All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  Vera’s expression faltered then, her lips pressing together, her eyes narrowing. “Did you?” she asked weakly. “Did you really do it?”

  “Sleep with him? Of course not. We kissed—that was all—but it was still enough for you. Enough to blame me for everything. Enough to excuse it all.”

  Her eyes widened, her face reddening. “You kissed John?”

  “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know,” I said.

  “You acted like my friend, and you . . . you kissed my husband?” Her face seethed with rage. “You whore.”

  “This is all an act,” I said. “You knew. You—”

  “First night I leave you two alone,” she said, her words coming fast, furious. “Seriously? You pretended like you needed a family, like we would be best friends, but you never cared about me, did you? You never cared about us.” Her voice became shrill as she mocked me. “‘Please don’t leave me, I don’t know what to do here without you, I’m so scared.’ It was a lie, wasn’t it, just like she said? The minute you get the chance, you betray me. The minute you get a moment alone with him, you try to fuck my husband!”

  It all happened so fast.

  My breathing quickened and I felt hot all over, all the way up to my cheeks. Rage, rage for Vera, for John, for Davis, for Ellie, for everyone who had ever betrayed me, for my parents, for abandoning me when I needed them most. Leaving me raw and unarmed, ready to be taken advantage of by anyone and everyone. Rage. Rage that had to come out. She’d hurt me, just like they all had. And I always fucking took it.

  “You killed him!” I rushed at her, lifting the bottle over my head. As I brought it down, I caught the explosion of fear in her eyes, just before it connected with her cheek. She stumbled, reeling, her arms reaching out for something to hold on to, but she couldn’t catch her balance—she fell to the floor, shrieking as her face hit the tile.

  She turned and tried to push herself up, but already, I was on top of her, the shards of glass digging through my jeans into my knees. There was glass on the side of her face. The shock hadn’t left her eyes. I hardly knew what I was doing.

  “You killed him and you’re going to send the police that knife. You’re going to frame me, your best friend. You won’t get away with it.” My face only was inches from hers.

  Vera’s breath came in rasps, making a clicking sound in her lungs. From somewhere beneath her, the blood had already begun to leak, sticky, crimson, against the white tile of her kitchen. “Please,” she begged. “Please, just stop.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “And I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done.”

  “What I’ve done?” I asked, disbelief swimming within me as I grabbed her by the shoulders. For a second, I could see it in her eyes—she thought I was pulling her up, she thought I was still acting the friend. That I could just let this go—the murder, her deceit—because I was sick with shame over kissing him.

  “What about what you’ve done?” Before I could stop myself, I slammed her shoulders against the tile with all my might, and her head snapped back, thunking against the floor.

  Blood began to pool under her head. Darker, thicker, and faster than I’d expected.

  Her eyes were shut. She probably had a concussion.

  I scrambled up, staring at her. She wasn’t moving.

  “Vera?” I said. “Vera!”

  What had I done? What the fuck had I done?

  “Vera!” I said again, desperate now. I knelt, tugging at her shoulders, already heavy.

  As I turned her, I saw it. A shard of glass, a big one, stuck in the back of her neck. Still there. I dropped her; stepped back, my heart racing, my breaths coming frantically.

  Blood was everywhere. Spilling out of her, all over the tile.

  Had I killed her? Jesus Christ, had I fucking killed her?

  “Vera!”

  No answer. She was gone.

  I shook my head, trying to make sense of what had just happened, tears welling in my eyes. Vera was my friend, my last friend left on this earth, and now she was dead.

  I had killed her.

  It was self-defense, I told myself, already testing the sound of it in my head.

  She killed him, and she would have killed me next, and it was self-defense.

  It was self-defense it was self-defense it was self-defense.

  I paused, frozen, as it all clicked into place.

  It couldn’t be self-defense, I realized—I didn’t have a single bruise.

  The wine bottle stared at me from the tile, an answer.

