Jane Doe

by Victoria Helen Stone

  I snort at the name of the network. FeelFreeToUseMyNanasWiFi. Poor Nana.

  After I log in, I open the camera app to assign the network to both cameras. An image of the bedroom blinks to life on my laptop. A second image appears next to it, nearly identical. When I lean forward, the side of my head appears in both frames. Tiny moving status bars slide across the application’s windows, letting me know I’m recording.

  I’m up and running.

  I turn toward the lenses and wave. “Hello, Jane.” I know I’ll laugh when I watch it later.

  The multi-tool I’ve brought makes quick work of the vent screws, and I carefully tape the camera into position to peek between the slats. It’s a wide shot of the whole room, but I adjust it a few times to make sure the bed is the center of the focus, then replace the vent.

  Onward to the living room. There’s a vent in the living room that faces the kitchen, so I unscrew it and set to work getting that camera positioned correctly. Once that’s done, I test it by walking into the kitchen and saying “Hello again, Jane” in a normal speaking voice. I return and sit on the couch to greet myself once more. When I play back the video, I can hear myself clearly. The cameras were worth the exorbitant sticker price.

  Before I leave, I go through Steven’s dresser drawers, then his office file drawer. I find nothing. No secret offshore accounts, no love letters, not even a little tube of lubricant for jerking off. Everything is boring. It pisses me off.

  Not all monsters are terrifying. Some of them are so tedious they’ll just make you wish for death.

  The worst part about Steven is that he doesn’t have to be cruel. He wasn’t born this way. He could choose to do better, choose to go to therapy and talk his cruelty away. Mine is hardwired from childhood, and even I try harder than he does.

  He’ll get away with it forever if I don’t stop him. He’ll treat woman after woman like utter shit. But let’s be honest. I’m not doing it to protect those women. I just need him to pay for Meg. Then we’ll be even.

  “Even Steven,” I say, and then I smile for the camera. Even Steven.

  I look through closets until I find the vacuum, and I suck away all my tracks before I leave the house.

  CHAPTER 21

  When I first heard she’d died, I didn’t even feel surprised. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe it wasn’t real to me because I lived halfway around the world and never saw her anyway. Maybe it’s just that I’m a monster.

  Whatever the reason, I didn’t feel much of anything except frustration. I’d told her that asshole didn’t matter. I’d told her she’d be better off without him. And she clearly would have been if she’d given it time.

  Shit, I’d even invited her to come to Kuala Lumpur and live with me for as long as she wanted. It seemed like the perfect solution. How could she possibly miss that loser if she was busy having an adventure in Malaysia with me? She was young and blond and she’d have been popular with the businessmen here.

  But she’d decided to die instead.

  After my frustration came anger. He’d called her a stupid bitch all the time, and maybe he’d been right, because Meg had believed him instead of me. Him. Some pissant nobody she’d known less than two years. She’d loved him so much that she’d taken herself away from me? Forever?

  Fuck that.

  Within a week, I’d decided that I hated her. That I’d never needed her and never would.

  Then I received her letter.

  Jane, it’s me. I’m so, so sorry . . .

  Whatever half-living thing there was inside me had opened up and I’d cried my eyes out. I’d sobbed. And screamed. And broken a lamp and a chair and several vases. I’d raged and cried, and that was when the grief had put its claws into my bones and settled down for a long meal.

  CHAPTER 22

  I gasp as Steven pulls into his driveway. “Oh my God, what a beautiful yard!”

  “Thank you.” The garage door rises and I see that the garage is perfectly clean, tools hung on walls and shelves neatly lined with boxes.

  “Everything is so pretty. And it seems like such a great neighborhood.”

  “It’s nice. There are a lot of older folks here, so there aren’t too many asshole kids around. But the school district is one of the best, so home values are solid.”

  He’s so cold and practical that I have trouble imagining what free spirit Meg saw in him. She never thought about home values or school districts during her walks around town. She liked pretty trim and brightly painted porches. But opposites attract, I suppose. His serious and responsible nature must have felt like safety to her.

  She told me he was the best boyfriend she’d ever had. He had a job and a home. He paid for all their dates. He came from a good family. He wanted a better life for her.

  I could see why she believed that at first. Compared to her previous boyfriends, he was a catch. She’d had a bad habit of collecting weirdos and taking care of them. She’d collected me, hadn’t she?

  Steven was so strong. That’s what she said. He tricked her with that, and then he overwhelmed her completely.

  She was proud of the way he’d revamped her finances and set up electronic payments on all her accounts. “I’m so bad with money,” she started saying constantly.

  I’d never heard her say that before. She’d seemed fine to me. She’d supported herself. Had her own apartment, her own car, her own life. After Steven it was always “He says I need to learn to be more responsible.”

  Whenever I snorted in response, she defended him. “I had two overdrafts last month, Jane! Two! I was so embarrassed when he found out. Do you know how much all those fees added up to? I’m so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. And how did he even find out?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why does he know anything about your checking account?”

  “He’s balancing it for me now.”

  “Meg,” I’d said flatly, “no. No way.”

