Jane Doe

by Victoria Helen Stone

  “What?” I gasp, hoping he’s too drunk to hear the breathless glee in that word. It happened. It really happened, and I want to clap my hands and squeal.

  I watch his mouth flash back to that proud sneer for a moment. “She begged me for it.”

  “Steven . . . no. That’s not true.”

  “Oh, it’s true.”

  “But you wouldn’t have—”

  He waves a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just stay away from her. She’s evil.”

  “But how . . . ? I mean . . .” I want details, damn it. “My God, when did this happen?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it! Let’s go to bed.”

  “It’s not even eight—”

  He kisses me then, pushing me down on the couch, and I realize he’s completely turned on. He’s between my legs and shoving down his jeans before I can say a word. As he pumps furiously into me, he keeps his eyes squeezed tightly closed, and I’m pretty sure he’s picturing Rhonda.

  Holy crap. Holy crap.

  This is just . . . Wow.

  I gawk up at the ceiling as he mutters something about how much I want it, how much I need it. He calls me a slut. I try not to take offense because I’m pretty sure he’s talking to his stepmom.

  This is just too delicious for words.

  I won’t have to kill anyone after all.

  CHAPTER 42

  I’m positively giddy by the time we pull away from the cabin on Sunday afternoon. I’m still enthusiastically hunting my prey, but Steven is grumpy because he never did bag that deer.

  Last night I wanted to ask him a million questions about his affair with his stepmom, but he passed out immediately after sex and snored the whole night away on the couch. A lucky stroke, it turns out, because I could never have been patient, left to my own devices. But patience is key here. Patience is everything. His binge drinking is really working out great for me.

  This morning he was out the door with his rifle at 7:00 a.m., and we immediately loaded up the car when he returned in the late afternoon, just as the snow started to fall. It’s drifting gently through the trees as we bounce down the dirt road toward civilization. What a peaceful ending to this trip.

  Steven wants a coffee, so we stop at the general store. I stay hidden in the car again, not that I care about being spotted at this point. Still, when he tells me to slide down, I halfheartedly slouch in my seat.

  A car pulls in behind us as Steven rounds the corner and disappears. I have nothing to be on guard about now, so I pay no attention to the car door shutting behind me, but when the man walks past, I definitely take notice. I see a brown uniform and a face tipped down to look at me as he walks past.

  He’s frowning, likely wondering why I look like I’m trying to hide from him. I make a big show of yawning as if I want to catch a nap; then I sit up straight and give a little wave. He tips his head in acknowledgment when I smile, but his sharp eyes study me for five more seconds before he moves along.

  I see that the patch on his arm says SHERIFF, not DEPUTY. This sheriff isn’t exactly the kindly old man I’d pictured. He’s forty-five at most, and he glances at the license plate of the truck before he follows Steven’s path into the store.

  Good God. I blow a long breath past my teeth. My arrogance might have been my downfall if I’d followed through on my plans to kill Steven. That man was not the country bumpkin I assumed I’d be dealing with. That was a man with a suspicious eye and a keen curiosity.

  Steven reappears with a big Styrofoam cup of coffee. When he pulls out, I glance in the mirror to see the sheriff standing in the doorway, watching us leave.

  Yeah. I would have been in trouble. I want revenge, but I do not want a life sentence. I feel like a damn lucky girl as we hit the highway. I’m not on my way to jail, and what I have planned now will be far more painful for Steven than death. It’s a win-win.

  I manage to keep my mouth shut the whole way home, and, boy, it isn’t easy. Either Steven doesn’t remember telling me about Rhonda, or he’s just trying to avoid the subject, because he doesn’t bring it up either.

  When we get near the city, I ask if I can come over to his place tonight. When he responds with a grumpy “No,” I’m genuinely disappointed. I want him drunk and spilling more details right now.

  But this is for the best. I need to do a little planning.