  Hands shaking, I grabbed it. I stood up straight, looked in the reflection of the door to the backyard, and bit my lip. I’d been hurt before. I could hurt again.

  I screamed one more time as the bottle connected with the side of my face. The pain exploded instantly, radiating down, and immediately, I struck again.

  Exactly where I’d been struck before.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I shivered, pulling on a thicker sweater as I looked out the window.

  It was snowing—fifth day in a row—nearly a foot accumulated now. Much more, and I’d need to dig out my car. It was almost three. I’d told Rachel I’d come over this afternoon, but I wanted to go by the real estate office, drop off my rent, buy myself another month of indecision until I could make the right move, decide where to go next.

  It had been a week since Vera died. One week that had passed in a blur of grief and heartache and procedure. And snow. Lots and lots of snow.

  I’d called 911 as soon as I’d beaten myself up. The ambulance had come for her quickly, and, not long after, McKnight. He’d taken me immediately to the station, where I’d made a full statement and answered every question they had. Calm as I could bear, I told him about the discovery that Vera had a spare key to my house. That I believed it may have been her who put that note in my house, trying to point me toward Sam Alby. I explained, lying as little as I could, that I’d been visiting Vera when I discovered the seven-figure insurance policy. I became alarmed, knocking over a half-full wine bottle and a glass in the process. As I was cleaning it up, I’d spotted the package with my things in it: my knife, covered in blood, wrapped in my scarf. Vera walked in then, realized I knew, and attacked me, grabbing the bottle and socking me across the face with it. I hit her back, attempting to push her off me, and she fell backward, her head smashing into the tile, a shard of glass in her neck. Self-defense.

  Then, in an attempt to get him to really believe me, I finally told him about our plan. That John had wanted to disappear, and Vera had asked for my help. That that’s why I’d told him I’d seen John fall. I was only trying to help my new friends get out of trouble. I never once thought that the entire time, Vera was working to frame me. I explained to McKnight that the murder weapon was one of my knives, one I’d noticed missing days before and had even texted Vera about. I told him that, without a doubt, my DNA and prints would be on it, but swore up and down I’d never seen it covered in blood until it tumbled out of my mother’s scarf.

  They held me overnight, my cheek aching, my bones heavy as I sat in the cell, wondering if I had really fucked it up this time. I used my call to phone Maggie, asked her to take care of Dusty. Praying I would get to see him again soon.

  And after twenty-four hours, my prayer had come true. After twenty-four hours, they released me.

  Two days ago, McKnight had, once again, come by my cottage. He returned the items they’d taken from my house, my laptop included. Then he told me that after receiving confirmation from Mass Mutual that Vera had tried to cash in an extremely large insurance policy on John, after the knife had come back with my prints, as well as hers, after they’d discovered some disturbing journal entries on Vera’s laptop dating from after she heard about the rumors, they’d released Sam Alby and charged Vera, posthumously, with John’s death.

  They wouldn’t be pressing charges against m
e—for the plot, or for the altercation with Vera. My story had checked out, consistent with Vera’s autopsy and the forensics on the knife, and Maggie had even spoken to McKnight on my behalf, telling him that Vera had been lashing out, threatening me, ever since John died. It wasn’t exactly true, but he didn’t have to know that; I had a feeling that Maggie was only protecting me from people she thought could hurt me, just like she would her own daughter.

  Even so, McKnight had looked at me as if I were a teenager caught in the middle of a graduation prank gone wrong. “Next time someone tries to involve you in something illegal like this, run. You might not find yourself so lucky again.”

  All week, while the police processed the scene of our altercation, I’d been nervous, waiting for them to find the note John had left me, for Rachel’s photos of him to turn up. Vera had taken them—obviously—but I didn’t know what she’d done with them. Yet McKnight didn’t mention them. It seemed, against all odds, that I was safe.

