by Nick Lake
1. You travel down to Oakwood.
2. You have your daughter’s card, or her cam website, or something. You use these to e-mail, using a new account you have created. You say it’s for a party.
3. You make the appointment at a deserted house. Maybe you have searched through foreclosure records.
4. Your daughter arrives. You fight. You push her, maybe, and she falls, hits her head on a step. She is out; you think maybe she’s even dead. You put her in the trunk of your car, but you don’t realize that she has her cell, that she is going to call her friend Julie.
5. Though, as it turns out, your daughter does not name you anyway.
6. And she isn’t dead. But you kill her. You do kill her. Later. So that she can’t talk.
7. And you tell some girl from your office to say that you were at home all night.
8. And she does.
9. And the police have to accept your alibi.
10. Except that there is one policeman who is suspicious. Agent Horowitz.
11. And there is me.
12. And I’m coming for you.
Or say something else.
Say you’re a cop and you’re in love with Paris. Say you follow her and Julie to a party where she’s going to be stripping.
Say that suddenly you can’t take it anymore, the idea of her exposing herself to other men; you wait till she leaves and you grab her—I mean, Julie’s timeline is shaky; she said herself she fell asleep—and:
1. You kill her, you strangle her, I don’t know, or you think you kill her anyway and
2. You put her in the trunk of your car and
3. She calls Julie but doesn’t give your name because you’re a cop and
4. You dispose of her body after you respond to the 911 call and
5. You lie to the annoying girl looking into Paris’s death and you tell her that the father did it.
Or it’s neither of those things.
It’s the serial killer, and he’s someone else entirely. Someone who drives a Jeep SRT8.
Or Paris ran away and isn’t dead at all.
I’m nearly at the point where I lost you—where I threw you away.
I’ve been putting it off.
But I can’t put it off any longer.
When you came back from work I was waiting up in my room. Shane was already sitting in one of the deck chairs—you flung yourself down into the other one and Shane handed you a beer.
I went downstairs and out into the yard.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” you said, because our relationship CONTINUED TO BE SCRIPTED BY THE GREAT PLAYWRIGHTS.
“You okay?” you said.
“Yep,” I said, in AN EXCHANGE TO RIVAL MARLOWE.
Shane raised his beer. “Hey, Cass,” he said.
“Hey, Shane.”
Shane started to stand. “Here, take my chair,” he said. “I’ll sit on the ground.”
You raised your eyebrows. “You say that to all the girls?”
“Whatever,” said Shane. “I’m the one being gentlemanly and offering my chair. I don’t see you getting off your butt.”
“Touché,” you said.
“What?” said Shane.
“Never mind.”
Shane gestured at the chair. “Cass, sit.”
“No, it’s cool,” I said.
“You leaving?” you said.
“Actually, no … I was kind of hoping I could speak to you alone for a moment,” I said to you.
Shane raised his hands and opened his eyes wide, doing an exaggerated cluing-in gesture. “Oh hey, I don’t want to get in the way,” he said. “I might hit the bar. Get a drink there, maybe play some pool.”
“You don’t have to—” I began, but my tone must not have been convincing because he laughed and did a big sweeping bow, then walked off down the street, giggling to himself.
“Childish,” you said as Shane disappeared, but there was indulgence in your voice.
“He’s sweet,” I said. “Dumb, but sweet.”
“Yeah,” you said.
“Yeah.”
→ THAT ONE COURTESY OF SHAKESPEARE ←
Anyway.
We sat on the chairs.
“What’s up?” you said.
“I miss Paris,” I said. I kind of blurted it out. Always smooth, me.
You put your arm around me. “I know,” you said. “I know and—”
“No, you don’t,” I said, pulling away. “I want her back. I never had a friend like her. What if I never have a friend like her again?”
You looked slightly hurt by that. “You will,” you said.
I shrugged. “Anyway … so I met this cop, Brian, and he said that they think it’s Paris’s dad. Well, he didn’t say that exactly. But it’s obvious that—”
“Wait,” you said. “You met a cop? Where?”
“Julie’s. But I also took a look at the case file, the other day. See, I kind of know this other policeman named Dwight, he’s a … um … a friend of my dad’s, and I—”
You held up a hand. “Whoa, slow down,” you said. “You’re talking to cops now?”
“Yes. No. I mean, he was just at Julie’s place. The second cop. But what he said … about Paris’s dad. I wondered …” I paused, looked into your eyes. “I wondered if you would drive me to New York. To see Paris’s dad.”
“Jesus, Cass.” You shook your head. “That would be a very stupid thing to do.”
“Excuse me?” I was glaring at you.
You swallowed. “That came out wrong. But … that’s a super dangerous idea, Cass. What if … I mean … what if he did kill her, and you just go and confront him? What if he gets violent?”
