Look What You Made Me Do

by Elaine Murphy

  “How much farther?” I ask Becca. It feels like we’ve been carrying the body for miles.

  “Stop complaining.”

  “That’s the first time I asked!”

  “Do you want to get caught, Carrie? Do you want to just drop her right here and let someone find her with your ratty hair stuck in her blood?”

  I glare mutinously.

  “I’m doing this to help you,” she mutters. “Stop making everything so difficult.”

  It’s an eternity before more headlights come, and again they glide by without incident. I let out a cry of frustration and feel around the perimeter of the opening with my toe. It’s tight, but it’s all I’ve got. Slowly, I wedge my foot into the gap. Wind rushes over my toes and turns them to ice, but I twist and push, feeling the ball of my foot pop outside and then my arch, shoving desperately until my heel is free. It feels like I’ve scraped off a layer of skin in the process, but I did it. My plan worked. Someone will drive up, spot my foot, and call the police.

  Then we start to slow down.

  And a few seconds later, we turn.

  The paved highway morphs into something decidedly unpaved and bumpy, and we trundle treacherously over what feels like a million boulders. My ankle bone bangs against the metal opening as I try frantically to get my foot back in the trunk. It’s stuck. No matter what I do, it won’t budge, protruding from the taillight hole for any opportunistic animal or serial killer to find.

  I struggle desperately, but it’s no use. I’m trapped. More trapped. I’m an idiot.

  I don’t know how long we drive. Five minutes, maybe forty. The pain and cold and terror blur until time slows or ceases to exist altogether, I can’t tell. When we finally stop, I don’t know if I’m relieved or ashamed or petrified. I don’t know anything.

  It takes Footloose forever to shut off the car and get out, like he’s got all the time in the world for whatever’s about to happen. He slams his door, the sound echoing until it fades. And then it’s eerily quiet, wherever we are, all hope of the highway and rescue lost in the distance. His footsteps crunch over dead leaves and twigs, mingling with the cheerful jingle of keys in his hand as he approaches the trunk. Then silence.

  And more silence.

  It’s already dark, but I squeeze my eyes shut, like maybe if I can’t see the horror that’s about to come, it won’t see me either. I know he’s looking at my foot. Studying it. Perhaps reaching into his pocket to retrieve his favorite switchblade to begin hacking it off. Or maybe he has an ankle holster for a hunting knife, the kind with the ridges on the back and the swooping, low tip that penetrates deep and easy.

  But instead of sawing off the foot I’ve served up on a platter, he laughs. He laughs loudly, which is perhaps more insulting and more frightening than the flick of a blade being opened because, when Becca laughed, it was never at something I’d find funny.

  “What have you done?” he murmurs. I feel the gentle trace of his fingers on the sole of my foot. I’m too cold to be ticklish but not too cold to shudder in revulsion. “You’re freezing,” he continues, squeezing my toes in the warm palm of his hand. “Oh, that was stupid. You’re not already dead, are you?”

  There’s a click as the trunk pops open, and I’m once again face-to-face with Brampton’s last known serial killer. The car’s interior light is still on, casting just enough shadow on his skin to make the moment even worse. The pale, bland face I foolishly trusted now looks scarred and lopsided, like the cracks are showing and his true colors are leaking out.

  Footloose cocks his head and heaves a relieved little sigh. “Ah. You’re okay. Thank goodness.”

  The Detective Schroeder glasses, trench coat, and badge are gone, but everything else is the same. The blond hair, the polite smile, the slight figure. The dead look in his eyes.

  Behind him, the night sky is flecked with stars, treetops stabbing into the perimeter. It’s hard to tell from this position, but it looks like we’ve stopped in some type of small clearing, not terribly unlike the night he first saw us in Kilduff Park. Or perhaps exactly as terrible as that night.

  My teeth chatter. “Wh-where are we?”

  He looks around like he’s surprised I might not be delighted by our surroundings. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “We’re not there yet. I heard you banging around like a trussed calf—or woman—and stopped to check it out. It’s important you don’t hurt yourself, Carrie.”

  The I’m going to hurt you instead part goes unspoken.

  I try to sit up to look around, but my stuck foot makes the movement both painful and impossible. Still, in the second I was lifted, I could see what I expected: nothing. Not for the first time, I’m alone in a dark forest with a murderer.

  Things get even worse when he reaches for my foot. I try to yank it back, but it’s well and truly jammed in there, and all I succeed in doing is hurting myself more. My ankle bone wails as it smacks against the metal frame of the car, and Footloose tsks his disapproval.

  “You know you’re the first one to try this?” he asks conversationally. He reaches for my foot again, and I tense, expecting something awful, and am instead even more horrified when he takes my frozen toes and rubs them gently between his warm hands. “Kicking out the light wasn’t a bad idea, but it wasn’t great either, was it? I’d be mad if it were someone else, but I’m not. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. You entertain me in a way those drug-addicted losers didn’t. I mean, I suppose they did, for a while. But things were getting boring.”

  A shudder racks me. “Until you saw us in the park that night?”

