You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  As he disappeared into the house, Michael slid out of his canvas shoes and sat down, dangling his own hairy legs into the pool. I kicked him gently and he bumped me with his shoulder.

  “What were you talking about over there?” I asked.

  “The way the sprinklers go, there’s a space they don’t hit, by the fence, so you either have to water by hand or it just dries out. We were thinking about putting a tiered garden there and rigging up a kind of irrigation thing, old-school like the Egyptians used.”

  “You were talking about the Egyptians?” Oh, it felt so sweet to be amused, to be having a good time. I’d missed this feeling.

  “They had this reservoir drip irrigation system that would keep the beds moist without rotting out the fence like a spray of water would. But you’d need to do both sides.”

  “So you’re having fun?” I knew he was, but saying it would mean I’d found us quality friends.

  “Sure. He’s an interesting guy.” Michael leaned over and drew something on the surface of the water, a sketch absorbed even as his finger moved.

  Brady came back onto the patio with a fresh pitcher of drinks. “She’ll be out in a sec. Hey, Michael, I think I’ve got some lumber and stuff in the garage. Let’s see what all we’ll need.” He set the margaritas down on the wrought-iron patio table. “Think this’ll keep you busy while we’re gone, Kacy?”

  Before I could do more than grin, Michael was on his feet, water rolling down his calves. He slipped his wet feet into his shoes and followed Brady through the front gate.

  All the salt was gone from the rim of my glass. I was ready for a refill, but I didn’t want to stand up. Leaning back on my elbows, I could see a few stars above the haze of neighborhood lights. The air stirred, warm on my neck but cool where Michael had splashed me on his way past. Up north this time of year, I might have sensed a slight chill of autumn after the sun went down. A few trees might show the first signs of changing color, but here in Texas, it was swimming pools and margaritas.

  “You look comfortable.” Lena had come out without me even noticing. Michael probably wasn’t the only one who was buzzed. Good thing we didn’t need to drive home. The thought struck me as funny, and Lena smiled back at me as she picked up my glass and refilled it.

  She sat down beside me, her hair slipping free from its ponytail. She pulled it loose, shaking her head, and I remembered wanting to ask her about the previous owner of the house. I started with, “Sandy—”

  With the hair elastic in her teeth and one hand holding her hair in place, Lena said, “That bitch.”

  I stopped, startled, as she wrapped the band around a ponytail from which wiry strands still escaped. Then she said, “Sorry, that’s just how I think of her in my mind. That-bitch-Sandy. What about her?”

  “She said somebody died in my house and it was kind of gruesome.”

  “Please. Any excuse for drama. You want me to spit in her iced tea?”

  I must have looked confused, because she laughed again, the sound rolling across the backyard. “Brady’s heading back to her place tomorrow. She designed her own tile backsplash, and now she hates it. Just hates it. But somehow it’s our fault for not pointing her in a different direction. Which—news flash—I did, but she didn’t listen. It’s the great custom light installation fiasco of last year all over again. Dumb and mean is a bad combination. I swear, if she gives us grief about the payment, I’m cutting her off.”

  “So she was lying about my house?”

  “Yeah, the former owner died, but he was old. No big deal.”

  The lime from my margarita puckered the back of my throat, but I asked, “What was he like?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did you ever see him?”

  “He was fine. Kind of a pain about us bringing our trash bins in on time and leaving work vans in the driveway. But once one of our packages was misdelivered, and he brought it over. Not real friendly, but whatever.”

  Watching our feet slow-kicking back and forth in the water, I found Sandy’s malice, our house’s history, and even my own past blurring. What did it matter? I had nothing to worry about. This moment was enough. It was perfect.

  And maybe Lena felt the same warm glow, because she clicked her glass against mine. “Compared to that guy, y’all are a definite improvement.”

  C2C TRANSCRIPT

  5

  Helen: Now we have to discuss the facts of the crime. This couple killed over a dozen victims that we know for sure, both men and women.

  Julia: That’s weird, right? Because serial killers usually stick to a preferred gender or victimology. They’re what you’d call “resistant to change.”