I hadn’t really thought of that possibility.
“Um,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“You have to be more careful,” you said. I could see from your gestures and your face that you were really worried; even though I was pissed with you at that moment, there was a warm feeling right inside me about that. “I mean, Cass, I can see why your dad worries about you so much.”
The warm feeling turned cold—hard-pack snow, balling in my chest.
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“What? What?”
“You talk to my dad about me?”
You raised your hands. “No! Well, he spoke to me once. Said you were vulnerable. I think it was supposed to be a warning, that kind of thing.”
“I can’t believe you’re chatting to my dad about how weak I am.”
“That’s not—”
“And now!” I shouted. “And now, to make things worse, you’re taking his side? ********. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Whoa, Cass. There are no sides.”
“There are sides. And I want you on mine. On Paris’s.”
You moved your hands in a placating gesture. “You’ve got me, Cass,” you said. “I’m totally here. On your side.” You moved toward me, put those same hands on my hips. “One hundred percent. Always. But I am not driving you to New York to see Paris’s dad.”
I felt the ice core melt a little. I felt the heat of your fingers, that electric power again, like I could charge myself just from contact with you, like energy would surge into my every nerve ending just from your touch.
“You’re really on my side?” I said.
“Yep.”
I sighed. “Well, okay, then.”
“And no trip to New York? At least till we know more?”
I loved that “we.” “Yeah, okay.”
You kissed my forehead. Fireworks went off in my head; Roman candles spun, throwing off sparks, hissing, blazing stars into the blackness behind my eyelids, my closed eyes, waiting for—
You pulled away.
Oh, okay. We were in the yard. That was why. I remembered; I saw the trees, the flowers, the thrush landing on the thin branch of a bush. You weren’t going to kiss me where my dad might come home and see. I got it. I got it, but I still wanted you to.<
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But then you smiled and handed me a beer. Our fingers touched—blazing sparks flew, invisibly.
“I don’t drink,” I said. I knew the voice would punish me if I drank the beer, even with the progress I’d made. I handed back the can.
“Oh,” you said. “That’s cool. Straight edge, huh?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“You want to come up to the apartment?” you said.
“What, now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“My dad might come back,” I said.
“He’s on a late night, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you said he hasn’t come back early on a late night for, what, a year?”
“Yes.”
“So I think you’re safe.”
“Okay,” I said. “We can talk about what to do. About finding Paris.”
“Sure,” you said.
But we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
I followed you up the steps and into the apartment. The place was still a dump—still the empty pizza cartons, the takeout boxes, the bottles of Coke. Still clothes hanging from every available surface, discarded menus, dust.
“You should fire your housekeeper,” I said.
“You’re our housekeeper, in theory anyway.”
“Yeah. And I’ve been terrible. You should fire me.”
You laughed, and then space compressed between us, some kind of freak twist of physics, and we were standing very close together. The kitchen fell away from around us, the dirt and detritus; there was only the evening light from the windows, slanting through the shutters, and the buzzing circuit formed when our hands touched.
White noise roared in my head, blocking out every other sound. You tuned the radio of my mind to a dead channel, switched off my thoughts.
It was amazing.
I shut my eyes, and we closed together neatly, like we were hinged, and you kissed me.
It felt like it lasted forever, that kiss. Like not only the kitchen fell away but the whole universe, and we were floating in a deep black abyss, where only the contact between us meant anything at all.
I don’t want to do that kind of line, like you read in books. The ones where it says, “He took off my top,” or that kind of thing. Because the undercurrent, the suggestion, becomes that you pushed me in some way, “only wanted one thing,” you get the idea. And anyway it wouldn’t be true. And it implies some kind of linearity when all I can say with confidence is that there was a moment when both our tops were on and then they were both off, and I was in my bra, which had strawberries on it, embarrassingly.
Our bodies touched. Hands moved. Fingers were outlined with electricity, dancing with it, St. Elmo’s fire; I felt like we were phosphorescent.
I half opened my eyes, and saw your hair, haloed with light. A blade of sunshine reached us from between the shutters, so sharp it looked like it would cut straight through us.
I closed my eyes again.
My head filled with static.
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“CASS?”
Huh?
“CASS.”
I opened my eyes, blinking, turning, already knowing. Already shrinking back.
And there was Dad, standing in the doorway. A dark figure against the reddish evening sunlight.
“I ran into Shane on the boardwalk,” he said. His voice was horribly, horribly calm. “He told me you were home. But you weren’t in the house.”
Silence.
“You put your shirt on and come with me right now, Cass,” he said.
His voice was cold. Cold and merciless as the sea.
I hauled on my T-shirt and as I passed Dad, he grabbed my upper arm, and pretty much pulled me down the steps.
“Dad, you’re hurting me,” I said.
He ignored me.
