You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  I snapped a picture of the note and the envelope—no return address but postmarked Texarkana—and texted it to Alondra. I could just picture the creep who’d sent it. Some old busybody without the savvy to use the internet or the sense to realize that not everything the media tells you is the truth. Just like the books I’d left at Elizabeth’s, I wouldn’t lie about this, but I wasn’t going to tell Michael about it either. My phone buzzed with an incoming text. Alondra had written: High publicity case=crazies. Anything personal or specific, send to police. Otherwise hold onto them, but don’t let them fuck w/your head.

  Too late for me and Michael, I thought. Our heads were totally fucked.

  I added the poison pen letter to the folder with Aimee’s postcards and slid the whole thing between two art books. Michael didn’t need to know about this either. So much for being totally honest. I’d always been proud of being a lousy liar. Maybe I’d been kidding myself about who I really was too.

  Throughout the rest of the day, I went back to the online forum over and over, scanning every new piece of evidence, every missing person or found body or anything that popped up there. And they kept discussing Lena. One poster with the screen name TXsally808 swore up and down that Lena must have been the organized one, the dominant one, the one who’d gotten away. I’m just saying I heard that they had a neighbor who kept complaining to the HOA about them, and he turned up dead. Looked like a slip and fall accident, but I betcha that woman was behind it.

  I shut the laptop, but the words echoed in my head. The previous homeowner, blood spreading over what was now our bedroom floor, the things Lena had said: Kind of a pain about us bringing our trash bins in on time and leaving work vans in the driveway and pervert. But he wasn’t the pervert; it had been Lena and Brady. The cameras had been there before Michael and I ever moved in. They had been watching that old man, just the same way they must have been watching us. And he’d been alone when they came in that night and attacked, leaving him to bleed out. Had he known what was happening?

  Maybe, someday, we would have been next.

  * * *

  I should have known Michael would catch me. I was on my laptop after dinner, and I thought he was asleep. Rahmia’s savory rice and chicken had made our kitchen table feel like a haven.

  For once, Grace had cooed happily in her bouncy chair while Michael and I ate together, but I found that the list of things I couldn’t tell him—the library books I’d consulted, the internet forums, the letter from a stranger—were the only things I could think about. And when I asked about his day, he said only, “I’m just working on the project. They moved me to computer stuff. Spent all day staring at a screen.”

  Too soon we were finished, he’d rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, and by the time I’d fed Grace and put her down, Michael was in our bedroom, leaving me alone again.

  So I turned back to the internet forums and was soon deeply engrossed in a discussion about couples who kill. A poster speculated that maybe Lena had been the dominant figure and Brady the submissive until he himself snapped and rebelled.

  I didn’t hear Michael come into the room, didn’t even notice him behind me, until he leaned over the back of the sofa and flipped my laptop shut. “Why are you looking at that garbage?”

  “I was just trying to understand.” I set the laptop aside and stood to face him across the sofa.

  “It’s disgusting, the way people are talking about this, enjoying it. Vultures. People are dead, worse than dead—” He shook his head like he was trying to unsee something more terrible than I could imagine.

  “That’s not why I’m—”

  His face tight with anger, he jabbed a finger at me. “You ought to know—they did the same thing to you, calling you an art thief, a liar, an embezzler—”

  “Stop yelling at me!” I picked up a sofa cushion, holding it like a shield against my stomach. My heart was pounding harder than it had the night we’d fled to the police station. Michael and I didn’t fight, not like this. How could I explain with him looking at me like I was someone he hated?

  He gripped the back of the sofa. “Speculating, joking and blaming and picking your life apart like you weren’t a real person at all. And now you’re reading the same shit about me? I thought you were better than this. I thought I could trust you—”

  “You can trust me. But you’re not talking to me.”

  “I want to move past this, but it keeps going on and on.” He turned away, his shoulders slumping. “I told the police everything I know, I told you everything, I let them search our home, tear up our garden, and it just keeps dragging on. And now this.”

  Michael had never accused me of anything, not even when I’d looked guilty. This wasn’t like him. “I know.” I walked around the sofa and laid a hand on his back. “You did everything right; you did.” But he hadn’t told me everything. That wasn’t true at all.

  “If I had realized sooner—” He shrugged off my hand and faced me. I could see how deep the lines between his brows had gotten, how bloodshot his eyes had become. I reached up to touch his cheek, but he stepped out of range.

  “You couldn’t have realized earlier—he’s a predator. He was camouflaged.” Aimee had already taught me that a friendly face could hide a sociopath. Had Michael thought I was the only one who could be fooled?

  “And now you’re looking at that trash …”

  “Not because I enjoy it. I’m trying—”

  “I told you what happened.” From down the hallway, I heard Grace’s tentative cry, sleepy and confused. Not now. Not now. Go back to sleep.

  “You told me some of what happened.” I regretted the words even as I uttered them.

  “What do you want from me? If I don’t tell you everything, every gory detail, you’re going to think I did it?”

  Grace’s wailing was gathering strength, but I said, “You’re not talking to me, you’re not talking to a therapist, you need help.”

  “Are you blaming me for all this? I’m trying to keep a roof over our heads. I don’t have the luxury of a nervous breakdown.”

