She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  “I don’t get it. Why is it iron?”

  I read the riddle again. “Oh, that’s clever. Ripped from womb means pulled out of the earth. You get iron from rock and soil. You can heat it and beat it into a weapon like a sword.”

  Or a hammer.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  His hand drops away from my back. “Tanner said our neighbor got murdered.”

  Hot and cold flashes race through me. Of course he’s going to hear at school. It was a fucking murder, you idiot. He should have heard it from you. You weren’t going to let Tanner be his life teacher, remember? You had your chance. He asked you about the police cars on the street. You blew your chance.

  “That’s true, and I should have told you.” I’m relieved to have my back to him, to not meet his gaze. Coward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry you.” My skin is hot, early menopause sweaty. Good thing he’s not touching my back anymore. “The police said we shouldn’t worry. Our neighbor was mixed up in bad stuff, he was a bad guy, but they’re close to catching the guy who did it.”

  “What bad stuff?”

  “I don’t know. When I find out, I’ll tell you.” For someone who wishes he heard it from you first, that was shit.

  I’ll do better, I promise. Just, not now.

  “OK,” he says, his voice easy, trusting.

  “Last riddle,” I say, mustering a bit of enthusiasm. I don’t want his last thoughts before he falls asleep to be imagining his neighbor’s murder. Or wondering why his mom keeps secrets. “I go in hard and dry. I come out soft and sticky. You can blow me.”

  My cheeks burn. I don’t think he knows what perverted means, so I don’t mention it.

  Behind me, he laughs. “That sounds weird.”

  “It does. The suspense is killing me. Let’s get a clue. First letter is G.”

  We both sit quietly. He scratches my back again. I lie still, enjoying scratches, not bothering to use my brain. I am the dog in this relationship. I happily take what I get.

  “Is it gum?” he says.

  I type in GUM. “Bravo, you got it. I would have never got that one.”

  I flip toward him. “How did you get so smart?”

  He shrugs.

  “I love you, kiddo.” I touch his cheek with the back of my fingers and descend his ladder.

  As I walk to my bedroom, my phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Valerie.

  -Grace! I heard about a murder on cherry lane? Your cherry lane?? I heard the dead guy was the suspect in Ava’s kidnapping. Your neighbor????!!!

  -Yes. crazy, huh?

  By the time I’ve brushed my teeth, she’s already texted back.

  -OhMyGod. Are you terrified? How was he murdered? Did they break in and shoot him? Oh my God. What are you going to do? Security system? I’m so sorry. What can i do to help? I’d offer to have wyatt over, but adam has strep throat. Can i bring dinner? Buy you a gun?

  I remember something James said last night. Relieved? Is that all you feel?

  Shit.

  How did I miss it?

  Scared. I’m supposed to be scared. Some psycho broke into my neighbor’s house and bludgeoned him to death with a hammer. Thank you, Valerie. How do I get so wrapped up sometimes, I miss big things? Crucial things.

  49

  TRAP THE WARM, STRUGGLING BODY INSIDE A PLASTIC STORAGE BIN AND FASTEN THE LID

  I wake up to a quiet house, elated to find I’m the earliest riser. My bladder urges me to get out of bed, but my bed’s cushiony warmth coaxes me to stay. Just another minute. Two. Five, max.

  I replay my conversation with Natalie Boone in the Walmart parking lot. She mentioned her sister works in hospice care, which brings back memories of my dad.

  I remember the night he died. Mom called around 4am to tell me he was gone. She’d gotten up to pee, checked on him, and found no pulse. I quickly drove over.

  The hospice nurse had beaten me there.

  Angie. Her name was Angie. She said a prayer over my dad, then corralled us back into the kitchen. My teeth still chattering from the strangeness and sadness of death, I made Mom tea while Angie talked and talked, her voice like warm water, telling us pleasantries about Dad, about what came next, about her family, as she opened all the remaining pain patches and stuck them to a disposable, absorbent, blue bedding pad. She pushed the plunger on the syringe filled with morphine, squirting the medicine onto the pad while filling the new and awful void with her melodious voice.