He dragged me all the way to the house and then pushed me away from him when we got to the den; hard. My leg slammed into the coffee table—I don’t think he meant for that to happen, but it sent a shock of pain up my hip. I stood very still, trembling.
“Again, Cass?” he said. His voice still had that quiet, dangerous tone. “I thought I made myself very clear.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I said.
“Sorry? Sorry? You know who called me today, Cass? You know why I left the restaurant early?”
I looked at him, puzzled.
“A cop, Cass. A ******* cop. Said you went to the police station? Something about harassing an officer of the law. Seemed to think you might get yourself into trouble.”
“I—”
“You’re not a ******* detective, Cass! I don’t know what goddamn books you’ve been reading, but you can’t solve this **** on your own and then get a ******* medal from the mayor, okay? What the ****, Cass?”
Silence.
“She was my friend,” I said eventually.
“She? Who the— Wait. You mean the ******* whore?”
“Paris.”
“Paris. Jesus H. ******* Christ. I knew that girl was trouble when I saw her at the hospital.”
“She’s probably dead,” I said.
“YES, AND YOU’RE NOT! Not yet anyway.”
“I’m not going to die.”
“You sure about that? You’re sick, Cass. You’re sick, and you shouldn’t be running around playing Sherlock.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I can’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth, can I?” he said. “My own daughter.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Like when you said you wouldn’t hang out with that boy? I told you about him. He’s a college freshman, Cass.”
“He’s not. He’s starting in the fall.”
“And have you even told him about your problem?” he said. “I’m thinking of his protection too here. I mean, does he know? About the voice?”
Me (in a low voice): No.
“And you don’t think that’s unwise? You don’t think that’s dangerous? You’re hooking up with this boy, or whatever you call it, and he doesn’t even know you’re mentally ill.”
“I’m not mentally ill,” I said.
“Sure,” said Dad. “You’re perfectly fine.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, scoured it. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do to me, Cass,” he said. “It’s like you’re doing this **** deliberately.”
“I don’t mean to—”
“It’s like you want to break this family apart. What’s left of it anyway.”
I started to cry then. My arm and my leg were stinging; my eyes were prickling, like I’d rubbed salt in them. “I don’t … I … That’s not …” I took a breath. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to keep away from that boy. I want you to stay in the house when I’m out. Keep meeting Dr. Rezwari. Keep taking your meds. Will you do those things, Cassie?”
I did not see the trap coming.
Stupid me.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll do those things.”
He took a step forward, fast as a snake, and I staggered back, thought he was about to hit me, went down on the coffee table—luckily it was wood, not glass, but my butt hit it hard, and I skinned the backs of my calves; my hands went behind me to try to stop my fall, and my right hand struck the side of the table, twisting my wrist.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Something had sucked all the air out of the house; we were standing in a vacuum, in absolute stillness.
“Jesus, Cass,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“I thought …”
He must have seen it in my eyes. “Jesus, Cass.” He took a step forward and reached down for my hand, then helped me up. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“I …”
He put his head in his hands. “I don’t know how to deal with this ****. I really don’t. I don’t know how to deal with your lies.”
“What?”
“You said you’re taking your meds?”
Now I saw the trap. Oh no. But what could I do?
“Uh … yes.”
“Liar,” he said quietly.
He went out of the room.
When he came back in, he was carrying my nightstand in one hand—you remember when I said he would carry full trash cans to the street? He had my nightstand in one hand, and he swung up his other hand to catch the front of it, then he upturned it, so that the drawers fell out in a shwoosh and hit the floor.
Blister packs of drugs spilled all over the carpet.
For the longest time we both just stood there looking at the drugs on the floor.
“Dad, I can explain, I—”
“No,” said Dad. “Not now.”
I remembered Dr. Lewis, telling me to speak to Dr. Rezwari. To follow her instructions. And I had lied to her instead. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I’ve been good, Dad, I’ve been hearing the voice but it’s helping me now, it’s not hurting me anymore. I’ve—”
“It’s helping you?” he said. “The invisible voice in your head is helping you?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to see the doctor. And you’re going to do whatever she says, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And that boy. This is because of him, isn’t it? Not taking your meds?”
“What? No.”
“Of course it is. You think because you’ve got a crush, you don’t need the drugs anymore. But you’re hearing voices, Cass.”
“One voice.”
He glared at me. “Yeah, like that makes a difference. Anyway, he’s out of here. He can find somewhere else to live.”
“Dad! You can’t kick him out.”
“Yes, I can.”
THE VOICE: “Yes, he can.”
“Whatever.”
I sat down heavily on the couch. I wanted time to rewind, so I could leave the apartment before Dad got home. But then I guess the cop would still have called him. Would it have been Brian? I guessed so. ******* Brian. Selling me out to my dad.