  “That’s not fair.” My voice cracked a little, and I hated how weak it sounded. Was that who he saw when he looked at me? The broken-down mess whose total collapse had brought us to Texas in the first place? Grace was crying louder now, the sound vibrating through my body.

  “None of this is fucking fair.”

  He wheeled around, but before he could escape into the bedroom, I caught his arm. “You can’t just blame me and shut me out. We’re in this together. We’re a family.”

  That traumatized woman I’d been before was gone. I was stronger than he knew.

  But when he looked back at me, his face was flushed and his eyes were glassy and distant.

  “We’re not in this together. You weren’t there. It’s just me.”

  My breath caught. “You don’t mean that.”

  When his hand balled into a fist, I flinched, ducking away to protect my bruised cheek.

  His gaze fell, and he shoved his hand into his pocket, muttering, “Go get the baby already.” He strode back into the bedroom, slamming the door.

  And I let him go.

  Shaking, I went to lift Grace from her crib, trying to catch my breath.

  We’d always been in it together. That was our deal. That was what he’d said when we moved. If we weren’t a team, why the hell was I still here? Grace and I could be up in New Jersey watching football with my parents as the aroma of Crock-Pot chili filled their home. I could be hanging out with my big sister Charlotte, pretending to watch her kids while really they watched Grace.

  Her sobs had subsided, and now she was rooting around my neck and shoulder, looking for comfort. I settled her against my breast as the tears blurring my vision finally spilled over. You weren’t there. But we had been, hadn’t we, Grace and I? Although we’d been safe at home, asleep, as far as Michael was concerned, we’d been in that room with all the blood and death. He’d seen us on the video moni
tor, and he’d known the danger we were in. We were the reason he’d been afraid to challenge Brady. If it hadn’t been for us, he wouldn’t have had to play along. When he looked at me now, did it put him right back in that room?

  Grace was sleeping again, a bubble of milk at the corner of her mouth. I brought her to my shoulder. I knew what trauma felt like, I’d been there before, and I knew the value of space and silence. Healing doesn’t happen when you’re churning up raw flesh. Sometimes you need to let it all settle down so you can find the bedrock of your soul.

  But what if it didn’t? What if the man who’d stood by me, my best friend, my husband, father of my daughter, what if the Michael I knew was gone forever?

  Eventually, I grew uncomfortable in the chair. I put Grace down in the crib. In our room, Michael had rolled himself in a blanket from head to toe. On the bed stand next to him I saw a foil packet of over-the-counter sleeping pills, but I couldn’t believe he was sleeping, not really.

  “Michael?” I whispered, but he didn’t answer.

  * * *

  I lay awake that night opposite Michael, my muscles tensed in painful knots. Without the baby monitor, I never really felt like I could stop listening for Grace. My mind wouldn’t stop whirling. I should pack in the morning; I should take Grace and go to my parents. I wouldn’t really be leaving, just giving him space. And keeping myself and our baby safe, something deep inside whispered.

  But I didn’t want to leave Michael. I wanted him to roll over in the bed and gather me close. I wanted him to kiss me, to smile at me, to make me feel loved again. But instead there was only the barricade of blanket, another rejection like a thorn in my heart.

  Somehow I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke, Michael’s side of the bed was empty, his pillow and the blanket gone. He couldn’t even stand to sleep next to me. All the pain of the previous night returned. And this was a Saturday. Forty-eight hours of avoiding each other, of pretending we hadn’t said the things we had, two full days before the Monday-to-Friday routine saved us from each other again.

  We used to work on the house together on weekends, walking around furniture stores and plant nurseries, lining up projects and planning for the future. But I couldn’t see any future with the distant husband I’d faced last night.

  I listened for Grace, but the house was silent. I dressed quickly and tiptoed down the hallway. Her door was open. In the gray morning light, I could see her sleeping on her back with an arm outflung. And, on the floor right next to the crib, lay Michael, wrapped in a blanket. The curve of his cheek was a larger echo of Grace’s, and his brow was smooth, the corners of his mouth slack.

  I hadn’t seen him relaxed since before that terrible night in this same nursery. And I wanted him back so badly, that other husband, the one I loved and trusted. I could see him right there in front of me, but I knew that waking him would break the spell. I stepped back into the hallway and pulled the nursery door softly shut.

  In the kitchen I opened the fridge, looking past the cartons of yogurt, the leftovers from Rahmia’s casserole, and the bag of breast milk. We had eggs. I’d make scrambled eggs and toast. That could be breakfast for one or for two. But when I pulled the carton of eggs out, I caught sight of what was behind it, and I let them fall. Lena’s aunt’s sourdough starter, its label stained, Lena’s loopy writing faded.

  Leaving the eggs on the floor, I took it out and dropped it into the trash. Then I washed my hands, scrubbing them as if some fermented component might have infected me.

  “What’s happening?” Michael stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his hair mussed and the blanket trailing over one arm, the pillow dangling from the other.

  “I just dropped some eggs.”

  He nodded like a sleepwalker. “Grace’s awake. I’m going back to bed.”