  Your five minutes is up. Ass out of bed.

  I walk into the hallway. Chloe is clapping as she wakes up. Wyatt walks out of his room, rubbing his eyes. He stops in the hallway to listen to Chloe clap.

  “Yay, yay,” she says, in her bed, her eyes still closed. “Yay, dog bones.”

  “Good morning, Chlo,” Wyatt says in a sweet, parental voice. “What were you dreaming about?”

  “Dog bones and flying and cotton candy.”

  He smiles and whispers to me, “That makes no sense.”

  We migrate downstairs.

  While I fill their cups with water, I gaze out the window over the sink. The tree edging my property catches my eye because an animal moves among the branches. It does not move neurotically like a squirrel. It doesn’t shudder, bob, or flee like a bird. It isn’t native to trees. It is slower, more meticulous.

  Yellowish eyes glare at my house beneath a black fur mask.

  Leland’s cat.

  My heart flutters, and I break into a cold sweat.

  Of course cats can’t talk, but could forensics scrape damning evidence off my dead neighbor’s cat? Maybe an animal-whisperer-forensic-psychologist could communicate with the cat and abstract tension and accusation from the cat in my presence. Or maybe they could hook the cat to some futuristic telepathic apparatus to decode its brain waves.

  What is Leland’s cat doing in my tree? Did it come to stalk me? Is it stuck? Do cats get stuck in trees or is that a myth pervasive in storybooks for the purpose of portraying the many talents of firemen?

  Cold water overflows onto my hand.

  “What are you looking at, Momma?” Chloe says.

  “Nothing. I’m sleepy.”

  I set their cups on the table and pour Cheerios into their bowls. You are not to look outside for thirty minutes. If the kids notice it, that cat will undoubtedly become the central talking point in our household for weeks.

  If, in thirty minutes, the cat is still in the tree, I will coax it with lunchmeat. Trap the warm, struggling body inside a plastic storage bin and fasten the lid (which I’ve already drilled with air holes to prevent suffocation in case one of the kids were to close the lid on another), place the bin in my trunk, drive ten or twenty miles away, and set the cat free in a patch of forest preserve.

  I am making Wyatt’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich for school when the doorbell rings. Hulk goes mad, barking, dashing, and sliding to the door.

  “Wyatt, can you see who’s at the door? If it’s a friend, you don’t have time to play before school.”

  Wyatt walks down the hallway, stops, then runs back into the kitchen. “I don’t know who it is. Two grownups.”

  “Good job not opening the door for strangers. Stay here.”

  I walk to the door, irritated. Some know-it-all is ready to sell me new siding, new windows, or a new religion.

  I peek out the door’s side windows. Sadly, I would have preferred a religious cult salesman.

  James and Ariana stand on my porch. They wear plain clothes, plain expressions. Their plain car is parked next to the curb in front of my house.

  Asshole played you. Hate boils up, but I also want to congratulate him. God, he’s good. Sociopathic good. He may have played me, but it doesn’t mean he can connect me to a crime, it doesn’t mean he knows anything. What could he know?

  My heart is adding extra beats as I open the door. Don’t say hammer. Don’t say hammer.

  Hulk is still barking, which is comforting and a good excuse for not
opening the screen.

  Ariana says, “Hello, Miss Wright. I’m Detective Acosta and this is Detective Mahoney. We met a few days ago.”

  He hasn’t told her. Of course he hasn’t. I’m no police expert, but fucking someone you’ve interviewed as part of a murder investigation is likely against the rules. Which makes me wonder why he fucked me. That could ruin his case against me.

  I can’t bear to meet his eyes. Looking at Ariana, I say, “I remember. Hulk, quiet.” Thankfully, Hulk never listens to this command. She continues barking.

  “We had a few follow-up questions for you,” she says.

  “Mom,” Wyatt yells, laughing and sounding amazed. “There’s a cat in our tree.”

  “Hang on one second,” I tell the detectives. I close the door halfway to block their view into my house and head for the kitchen, hands trembling. “I need you two to be quiet. I’m putting on a TV show.”

  “But there’s a cat in the tree.”