  Helen: Understatement! In fact, Dean Corll, “the Candyman,” took exception when his accomplice showed up with a girl victim instead of a boy, and that fight led to his death. The Gallego couple preferred teenage girls, the Moorhouse Murderers killed women, as did Infante and Villeda and the Hillside Stranglers, while the Moors Murderers—Ian Brady and Myra Hindley—preyed on children.

  Julia: Crimes of opportunity.

  Helen: Definitely. They’d drive around until they saw a potential victim.

  Julia: Someone easy to overpower.

  Helen: True. That wasn’t the case with the team we’re discussing today. They preyed on men, women, young—well, teenagers—and old. That’s a big reason nobody suspected a serial killer was operating in the area. No common victimology. Some of their victims were strong. Like Marcus Fontenot. He was ex-military, and even though he was older—

  Julia: How old was he?

  Helen: [sound of papers] He was … over seventy. Here it is. Seventy-five. But he was a big guy. Six feet even.

  Julia: Not the easiest target.

  Helen: And that’s so strange. One of the earliest targets was a young woman, another was a teenage boy, but some victims like Marcus would be a struggle to subdue.

  Julia: Assuming he had enough time to struggle.

  Helen: That’s the thing. Maybe it seemed less dangerous, being approached by two people—

  Julia: Especially when one’s a woman—

  Helen: Exactly. He let his guard down.

  CHAPTER

  7

  NOW DAYS HAD gone by since I’d told someone—more than one person—about my past, and no one seemed to care. No tar, no feathers, no public shaming. So, when my phone buzzed with a text and then another, I didn’t panic. Sitting at the kitchen table with my coffee, I sipped it deliberately, savoring. I had a new number, a new life, a new friend. My phone wasn’t a coiled snake, poised to strike.

  In the weeks following Aimee’s betrayal, an article had been published in the local paper, a statement had been made by the museum, and suddenly I was receiving hate texts and prank calls. A hundred messages from strangers made it clear they thought I hadn’t gotten half the punishment I deserved, and each had a special reason I should be ashamed—not only of what I’d supposedly done, but of my very existence. Entitled, sheltered, spoiled.

  And then they’d call me lucky for getting off unpunished.

  Lena hadn’t given a shit about any of that, and the first new text on my phone was from her. Just making sure y’all stumbled home okay and a winking emoji.

  I texted back: Margaritas=happy. Thnx … next time on us.

  Then I opened the text from the unknown sender and read: Hi Kacy, The Bluebonnets are working on a fundraising event for the literacy project and I thought your experience might prove helpful. We have our first committee meeting over lunch today. Is there any way I might pick you up at eleven? I apologize for the short notice and appreciate your help. Elizabeth

  Well, maybe freaking out at a dinner party and swearing at a social gathering was the right way to win friends. And Lena had accepted the true me. This could be my chance to break through with Elizabeth. Committee meetings and event planning were familiar territory from my old life. Before I could overthink anything, I responded: Sounds good. I’ll be ready.

>   Two hours, three outfit changes, and an application of makeup later, I slipped into the passenger seat of Elizabeth’s sensible SUV. Her blond hair hung loose and sleek, and her eyes were shaded by Chanel sunglasses. She looked impeccably unapproachable.

  But it was too late to back out. I pulled the door shut, and she said, “I hope you don’t mind, but we’re meeting downtown. It’s about a half hour away.”

  And just like that, my nerves returned. This wasn’t Lena, with her devil-may-care approach to life. This was Elizabeth, who maybe liked me, maybe wanted to be friends.

  Or maybe just pitied me. After all, I’d sobbed in her bathroom and sworn at the Bluebonnet meeting. One more strike and I might be out of chances.

  We drove out of the neighborhood, two lanes becoming four, and entered the highway, where the number doubled again, with lanes entering and exiting, funneling cars over and across the whole city. Even though we weren’t in the heart of Houston yet, buildings unrolled on either side as far as I could see, just as many and as tall as up north, but with more sky arching above. The vastness of the sky only made the sheer number of houses, apartments, offices, and hospitals that much more staggering.