  He smiles widely, teeth flashing, taking the awfulness of being stuck in a trunk with a serial killer massaging my foot to a whole new level. “That’s right. Your sister—what was her name? Bertha? Becky? I thought she might be my real competition, but she’s nothing compared to you. She’s…basic.” He sneers the word like it’s the worst thing he can think of. “You’re interesting.”

  Very few people have ever called me interesting. Next to Becca, they hardly noticed me. And because I’ve spent a decade helping hide dead bodies, I haven’t exactly tried to be noticed. Or interesting. I’m boring stationery-designer Carrie Lawrence, serial killer magnet.

  “Anyway.” Footloose claps his hands, the sound splitting the night. “We’re getting off schedule.”

  I shouldn’t ask, but the question comes out anyway. “What’s the schedule?”

  He smiles again, and again my heart stops. “You’ll see. Sorry about this, by the way. It’ll be worth it in the end.”

  He reaches into the trunk, and I feel a searing heat in my thigh, like I’m being branded, before sensation flees. I’m frozen, my muscles locked. And then the trunk closes and the moon disappears and he disappears, and darkness takes over.

  * * *

  It’s still dark when I come to. I’m stiff and achy, my thoughts sluggish, and it takes awhile for my brain to catch up to my new reality. I’m sitting on what feels like a wooden chair. My arms are still bound, this time in front of me, resting on a hard surface. I flex my toes, confirming both feet are still attached but are now affixed to the chair legs.

  I blink and then squint, though I can’t see through the impenetrable darkness. Eventually, I realize it’s because my head is covered. My breath gusts against the fabric, pulling it against my cheeks when I inhale. I’m warm, which somehow makes it worse. Without the cold, I can feel things, which means I’ll be able to feel even more horrible things later. A terrified shiver travels through me.

  “Ah.” Footloose’s voice penetrates the frightened haze. “You’re awake. Right on time.”

  That can’t be good. I don’t say anything, don’t move a muscle, not even as I hear footsteps approach and floorboards creaking. Fingers brush hair away from my neck as he unties whatever he’s used to cover my head and pulls it away.

  I see flames. They’re so bright that they sear my eyes, and I flinch and look away. I hear them crackling in the fireplace on the other side
of the room, a large dining table filling the space between us. A table, I see when spots stop dancing in my vision, that is set for two.

  I occupy the guest-of-honor seat at the head of the table, and Footloose settles into the chair to my right. There’s a plate with roasted potatoes, another with two cooked steaks sitting in their own juices, a tossed salad, and a bottle of wine. It’s even more civilized and alarming than Becca’s short rib dinner.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, because it’s obvious Footloose wants me to ask. He’s apparently gone to some trouble for this…date.

  He smiles. “Are you hungry?”

  I’m afraid to say no, but I’m more afraid to say yes. My stomach is tied in nauseated knots and, given everything that’s going on, I can’t imagine this food is safe to eat. “Not right now,” I say finally. “I think the…medicine…”

  He nods his understanding. “It fades quickly. You’ll feel better soon.”

  I doubt it, but I nod, too. Apart from the fact that my hands and feet are bound, and I was brought here in the trunk of a car, and he’s a deranged serial killer, this looks not unlike so many romantic nights in with Graham. It feels like a normal house, a large framed oil painting of a boat on one wall, a television mounted above the fireplace, a nice meal on the table. It’s dark, and there are no windows. The small chandelier overhead casts shadows on more shadows, the walls a deep wood paneling, the table and chairs a similar shade.

  “Is this your house?” I ask.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s warm.”

  Footloose laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners in a deceptively sane way. The Detective Schroeder glasses are still gone, and he wears a dark-green sweater, the sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal strong forearms. “Good. I want you to be comfortable.”

  I’m not comfortable, and I’m instantly even less comfortable, though I try not to show it. I have a lifetime of practice hiding exactly how uncomfortable I am, knowing that revealing a bruise was just an invitation for Becca to press on it. When Footloose doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with a tiny half smile, I feel myself tensing. I try to relax, but it’s easier said than done.

  “You said you had a schedule,” I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

  Footloose blinks, like he’d forgotten. “There’s no rush.” He takes a sip of his wine, and I realize how easy it is for him to pass as normal. How easy it is for all of us. We get dressed, we go to work, we make small talk, we kill, we hide the bodies. If there were windows in this room, anyone peeking in would see a romantic dinner, a couple not pressured to make small talk, the pleasure of each other’s company enough to fill the strained silence.

  “You said I was interesting.” I bite my lip, studying my bindings like I’m shy. Or terrified.

  Footloose rests his chin on his hand. “You are,” he says. “For so long, I’ve been going through the motions. I thought I had one purpose, and now I believe I was mistaken. I think we were destined to meet.”

  I try to look intrigued and not sick. “What was your original purpose?”

  He exhales, and I think for a second that he’s mad. That I was supposed to agree we were destined to meet and live happily ever after, or die happily ever after, or whatever he has planned. But then I realize that his eyes are fixed on the painting on the wall to my left, and I turn to study it, too. It’s a sailboat on calm waters, a sunset in the background, the pinks and oranges spilling across the water. It’s hard to see in the dim light, but there are figures on the boat, three little slashes of paint. They’re not unlike the drawings we did in kindergarten, stick figure families standing in front of a house, the sun shining overhead, clumsy flowers dotting the foreground. He has a family. Then I look at his bare left hand. Had. Maybe he had a family.