  “OK, I’ll look later. I have to talk to these people.” I skip Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and Sesame Street and go for the sparsely seen and revered Disney Shows. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse should do it.

  Opportunity. Make this an opportunity.

  Hulk is still standing at the screen, barking like mad, so I doubt they heard the word cat. I walk back to the door, remaining behind the screen with Hulk.

  I say to Ariana, “Sorry about that. Have you caught the guy yet?”

  Ariana says, “Not yet, but—”

  “Because I’m feeling scared and worried about my kids, worried about our safety.” Even though the kids can’t hear, I lower my voice. “It’s strange because I didn’t feel scared before and now it’s sinking in. He was murdered in there. Right. Next. Door.”

  Hulk’s barking hasn’t let up.

  Ariana holds her hands together in front of her waist. It is a solemn, church-like, patient gesture. She says, “I understand your concerns. We do have more cars patrolling this area. Usually, with something like this, it’s an isolated occurrence.” She clears her throat to indicate sympathy-time is over. “We came by this morning because we have a few follow-up questions.”

  My heart races. I place one hand on the doorframe to keep steady.

  Don’t say hammer.

  James adds, “You haven’t been singled out for any reason.”

  Huh. His tone strikes me as accommodating and sheepish. It’s missing the boastful gotcha.

  I keep my eyes trained on Detective Acosta. Perfect posture, modest breasts. She is stunning. Her face is made of perfect shapes, her olive skin is flawless, glowing actually, and her eyelashes are thick, elegant spider legs. Wait. She’s not even wearing makeup. How is that fair? I bet she has the best track record in her department for ensnaring male suspects and revealing the inconsistencies in their alibis.

  She says, “You’ve lived here about three months, is that correct?”

  “About that, yes.”

  “During the time you lived here, how many times have you been inside Leland Ernest’s house?”

  Hulk is still barking, but she’s taking small breaks now.

  “Um, only once. Maybe five or six weeks ago, he was struggling to move a dresser. He’d rented a van and was working on getting the dresser out of the van by himself. I was outside with my kids and offered to help. I would have felt like a jerk if I hadn’t.” All true.

  You told James about the dresser the other day. Did he tell her?

  I feel chilled and shamed.

  James used you. He was in your bed a night ago, squeezing you for information, and now he has the nerve to stand on your porch like he did nothing wrong.

  “How come you didn’t mention this when we spoke before?” she says.

  “I don’t know. You didn’t ask, and it didn’t feel relevant. I was also a bit shocked.”

  “What room did the dresser go in?” she says.

  “His bedroom. Well, I’m assuming it was his bedroom. There was another room with a bed in it.”

  “So, you walked the dresser into his bedroom?”

  “No, I kind of stopped at his door. Once the dresser was in his room, he told me that was good enough.” This is true. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. You should have said you walked into his room. If they found your DNA inside his room, there would have been a reason for it. This could be a big fuck-up, Grace.

  If I wasn’t feeling conned and pitiful, if Hulk wasn’t barking, if it wasn’t a busy weekday morning, I would have chosen my words more carefully. I would have remained cool and vague.

  It’s OK. It’s going to be OK. If they find your DNA in his bedroom, well, you’ll come up with a reason for that. You might have taken a few steps into his room, it’s such a stupid, petty detail, it’s difficult to remember stuff like that. I swallow down the taste of copper and my sour saliva.

  “How did you see there was another room with a bed in it?”

  “Well, the doors were open so I saw what anyone would see when they pass an open door.”

  “Did you see anything strange at the time or did he say anything odd?”

  “I don’t think so, but he did strike me as awkward.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Antisocial, I guess. Avoiding eye contact. Unorganized because, well, if you’re going to be carrying a dresser up the stairs, you should probably call someone, have some help, have a plan. He seemed like a middle-aged guy who didn’t connect with people. I mean, honestly, I thought he was odd even before I talked to him. Why move into a single-family home two blocks from an elementary school when you’re single? It never made sense to me. People pay these property taxes for the schools.”