  I wave from the curb as he drives away; then I take the stairs two at a time and burst into my apartment, calling hello to my cat. She blinks sleepily at me from the couch as if she never noticed I was gone. Clearly she did fine without me. She lets me close enough for a few quick strokes of her soft fur, and then she scoots elegantly out of my reach and into the kitchen.

  When I check the phone I left behind, I find three text messages from Luke and smile even harder at the sight of them. My cat didn’t miss me, but someone did.

  Want to go to dinner? he texted yesterday afternoon.

  Then: Checking to make sure you got my text.

  And finally: Now I’m just being annoying. Call me tomorrow if you’re free?

  I glance at the clock, but it’s already after 8:00. Oh, well.

  Popping open my laptop, I first search for everything I can find on Rhonda Hepsworth. Thousands of results appear almost instantaneously, and a quick study shows me that everything on the first few pages is related to the church. I open images and scroll through a few of those, but I see no sign of her wanton secrets here.

  She wears the same overdone smile in each one. Her hair is perfect and her necklines modest.

  When did this happen with Steven? And how? I’m absolutely dying to know, but he already told me he’d be busy catching up on church business for a couple of days. “Maybe we’ll hang out next weekend,” he’d said gruffly.

  If I were truly a needy, dependent Jane, I’d be worried right now. He’s obviously displeased and blowing me off, but my only irritation is that I won’t be able to grill him about Rhonda for a while.

  The truth is that he’s embarrassed he didn’t get to show off by bringing home a deer, so he’s pissed at me for witnessing his failure. I told him I was proud of him anyway. That made a vein in his forehead stand out.

  If only he’d taken me along on the hunt, he could have blamed his failure directly on me and my noise or female scent or something. Steven didn’t plan ahead.

  Tomorrow morning I’ll start lobbying to go to Bible study on Wednesday night, followed up by some fornicating afterward. I need him to take me back to his house so he can get drunk again.

  Returning to the hits on Rhonda Hepsworth, I click through to a church newsletter. Steven told me Rhonda had worked in the church offices before she married the pastor. If they keep all the archives online, maybe I can find her maiden name. But it’s a bust. The archives only go back two years.

  Still, it all must have been a big deal. Announcements. A grand wedding. I search for “Pastor Robert Hepsworth” and “Rhonda” and “engaged,” and I’ve got it. A beautiful picture of young Rhonda Entenman and her new father figure posing for an engagement picture.

  Her smile is more natural and her hair is less blond. She looks genuinely happy and could probably pass for eighteen instead of twenty-two. Good Pastor Hepsworth is positively glowing. The cuckold rises triumphant from his divorce! But still a cuckold, sadly.

  Lucky for me, Rhonda has a pretty unique name, so I search her maiden name and here she is: listed on the graduation rolls for a community college, named as a regional champion in the javelin throw during high school . . . and pictured with quite a few red Solo cups on ancient Facebook posts.

  Here she is in a bikini on a fishing boat, her arms around two other blondes. She’s flashing a peace sign with one hand and holding a beer in the other. Her body is taut and tan, that unique blend of firm and soft that only comes with youth. I can see what the pastor liked about her. I can see what Steven liked too.

  In another picture she’s sitting on a boy’s lap, skirt short and neckline
low. He’s smiling down at her cleavage while she laughs. She wasn’t always into older men, it seems. She looks like an entirely average college student. How in the world did she get suckered into marrying Hepsworth?

  But she probably wasn’t suckered. She was an average girl dating average boys and going to a cheap community college. The pastor is the chief of his world, with lots of money and influence and a big house. Rhonda decided she was moving up and moving up quick.

  Or maybe she was like Meg, looking desperately for a strong man to tell her what to do and wear and say, because she’d never had a dad around to be her moon and sun and anchor or whatever the hell good dads are supposed to be. I don’t know anything about that. I’ve had affairs with far too many of those good dads. They’re men, just men, the same as any other.