  Big as Texas was, there were plenty of people to fill it up.

  As if she knew what I was thinking, Elizabeth said, “There’s so much new construction, even in our neighborhood. The builders promise that people can get their kids into the existing schools, but then we end up rezoning and the protests start.”

  “Is that something you think about? The schools?”

  Her sunglasses hid her expression, but she hesitated before saying, “Not yet. But it never hurts to plan ahead.”

  So we were both still on the threshold, not newly married, no babies. Maybe someday we’d be signing our kids up for preschool together, but not yet.

  Not yet.

  The restaurant was just as big as everything else in Texas, but it wasn’t a steakhouse or Tex-Mex theme. The blown-glass artwork, the airy interior, and the eclectic menu made it sophisticated yet accessible.

  And the women we met were just as polished and warm. Inés was the wife of an Argentinian surgeon, a “visiting scholar” at the medical school; Rachael was a graphic designer, pregnant with her first child; and an empty chair right next to me was reserved for Alondra.

  Rachael said to us, “She texted me her order and said we should get started. You know how it is—a new case, a big-deal client—but she’ll be here. Eventually.”

  “She’s a lawyer?” I whispered to Elizabeth as we sat down.

  “Criminal defense,” she whispered back. “Always busy but really nice.”

  I unfolded my napkin, sipped my water, and kept quiet, letting the conversation and the business of ordering flow around me. If I messed this up, who knew if Elizabeth would give me another chance, let alone the Bluebonnets.

  As Rachael asked Elizabeth about someone I didn’t know. Elizabeth looked away and knocked her napkin on the floor. Inés took that opportunity to ask me some easy questions—where I’d moved from, what Michael did—and I turned them right back on her until our drinks were poured, our menus had been removed, and the server departed.

  Rachael glanced down at her phone. “Inés, you know that car we were talking about, the one with Louisiana plates?”

  Inés glanced at me, making sure I was paying attention. “First, we noticed it on the way to see the alligators at Brazos Bend State Park.”

  “Getting our steps in.” Rachael flashed me her slim wristwatch, which must be a fitness tracker too. Even pregnant, she was tracking her steps? These women were hard-core.

  “And that car looked brand-new, but it’s been parked on the side of the road for almost a week. I drove back around yesterday just to see, and there it was.” Inés widened her kohl-rimmed eyes like she was telling a ghost story.

  Elizabeth’s smooth brow furrowed. “Maybe the people were camping?”

  Rachael shook her head and held up her phone. “They were dead. Police just found them hacked to pieces.”

  Inés gasped, and Elizabeth said sharply, “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not laughing,” Rachael snapped back. “It just hit my news feed. They were on their way back to Louisiana after visiting her folks in Rosenberg. Nobody knew to look for them on some country road, and even if they had, the bodies were way back in the swamp. Some pieces were missing because the gators—”

  “That’s enough!” Elizabeth’s voice was so loud that a table of men in suits looked over at us, and Rachael blushed, one hand dropping to her pregnant belly.

  “I didn’t mean …”

  Inés patted Rachael’s arm. “It’s okay, sweetie. Maybe this is not the best talk for lunchtime, but you can tell me on the way home.”

  Actually, I wouldn’t have minded hearing a little more, but instead I said, “Is this how all your committee meetings go?”

  Not a great joke, but enough for Rachael and Elizabeth to both smile weakly. Inés laughed and bumped my shoulder. “Wait and see, Kacy. Wait and see!”

  Elizabeth pulled a trim notebook from her purse. “So, where shall we start?”

  This was the moment of truth. Either I’d say nothing and they’d forget I existed, so I might as well have stayed home, or I’d open my mouth and say something stupid. I’m confident and competent. I can do this. I’d planned dozens of events—openings and fund raisers and receptions—but I’d planned them with Aimee. We’d spent hours matching the music to the canapés to the art to the type of attendees. If the art was off-putting, should the music be avant-garde and discordant, or soothing like Norah Jones? Would young professionals prefer a DJ or a big-band, retro vibe? And the budget was always the bottom line.