  Maybe Michael hadn’t gone to Grace’s room seeking comfort or wanting to protect her. Maybe he’d just taken too many sleeping pills.

  As he walked to our bedroom, I picked up the carton, damp on one side from the eggs that had broken. I could hear Grace vocalizing, experimenting with the sounds she could make. What if he’d acted out another nightmare the way he had when he hit me?

  There were two whole eggs left, but I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  After I changed Grace’s diaper and got her dressed, I brought her into the living room to feed her. The nursery felt claustrophobic, overlaid with bad memories.

  A call buzzed on my cell, and I groped to answer it before it woke Michael. Grace cried in protest, a bubble of milk forming at the corner of her mouth before she latched on again. I should have started her with the bottle today instead of going into this struggle again.

  “Hello?” I hadn’t gotten a glimpse of the screen in my one-handed fumbling.

  “Michael’s not answering his phone.” The woman’s voice was accusatory.

  “Who is this?”

  “Alondra. And nobody’s picking up your home phone either.”

  “It rings through to our cells. I must not have heard it. What’s wrong?” Grace gave up nursing in disgust, and for a second I risked dropping the phone or hanging up with the side of my face as I tried to maneuver her onto my shoulder.

  “The police want to go over some things with Michael. He needs to be at the station in an hour.”

  My whole body seized up, and Grace arched her back, flailing with her fists. “What kind of things?”

  “Hold on.” I could hear muffled talking, like Alondra was answering someone with her hand over the phone, and just then my own doorbell rang. I jumped up, tightening my grip on Grace, and the doorbell rang again. Were the police already here, ready to drag Michael away?

  Alondra came back on as I was hurrying down the hall. “They’ve pulled in the FBI. I want Michael to wait in the parking lot until I get there, do you understand?”

  I wrenched open the front door, expecting to see the police, but it was just a white van peeling away. On our doormat was a cardboard box, no address, no stamps, not even taped shut, with a card tucked under the loose flap.

  Alondra asked, “Kacy, are you listening? Do you understand?”

  “Someone dropped off a box at our front door. It looks weird.” The cardboard was unmarked, freshly folded.

  “Weird how?”

  “No address, not sealed up, just dropped off by some white van. There’s a card.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Alondra snapped, but my hand was already reaching for what I could see was a postcard. Was it from Aimee?

  “Kacy.” Alondra was used to being obeyed. “Kacy, get back inside the house. Let the police handle the box.”

  As I straightened up, a shriek made me jump, but it was just a little boy two blocks away, sprinting across the street to the pocket park, followed by an indulgent grandparent.

  I flipped the postcard over, half expecting to see Aimee’s bold scrawl. Instead, in loopy black marker, I read, Working on another surprise for you. xoxoxo. Despite the humidity, the back of my neck grew cold.

  This wasn’t Aimee’s handwriting. It was Lena’s.

  C2C TRANSCRIPT

  11

  Helen: So the number of known victims is over a dozen at this point, but only a few have been identified. The police are working on that, they have Brady in custody, and the FBI is involved.

  Julia: And they’re going over all the information and reinterviewing all the witnesses.

  Helen: They’re planning to. But on the very day the neighbor, Michael, is supposed to come in for questioning, a package is dropped off at his house. It’s got a note from Lena on top and a dead rat inside.

  Julia: Ew. Very Mafia. But isn’t it a little late for a “don’t rat me out” warning? I mean, the neighbor’s already turned Brady in, made a statement, taken the cops around the crime scene, the whole deal.

  Helen: It’s never too late for witness tampering, my friend. Plus, law enforcement now has proof that Lena was complicit, is alive, and is out to save her man. Remember they’d
built up this whole contractor business? They had a fleet of vans, dozens of employees, and plenty of cash money. The police never identified which van dropped off the package, because, let’s face it, without a business logo, all white work vans look the same.

  Julia: Creepy. They all look creepy.

  Helen: So the FBI take the nonmurderous neighbors back into the station for more interviews, run over all the details again, and then they break the news: “You’re still in danger. We need you to go into protective custody until we lock this thing down.”

  Julia: Although if you and I had been killing together happily for years and then you blew it by inviting some rando over when I was out of town, I wouldn’t be blaming the rando.

  Helen: Sweetie, I’d never commit murder with anyone but you.

  CHAPTER

  22

  “The package is from Lena,” I whispered.

  I turned around, scanning the street, as though the postcard had been handed to me. Brady was in custody; I knew he was safely away. But this card was from the Fort Bend Museum, practically in Sugar Land.

  Alondra said, “How do you know it was from her? When was it sent, and from where?”

  I said, “Her handwriting, and it’s the Fort Bend Museum.”

  The museum postcard was more than a callback to the card I’d received the first time Lena and I went walking, the first time I’d told a friend about my past. The postcard, the location, was a threat.

  Then Alondra started to curse, slowly and deliberately, the way some people might take a deep breath to clear their head. Finally, she said, “Okay. When Michael goes to the police station, you and Grace go too. I’ll meet you there. But I want you to pack first. Do that right now. Pack for a week or so. I’m going to call that station and make the situation abundantly clear. They should’ve sent someone to escort you.”