  However it had happened, Rhonda became the pastor’s wife, with the costume and performance that went with it, and it must not have been what she’d expected. Or maybe she just wanted to have her cake and eat it too. The father with all his money and power, and the son with his young body and filthy talk.

  This is all so exciting.

  I give up on my research on Rhonda and transfer the photos and video Steven took of me from my burner phone to my computer. I’ve already viewed it all several times, and, frankly, I don’t look too bad even without implants.

  I’m in the middle of deleting everything from the burner phone when I pause over one still shot. It’s just my body, my head cut off below the chin. I’m naked, one hand sliding up my neck and the other at my side as if I don’t know what to do with it. The only identifying mark is the filigree cross I wear at my neck. Other than the necklace, I’m completely exposed.

  Still pumped up on mischief and adrenaline, I type in a number I stole from Steven’s phone and text the picture with no message. Then I finish deleting the pics and remove the battery and SIM card from the phone to store everything in the dresser. I’ll destroy it all when this is done.

  Okay, I might keep a couple of the more flattering pictures. Every woman should have memories of her glory days once she’s old and wrinkled. I’ll add these to my collection.

  Back on my old phone, I text Steven a quick I luv u! along with a bunch of pink hearts. He doesn’t respond. Rude.

  Then I text Luke. Sorry. I was out of town on a quick trip.

  Only about thirty seconds pass before he responds. Something fun?

  No. Just work.

  I’m reading that book you got me. Thanks again. It’s great.

  I’m so glad you like it. I stare at my text for a while, trying to think what I should say, what he’d like me to say. Something to keep him interested now that I have a bit more time with him. I’m really missing your big bathtub tonight.

  Just my big bathtub?

  He’s good at making me laugh. I send him a winky face.

  Want to grab dinner tomorrow? he asks.

  I do. I really do. Steven is ignoring me, so it shouldn’t be any trouble at all, and I need to find a way to bide my time until Steven invites me back to his place again.

  Plus I want to see Luke at least one last time.

  I know I’m not real. Not really. But I feel more real with Luke, and now I won’t have to give him up quite yet. It’s a little gift dropped in my lap.

  I tap out a quick text. Maybe we could read again. Order take out.

  I’d love that.

  Yeah. Me too. And, strangely, it’s not just the sex I’m looking forward to. It’s . . . everything. The couch, the books, the jokes. I’m not sure why, but it hardly matters. This will all be over soon, and I’ll get back to my solitary sociopathic life in Kuala Lumpur. But I’ll enjoy everything about Luke while I can.

  CHAPTER 43

  I’m stretched across Luke’s couch, my feet on his lap. His warm hand absently holds one of my ankles, rising away each time he turns a page, then sliding back over my skin as if he likes the curve of my bones.

  The loft is quiet but for the paper rustle of our books. Empty cartons of Thai food are spread across the coffee table, and we’re lounging, full and sleepy like an old married couple.

  “I’m leaving next week,” I say into the silence.

  His hand tightens in a quick spasm on my ankle. He sets the book down. “What?”

  “The project is wrapping up.” I don’t know why I’m telling him. I planned to simply disappear. Am I trying to avoid hurting his feelings, or am I worried he’ll contact the police if I go missing? It must be the latter. I don’t worry about people’s feelings.

  “You’re going?” He sounds stunned even though he knew this was coming.

  “Yes.” I add a cheerful note to my voice. “Back to Malaysia!”

  “But . . . okay. Sure. Right.”

  I pick up my book again, my duty done. When I glance up, Luke is staring straight ahead as if I’ve shocked him. “The project is over,” I say again, more softly this time.

  “Yeah. I get it. I just thought . . . I don’t know.”

  I nod. “We had a good time.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s still time for a few more rounds, you know.” I nudge his thigh with my foot, but he doesn’t laugh.

  “I meant it when I said this wasn’t just about sex for me.”

  Not sure how to respond, I fall silent.