  Inés started throwing out ideas—a fashion show, a lavish gala, a ball—and I couldn’t help asking, “What’s the budget?”

  The women all exchanged a little smile that made me feel stupid, and then Rachael said, “These women—and Alondra, especially Alondra—are extremely talented at getting donations.”

  “But it’s a good question.” Elizabeth’s tone was a little too sharp, and Rachael’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Inés jumped in. “But the better question—more fun, at least—is the theme.”

  Surely it wasn’t my imagination that Elizabeth seemed on edge around Rachael? But Inés spoke rapidly, throwing out fantastical ideas, from a carnival to a time traveler’s ball.

  We were all laughing at the idea of a junior-prom theme when another woman, tall with a round face and blunt-cut bob, strode purposefully through the restaurant. She dropped into the chair beside me and held out her hand. “Hi. Alondra.”

  Surprised, I put my own hand into hers for a brisk shake as she looked around the table. “Thanks for meeting downtown, ladies. I know it’s a little out of your way. Catch me up.”

  Alondra sipped her iced tea, made a face, and flagged a waiter. “I’d like a water without ice or lemon and a Whitmeyer’s single-barrel neat.” Then she glanced around the table and arched an eyebrow as if to ask, Am I drinking alone?

  Inés set down her iced tea and nodded at the waiter. “Prosecco, please. No, a spritz. What’s the one?”

  “Aperol spritz,” Rachael said. “Wish I could.” She patted her stomach.

  Alondra turned her attention to me and Elizabeth. “Ladies?”

  I hesitated, and Elizabeth said, “I’m driving.” There was a bite in her tone, but Alondra just shrugged. I shook my head no.

  She wrinkled her nose. “So are we stuck with the club? The acoustics were awful last year. Everything else was fine.”

  “We can do better than fine.” I sounded like my old confident self, and Elizabeth smiled, relaxing a little. “You’re more familiar with the area than I am. What kind of options do we have?”

  As the conversation started up again, I could absorb myself in the merits of one location over another, the idea of a themed event, even cracking a few jokes that made Elizabeth laugh. Now Alondra was th
e one watching, but I could see Rachael and Inés glancing at her after every suggestion.

  The server came back with our meals, and as he worked his way around the table, Alondra leaned close to me, her gaze piercing. “So, new girl. Where you from?”

  “Jersey.”

  “Moved when?” Her question came right on the heels of my answer.

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “Profession?”

  “My husband’s an engineer.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m not … I mean …” I trailed off, hoping she’d change the subject. There was a difference between talking about my past on purpose and being interrogated about it. And the rapid-fire question-and-answer session made my breath shallow and my pulse race.

  Elizabeth said, “Kacy worked at a museum.” No, no, no, not my personal history. My nails bit into my palms. Better that this polished attorney think I was just some no-ambition tagalong to my husband.

  Alondra didn’t take her eyes off me. “One I’ve heard of?”

  She wasn’t going to stop, not until I answered. “The Martina V. Umana Museum of Modern Art.”

  “I heard you stood up to Sandy.” Alondra’s expression hadn’t changed, she hadn’t moved at all, but I felt as though she’d leaned forward and was staring directly into my soul.

  “What?” My cheeks grew hot at the sudden pivot, and I was conscious that the other three women were completely silent. “I guess, I mean … you heard about that?”

  Her eyes crinkled in a smile that seemed to relax her entire body. “I hear about everything. Nicely done. Rahmia’s done more good in a few months than Sandy will in a lifetime.”

  I might have asked what she meant, but she called out a question across the table, leaving me feeling as though the rapier that had pinned me to my chair had been withdrawn. I moved my salad around my plate until Alondra asked me a softball question about hors d’oeuvres and the conversation returned to the event.

  Inés and Rachael were still working on a shared order of tiramisu when Alondra stood up, her black coffee “to go” in one hand and the other on the back of my seat.