  I walked to the bathroom and examined my bruise in the mirror. It was yellowing already, would begin to fade soon. I dabbed on a bit of Dermablend, then grabbed my purse and leashed up Dusty. When Rachel had called yesterday, inviting me and Dusty over for an afternoon glass of wine, I’d accepted without hesitation. I had no one left, and I was eager for company, eager to speak to someone who’d known Vera and John, who was, in some way, a witness to all this.

  Once I was bundled up and we were outside, Dusty pulled me toward the mailbox, one of his favorite places to pee. The box was overflowing—I’d been bad about checking since Vera’s death. As Dusty lifted his leg, marking the post, I grabbed the mess of mail, walked to my car, and tossed it on the passenger seat.

  Secured in his crate, Dusty didn’t whine quite so much as we wound toward town—he was getting used to the car, which was good. Though I hadn’t figured out exactly what my next step was—go to L.A., where I still had an old friend from college, even though I hadn’t talked to her in years; head back to Brooklyn, where it would be easy for me to get work, hoping and praying that Davis was finally done with me; or simply find somewhere new on the map—there would be plenty of driving ahead of us.

  As I turned left, toward downtown Woodstock, I could hardly believe I was staying another month. Rachel had been the one to suggest it, when she’d called me yesterday to invite me over and I’d opened up about the fact that I didn’t know what to do—where to go next. Just give yourself time, she’d said. It’s easier to leave than it is to come back.

  Maybe she was right—or maybe I was just afraid to go, leave Vera and John, whom I’d been so wrong about but had loved all the same, completely behind.

  As I drove, I tried to focus on the afternoon sunshine, glistening against the snow, but all I could see was her face. Vera lived in my mind now. That shard of glass in the back of her neck. Red blood pooling on white tile. The way I’d broken her for good.

  She was a monster, I told myself. Had told myself over and over again, every waking moment for the past week. She was a monster who had deserved to die—who’d murdered her own husband.

  I hadn’t killed an innocent woman. I’d killed a killer.

  Dusty whined, as if sensing my misery.

  I’d killed a killer, I told myself again. Some days, it was the only thought that kept me going, kept me from returning to the hike, jumping off the cliff myself, and letting the water break me, too.

  FORTY-NINE

  I need to talk to you.”

  I jumped, banging my head on the frame of the car, which I’d parked in front of Schoolhouse before dropping off my rent check. Quickly, I secured Dusty back into his crate, then turned to see Claire, her cheeks red from the cold, wearing no more than a light sweater, her half apron from the restaurant, and jeans. “What are you doing out here?” I asked. “You’re bound to freeze.”

  “I know,” she said, blinking fast. “I’m sorry, just—can we talk? Please?”

  “Of course, but I’ve got him.” I motioned to Dusty, who pawed at the door of his prison.

  Claire smiled, briefly, at my dog. “It’s fine. It will only take a minute.” Her head swiveled up the block and back. “Can we, uh, get in your car?”

  I walked around to the driver’s side and tossed my junk mail to the back so Claire would have a place to sit. I turned the ignition, getting the heat cranking. Woodstock’s hippie radio station blared—with a flick, I shut it off.

  “I won’t keep you long,” Claire said as she shut the door behind her. “I’m supposed to be working, anyway. I saw you, and I told them I needed five . . .” She bit her lip, then shoved her hands into the pockets of her apron. She blinked slowly.

  “What is it?”

  Her eyes locked ahead, as if there were an answer in my frost-kissed windshield. “I never meant it to turn out like this,” she said. “I should have . . . I should have . . .” she stammered.

  “Claire,” I said, reaching a hand across the console, taking hers in mine. She seemed more a child than ever. Desperate. Scared. “What is it?” I asked again. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  “Vera.” Her eyes welled with tears. “If she had known the truth . . .”

  “Claire,” I said, squeezing her hand in mine as I tried to keep my voice calm. “I believe Vera did know the truth.”