  He scrubs both hands through his hair. “You were the one who got away, you know? Now you’re off again. I know I’ll miss you, because I missed you the first time around.”

  I’m flattered. How can I not be? I only ever bought him a book. But it’s the sex he’ll really miss, of course. “Luke . . .” I shake my head. “I’m not good at relationships. I’m just . . . not.”

  He turns to study my face. “Not what?”

  “I’m different,” I try. “That’s all. I’m not like other people.”

  “I know you’re different.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. You’re . . . I don’t know . . . you’re a little autistic or something?”

  I’ve never thought of it that way, but I can see why he’d make that connection. As if my feelings are trapped inside instead of mostly nonexistent. “Something like that,” I murmur. “So . . . yeah. I’d never make a good girlfriend. So you don’t have to miss me. You’re allowed to miss the sex, though.” I nudge him again, but he doesn’t even pretend to smile.

  “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding like an insult, but . . . I like whatever is wrong with you, Jane.”

  I shake my head, flustered in a way I rarely am. I feel the skin of my face heat as if even my body is confused.

  He clears his throat and runs his fingers through his tousled hair. “Not wrong. I didn’t mean that. Just different. You’re always so calm.”

  “That’s true, I guess.”

  “Being with you feels smooth. Steady. Like you’re at peace.”

  “At peace?”

  “I know it must be more complicated than that for you, but whatever it is, I feel at peace with you.”

  Most people don’t notice that I’m different. I work hard at making sure I fit in. But sometimes perceptive people sense the coldness inside me, and they don’t feel at peace. They feel nervous. They draw away. They watch closely, waiting for a strike, and that’s exactly what they should do. There’s nothing comforting about me.

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “My mom was . . .” Luke huffs out a laugh. “My mom was a cyclone. Up and down, always intense, always chaotic. When I was little, I’d ride my bike home from school, and my head would get tighter and tighter with each block I passed, wondering what was waiting for me when I got home. Maybe she made three dozen cookies and she wanted to have a movie marathon even though I had a big test the next day. Or maybe she tore all the books and clothes out of my closet because she walked in and got irritated by my mess. Whatever it was, I couldn’t ignore it, because she demanded participation. She wanted our full attention. Always. It was exhausting. So fucking exhau
sting.”

  “So she was manic or bipolar or . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with her, as far as I could ever tell, so there was never a diagnosis. She’s never gotten help. And from the outside, everything looked perfect. Amazing Christmas decorations, fresh baked goods, new paint on the kitchen cupboards, our clothes perfectly ironed. But I hated that place. I hated being home. I could never, ever relax.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was constant uncertainty. We were always on edge, waiting for her next idea or explosion or plan. All I wanted was some quiet.”

  “I bet.” I’d lived with chaos too, though even that wasn’t constant. Nothing was. You could never let your guard down. It was like being at war from the time you were born.

  “Then my dad had a heart attack when I was in college. I know the stress of living with her killed him. I know it. But after the funeral all she could do was rage about how he’d left her. How selfish he was. She called him selfish for dying. We’d just lost our father, and it was all about her. It was always all about her.”

  “Is that when you stopped going back?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He still talks to her. He’s nicer than I am, I guess.”

  “You might see her when her grandchild is born.”

  “Yeah. I’m older now. I’m hoping I can tune her out or keep some emotional distance.”

  “Maybe.” I don’t really believe this. People don’t change.

  His hand is around my ankle again, squeezing gently. “Whatever it is about you, Jane—whatever makes you different—I like that. The calm. The logic. Maybe you’re a little cool sometimes, but that makes me happy. And if you leave, I’m going to miss it like crazy.”

  This is so strange. I don’t know what to say to him. Lovers have said romantic things to me before. They’ve even declared love, but this is different. I never believed them. I could see why they were saying it and what they wanted. I knew they were lying to me or maybe to themselves.

  But for some reason I believe Luke. And he’s not even professing love; he’s just saying that he likes me.