  “Jane, come on! I’m terrible with numbers, and he’s getting all my stuff in order for me. It’s great.”

  “It’s not great. You’ve been dating this guy for two months and now he has access to your bank account?”

  She laughed. “What’s he going to do? Wire himself twenty-five dollars and clean me out? I’ve got nothing.”

  I’ve got nothing, she said. But it wasn’t true. She may not have had a savings account or a big spotless house or a perfectly raked yard, but she had warmth and friends and a heart.

  Steven lost Meg, but somehow he still looks around at his neat suburban life and thinks he’s winning.

  “Is this a rental?” I ask as he unlocks the kitchen door.

  “No way. A mortgage is an investment. Renting is just throwing money at someone else’s bank account. Dumb as rocks.”

  “Well, sure, but a lot of us have to rent. You have to have a down payment to even think about buying. And you have to cover all the maintenance and taxes.”

  “You’re covering the owner’s taxes and all the maintenance on other units when you pay rent. You get that, right?”

  “Whatever. I couldn’t afford to buy anyway.”

  “That’s why you need a better job, Jane. You’ll never get ahead as a temp.”

  “I don’t know. I’m used to living in apartments. And I don’t need much space.”

  “You’re thirty years old and you’re just treading water and making someone else rich. You’ve never had a good family to teach you this stuff.”

  You’ve never had a good family. Who says that kind of thing?

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “Maybe you’re right.”

  He turns on the lights and hangs his keys on a hook on the wall. I step into the kitchen and look around. “Wow, it’s so nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You keep it so clean.”

  “You’re not messy, are you? That drives me crazy.”

  “No, I’m not messy.” Just to push his buttons, I take off my sweater and toss it onto a chair
, then drop my purse on the kitchen table. His eyes go right to the mess I created and stay there. I’m very proud of myself for not laughing.

  “So you’re cooking for me?” I ask. “That’s very romantic.”

  “I’m a pretty romantic guy.”

  I flash back to that night in his truck and don’t say a word.

  Steven washes his hands and tips his head toward the sliding glass door I broke into this morning. “Let me heat up the grill.”

  I did my best to latch the lock behind me when I left, but I’m not sure I got it hooked well, so I rush for the door while he’s still moving toward it. “Oh, a real backyard! I’ve lived in apartments so long, I’ve forgotten what that’s like!” I open the lock as I gush over his square of lawn. “Oh, brrrrr, it’s getting cold out here.”

  “A beer and a warm grill will take care of that.” He stops to give me a kiss in the doorway. “Hope you like steak.”

  “Of course,” I respond as he steps out to fire up the propane.

  “All right, we’ll let that heat up. Let me get you a beer.”

  I follow him back inside and he pops open two beers and hands me one. Mine is light beer. His is a stout. I’m honestly beginning to think he doesn’t like my weight.

  He carries a couple of coasters into the living room and we sink into the giant cushions of his beige couch. The brown pillows really amp up the color theme of mud and shit. “This is nice,” he murmurs as he tucks me under his arm and pulls me close.

  “I think it’s our two-week anniversary.”

  “Is it?”

  I have no idea, but it’s close enough, so I nod.

  “Then happy anniversary, babe.” With any other man, I’d be moving too fast, but I’m taking my cues from Meg. She claimed they were madly in love after only one week. And if Steven thinks I’m needy and desperately romantic, he’ll read it as easy to control.

  He kisses my cheek and settles into the couch with a satisfied sigh.

  “Steven, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “When we were at the church, your dad mentioned unpleasantness . . .”

  He shrugs and raises an eyebrow in question.

  “He said how nice it was to meet me after all that unpleasantness.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “What did he mean?”

  He takes a hard swig from his beer and frowns as if it’s filled his mouth with bitterness. The frown doesn’t budge after he swallows. “Yeah. Well. My last girlfriend was a crazy bitch.”

  I’m ready for this. I don’t smash him in the head with my beer. I don’t even claw his face with my nails. Instead I just gasp a little as if I’m mildly dismayed. “Oh no!”

  “Yeah. It was pretty bad.”

  “How so?”

  He shrugs again. “Typical crazy female stuff.”

  “So she’s a psycho? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

  “No. I mean yeah. But you don’t have to worry.”

  “She’s not going to follow me home and slash my tires?”

  He flashes a charming smile. “You don’t have a car.”

  “You know what I mean. Should I be worried?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She killed herself.” He says it without flinching. The words are straightforward and not tinged with the slightest haze of guilt.

  “What?” My voice is tinged with all sorts of things and none of them are real. Shock. Doubt. Pity. Terror. I make my eyes wide and cover my parted lips with a shaky hand. “Steven. What?”

  “Yeah. I broke up with her and she killed herself to get back at me.”

  “But . . . but . . . My God! She must have been . . .”

  “A crazy damn bitch.”

  She loved this man. He never deserved it, but Meg loved him. She died for his love.

  He’d kicked her out of his house again. Screamed at her that it was over. He’d told her to go fuck someone else so she’d know deep in her heart he was never going to touch her again. He’d thrown her things into the street. Not in front of his house, of course. That would have been embarrassing. No, he’d boxed up her belongings and dropped them on the curb outside her job to humiliate her in front of her coworkers.