  She pulled her hand back, and her eyes flashed at me—a brief spot of rage—but just as quickly, the look slipped away with a shake of her head. “No. I’m saying that I know she didn’t. She thought that John and I were, that we . . .”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Weren’t you?”

  “No. We were just friends.” She huffed. “I know you’re not supposed to be friends with someone that much older, but that’s how it was. My dad can be a dick sometimes, and John”—she turned, her eyes catching mine—“he would listen. Sometimes I’d stay after class for an hour just talking to him.”

  It had taken me so long to believe the worst of John, but over the past week, the wool had finally fallen from my eyes. Vera and John weren’t the people I had thought they were. They never had been. “You don’t have to protect him, Claire. It’s okay. I know you were . . . I know you were pregnant.”

  Tears spilled from her eyes, and I reached out to hug her, but she shook me off. “You don’t understand. I found out I was pregnant last spring, but we never—I never even thought of—god, he’s so old. It was this guy I met at a party in Poughkeepsie. I didn’t even know his last name. I was too afraid to tell my parents, and I didn’t have the money.”

  I jolted, and even Dusty, sensing my shock, began to paw at his crate again.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I’m saying it wasn’t John’s. That’s gross.”

  It was the way she said it, that teenage way of cutting straight to the point, not holding back.

  “You swear?” I asked. “You don’t have to—”

  “I swear,” Claire said. “John tried to get me to talk to my parents and my friends, but he didn’t get it. It was so embarrassing. The guy said he was going to call me, and he never did. I didn’t even have his number to call him and tell him what happened. I’d put mine in his phone, and he never texted after—anything. And we used protection—I’m not stupid—I just, something must have gone wrong.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t have the money, and so John paid for it, and he drove me to the clinic the day I had to go. He said, he said that someone had come to him in trouble before, and he hadn’t helped her. He said he wanted to help me.”

  Like a shot to the heart, I remembered. John had felt guilty about pressuring Vera to continue the pregnancy.

  I should have driven Vera to the clinic, held her hand, respected what she wanted.

  My god, I thought. John had been good after all. He wasn’t perfect, he never should have kissed me, but he had been trying to do the right thing. He hadn’t deserved to die. Fuck.
He’d wanted to help her, this girl who looked up to him as an artist and pseudo–father figure, nothing else. He’d been stupid enough to think that people would understand.

  If the truth had only come out—god, it was too awful to think. None of this would have happened. No threats from Sam Alby. No impending lawsuit. No hike, no lies to the police. Vera would never have killed him—she loved him, in her twisted way—and more than that, I would never have had to do what I did.

  I would never have had to kill her. To take the life of my best friend.

  My heart ached at all that had been lost, all for nothing.

  “My dad found out,” Claire went on. “I don’t know if he snooped on me or if he followed us or what, but he went nuts. He said this was proof, that he had never trusted John, had always been against the classes, and it . . . it all just kind of unraveled from there. It’s not that I didn’t deny it to my dad—I did. We fought about it all the time, especially after he started talking about a lawsuit, but he kept demanding that I prove it wasn’t true. And it was just so humiliating to tell my dad it had been some random guy, some guy who hadn’t even called. I thought if I kept saying it wasn’t John, they’d eventually believe me. I kept telling myself it was none of their business, and I still don’t think it was, but if I could have told everyone the truth—point-blank—then maybe my dad wouldn’t have done what he did, and maybe Vera wouldn’t have been so mad at John.” Her words choked in her throat. “Maybe John would still be alive . . . maybe she wouldn’t have attacked you. God, maybe she’d be alive, too.”

  Another tear slipped down her cheek, black with mascara and eyeliner, forming a squiggly line that seemed to split her face in two.

  She was right. If she had only been able to tell everyone the truth, none of this would have happened. But how could I expect that of a child? Someone who surely knew what sort of slut-shaming would await her if she did? We were virgins or whores, the world so ready to put us into boxes, to decide what kind of girls or women we were. I knew this well. Now she did, too.