustler.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  He’s still fumbling with the paper. “Oh. Um. When?”

  “Now.”

  “Will you be back?”

  A slideshow of possible scenarios flashes through my head. Becca at the funeral. Becca not at the funeral. Becca dead in my house, me too afraid to go inside. Becca hiding in my house, laughing as I linger in the driveway, too afraid to go inside.

  I hoist my purse onto my shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  I don’t wait for his answer, just head for the elevator. Rudy from Accounting is already there, waiting, and he scurries off to the side when I stand next to him, like I might strangle him on the ride down. When the car arrives, I step on, and Rudy does not. I shrug and let the doors close.

  When I get to my car, I do a quick lap, peering in all the windows for anything strange and checking the trunk, which is empty. I get in and twist the key in the ignition, the engine whining as it turns over, cold and unhappy. I know the feeling.

  I look up the address for the Baptist church in Marlo on my phone before navigating my way out of the parking lot and onto the highway. The skies are gray and low, promising rain and worse, but I don’t care. I thought Becca’s plan to stick a tracking device on Footloose’s car was stupid, but I’ll go along with it, just as long as she’s there.