  Detective Acosta nods, emotionless. I bet she doesn’t even bother with trying to make emotional connections. Her efforts would be pointless. Suspects could never see her as common, as one of them, as someone who has ever faced a single obstacle, even if she claimed she had four kids, raging dandruff, rank athlete’s foot, and was so hairy, not only did she have to shave her beard, but also her hands, arms, and chest.

  And if she doesn’t need to relate, she must have other tricks in her bag. It pains me, but she’s probably incredibly clever and intelligent.

  “Would you be willing to volunteer a DNA sample? Just a quick cheek swab. Fast and simple.”

  Get ready. This is the moment where your home, your life, crumbles.

  “Why?” I say.

  “Our forensics team came across female DNA so it would eliminate you as a suspect.”

  James adds, “You aren’t required by law to give us a sample. We’re asking if you’re willing to volunteer it.” Again, he sounds apologetic. Huh. Maybe he didn’t play you.

  “I’m a suspect?” I ask Ariana.

  “We’re widening our range to anyone the victim knew.”

  The word victim agitates me like a shirt tag itching my neck. Leland Ernest was suspected in the kidnapping of a five-year-old girl. He had a little girl’s sock and toys tucked under his mattress. A fucking cage in the basement.

  “Um, I don’t know. I don’t want to get involved unless I absolutely have to. Legally, I mean. If there’s more questions, can we do this later? I’m going to be late for work.”

  “Sure, we will be in touch with you,” James says. “Thanks for your time.”

  Detective Acosta hesitates, confused by her partner’s consideration and apologetic tone. On most cases, he must be colder.

  As if perfectly cued, Chloe screams one of her high-pitched, I-am-being-tortured screams. She is most likely fine, Wyatt probably looked at her the wrong way, but the scream lends the opportunity to end this nightmare.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  I close the door gently and check on the kids. Chloe and Wyatt are fine, mesmerized by the television. Who the hell knows why she screamed?

  I fall into a chair at the kitchen table. My heart is pounding. Sweat has beaded between my breasts. I’m feverish. I’m baffled.
Is James a player, a traitor, or a screw-up now pinned in a tight spot?

  My eyes search the backyard, scrutinizing the tree where my dead neighbor’s cat perched minutes ago. No sign of it.

  50

  A SHADOW DATABASE

  I have a mini nervous breakdown in the shower. I sob quietly and make it quick. To get myself out of the shower, I turn the faucet as cold as it will go.

  I pull on an outfit I don’t have to think twice about. “You guys ready?” I call to my open bedroom door.

  No answer.

  “Chloe?” I say.

  “I’m not doing nothing,” she says, her soft voice coming from her room.

  I find her behind the rocking chair. Her lips, along with the skin around her mouth, are blood-red. On the floor: two uncapped peppermint-flavored ChapSticks gouged by bite marks; pink baby lotion poured into teacups; and chunks of my deodorant resting in a plastic bowl.

  Maybe this kid has vitamin-deficiency-caused pica.

  “Which ones did you eat?”

  She holds up the ChapStick.

  Call poison control to be sure. Not now, but on the way to work.

  After I drop them where they need to go, I make the call.

  Poison control tells me that even if Chloe ate ten ChapSticks, a quarter cup of lotion, and half a stick of deodorant, she will be alright.

  Next call goes to Chuck. He answers.

  “Hi, Chuck, this is Grace Wright. I have a quick question for you.”

  He says nothing. It’s been a while. Since my neighbor’s dead, I haven’t had a reason to harass him.

  “Chuck?”

  “Yes, I’m here, Grace. I’m not sure if I can answer, but go ahead.” He is hesitant, nervous.

  He thinks you killed your neighbor. He knows you killed your neighbor.

  “Two detectives stopped by this morning and told me they are asking all Leland’s neighbors to volunteer a cheek swab for DNA samples. I was late for work and I didn’t volunteer. I’m wondering if I should have.”

  “Grace, I don’t give legal counsel. I don’t know anything about the homicide case.”

  Stop being such a pussy, Chuck.

  “Chuck, I am not looking for legal counsel. I am not going to sue you. I am asking, like, ignorant person to knowledgeable person. If I was your cousin or your niece or your sister or your neighbor. What would you do?”