  “Drunk driver,” he says, the words so quiet it takes me a moment to process them. He’s still staring at the painting like he can see his family on the boat, remembering happier times. Like he can will them to join us, to see what he’s done for them. I hate that I can follow his train of thought, but it’s becoming clear.

  “That’s how you chose your…” I don’t say victims, though that’s what they were. Becca didn’t consider her victims to be victims. She thought they were nuisances. Nonessentials. An obstacle she decided to go through instead of around. “You picked addicts and killed them before they could kill somebody else.”

  He drags in a pained breath and looks at me. “That’s right. I knew you’d understand.”

  I have a lifetime of practice not showing my true feelings, and now I lie with ease. “I want to understand,” I tell him. “I’ve wanted to understand. You…” I take a breath. “You interest me, too.”

  He doesn’t blink when he stares at me. “You know, I didn’t think I’d enjoy you this much. Compared to your sister, you were such a fucking loser. But she died so easily. And you haven’t.”

  I wait for him to add the predictable yet, but he doesn’t.

  “How?” I say.

  “How what?”

  “How did you kill her?”

  “Oh, that. It was easy. I went to her apartment, told her I had you and I’d make a trade. Her life for yours.”

  It’s a nice story, but he’s forgetting I actually knew my sister. “You’re lying.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’d never choose me over herself.”

  He laughs. “That’s true. She didn’t, so I drugged her and took her anyway.”

  “Did you bring her here?”

  “No. I brought her to that old paper plant at the edge of town. They have a huge lot. When she woke up, I told her to run, and she did. Just not fast enough.”

  I try not to picture Becca running for her life and failing. Pinwheeling through the air, bones shattering and organs puncturing, before thudding to the ground, unmoving. But I don’t need to imagine that part because he put a picture on my windshield so I could remember it forever.

  “Why didn’t you bring her here?”

  “Because she didn’t deserve it,” he says. “And nobody comes here.” His attention shifts back to the painting, and it’s a minute before he speaks again. “For the longest time, I thought I was avenging them.” The flames crackle in the fireplace, reflecting in his eyes. “The kid who killed them, he died, too. But that wasn’t enough. His life meant nothing. One useless life for two with such promise? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And all those feelings I’d always had, the ones I thought I’d locked away forever, they came right back, like they’d simply been waiting. Like there was no reason to hide them anymore. No reason to pretend I didn’t want to hurt somebody when I really, really did.”

  He twines his fingers together, twisting the thick silver ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. I have a flash of that hand flying toward me from my closet, connecting with my face. The ring breaking my tooth. Hours at the dentist. I run the tip of my tongue over my temporary filling. We can only hide our damage for so long.

  “I was sure,” he continues after a while. “I was positive. But after all these years, what had I really accomplished? No one even noticed those losers were missing. I began to wonder, was I doing the right thing? Until that night in the woods when I saw you. And again in your bedroom when you startled me.”

  When I startled him, the masked man hiding in my closet.

  “That’s when I thought, that’s what I’ve been missing. Everyone had been telling me to get back out there, start over. But I didn’t want a wife. I wanted a partner. All those years, those idiot drunks, addicts, prostitutes. I wondered why I felt compelled to do what I did, and finally I knew. My wife was leading me to you.”

  My eyes want desperately to bulge out of my head. Becca was fixated on me because I was her sister, because she’d entrapped me, because I’d been too young to escape. She hadn’t chosen me. She hadn’t imagined we were meant to be. She didn’t think I was her fucking destiny. This is worse than I thought, and I was alre
ady thinking tonight was the worst thing to ever happen to me.

  “Wow,” is what I come up with. “That’s powerful.”

  Footloose gives me a wry smile. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. But you’ll see.”

  “You said that already. What will I be seeing?” I want to gag at the thought of whatever guillotine-like contraption he likely has rigged up, lopping off people’s feet as punishment for someone else’s sins, but a partner would be intrigued. But not too enthusiastic, not right away. Becca wouldn’t have made me her gravedigging accomplice if I’d liked it. The sense of power, control, and evil is what she enjoyed. But my audience of one is what she loved.

  Footloose is no different, looking almost giddy as he stands and goes to the fireplace, retrieving a remote control from the hearth. Rejoining me at the table, he nods at my full glass of wine. “Have some,” he orders. “You’ll need it.”

  “I’m not really thirst—”

  “Trust me,” he says, like that’s possible, or like I have a choice. There’s a thread of steel in his voice now that wasn’t there before. Then, as if to reassure me, he swaps our glasses, giving me the one from which he’s already sipped. Sharing a glass is exactly 1 percent better than not, but I’m bound and powerless, so I use my zip-tied hands to grip the stem and bring it to my lips. He watches carefully as I take a minute sip of the red wine, the taste and smell sharp and strong. But it tastes like wine, not poison. In fact—