  Why? Because a man from work had called and invited her to his place. For a barbecue. Along with every other coworker. That was it. A man had called. But she’d been too friendly on the phone, apparently, and the man was taller and hotter than Steven, and that had been Meg’s downfall.

  Because she was a whore. Because she’d always been a whore. Because she was such a slut that she didn’t even know how to behave appropriately around men.

  Did you hear how you spoke to him? Did you hear your stupid giggling? It sounds like you two are already fucking. Sure, Meg, go over to his house and slut it up! I’ll just stay here and work my ass off for everything we have. You’re so fucked up and disrespectful. I can’t believe I considered marrying you.

  I know exactly what he said because she sent me screengrabs of the texts later that day.

  I want to kill him right now. I want to break my bottle on his coffee table and stab him in the jugular and then drag him outside so I can press his face to the grill and burn him while he dies.

  But I shake my head and keep my mouth covered.

  “Let’s not talk about her,” he finally sighs.

  “But . . . how long ago did it happen?”

  “Last year,” he answers curtly, but it’s not true. It happened nine months ago, in the middle of February, when Meg couldn’t face the long nights and gray days.

  I told her a light therapy lamp would help her feel better. Apparently I was way off base.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Steven mutters.

  “But, Steven, this is a big deal! You must still be reeling.”

  “I prayed a lot. I got over it.”

  “But I don’t understand why she killed herself. Did you break her heart? Were you cheating on her?”

  “What? No way! I found out she was slutting around with guys at her job and I kicked her out. She realized she’d screwed up the best thing she’d ever had. When I wouldn’t take her back, she wanted to punish me.”

  “By killing herself?”

  His shoulders jerked up in a violent shrug. “She probably did it for attention. Figured she’d take a few pills and I’d come running back. I guess she fucked that up too.”

  He still wants to let everyone know Meg couldn’t do anything right. She couldn’t even die correctly. I swallow my rage and keep my frown soft and trembling.

  “But you must have loved her,” I say quietly, pretending I know what sympathy is. “You must be grieving.”

  I’m not sure if I’ve genuinely hit a nerve or if he realizes he’s being callous, but Steven slumps a little. “I did love her. But she wasn’t a good person. She was irresponsible and she slept around. I wanted to help her, but you can’t help people who won’t help themselves.”

  Meg was a great person. That’s not sentimentality. I don’t have that. She’d never been perfect, but she was kind, even to someone like me. “She must have had good qualities if you dated her.”

  “Yeah, she was fun,” he offers. “And you know what they say about crazy girls with low self-esteem. They’re great in bed.”

  He was her lover. Her boyfriend. He spoke at her funeral.

  I didn’t fly in for the service, but I heard about it from her mom. Steven had stood in front of God and country and said he’d tried to save her from her demons. He called her a light in his life. He wept and sobbed. Now all he has to say about his precious angel is that her low self-esteem made her great in bed. I should send the video of this little speech out to their mutual friends to watch.

  He pushes up suddenly from the couch. “You want another beer?”

  I’ve barely touched mine. I shake my head. Steven grabs another and drains half of it standing next to the fridge. He stares into the backyard for
a while and I hope he’s suffering at least a little. But whatever memories haunt him, he shakes them off and grabs the steak and a head of romaine from the fridge.

  “I can make a salad,” I offer.

  “Wash your hands first,” he says curtly.

  “Are you a germophobe?” I tease.

  “I don’t like dirty people with no common sense.” Oh, poor baby, I’ve made him angry with all my questions about Meg.

  I pout as I take my beer into the kitchen. “I was going to wash my hands. I’m not stupid.”

  He grunts.

  “You don’t have to be mean.”

  “I’m not being mean; I’m telling the truth.”

  “By calling me dirty?”

  “I didn’t call you dirty. I said I don’t like dirty people. If you’re not dirty, then you don’t need to worry about it, do you?”

  Pretending to be hurt and chastened, I turn on the faucet and slowly wash my hands, marveling at this little play. In real life, I would have cut this man down to ribbons by now, but Meg must have put up with his tantrums. She must have tried harder and apologized and did her best to please him.

  Why? Are we all just animals bound to relive our broken childhoods over and over? Is it that simple?

  Meg’s real father treated his family like shit before he left, and every stepdad and boyfriend who followed did the same. Her mom had spent her life pleasing loser men, and that was imprinted on Meg the way hunting skills are imprinted on young lions. This is how you get through life. This is how you guarantee the species. Take abuse. Submit to men. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

  Meg broke the cycle, finally. She found a way out.

  A hollow bang of glass cracks through the room when Steven throws his second bottle in the trash to join the first. I cringe as if I’m frightened by his obvious anger. “Do you have any tomatoes?” I ask as I carefully dry my hands.

  “I don’t like tomatoes.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s a cucumber in the fridge.”

  I guess that’s his peace offering, so I dig the cucumber out of the crisper, then look through drawers until I find a knife. Steven leans against the counter and watches, a third beer in his hand.