She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  “Uh, I wouldn’t volunteer my DNA for anything. Once your DNA is in a police database, it’s in there or in a shadow database forever.” Chuck’s got a little paranoia in him after all. “Grace, I would wait for a compulsion order. If they don’t have that court order, they have no evidence against you.” He sounds exhausted. Is this how he sounds all day or is his exhaustion reserved for me?

  “Chuck, I didn’t do anything. I’m just trying to get a feel.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” It’s not clear if this is what he truly believes. His tone might be cut with sarcasm or maybe he’s burnt out on legal details and senseless crime. “I’m saying, if they have evidence, they get a court order.”

  “Do most people volunteer their DNA?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Does it look suspicious if I don’t volunteer?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Good enough. “Thanks, Chuck. For returning my calls. For answering your phone. For seeming like a decent human being.”

  “You’re welcome. Call anytime.” He’s warming up, getting energized. Who isn’t a sucker for gratitude?

  “I’m pulling into work,” I say. “I’ve got to go.”

  My phone vibrates with a new text.

  -Call me. We need to talk.

  James.

  I turn off my phone. My head feels faint and weightless. I can’t remember if I ate breakfast.

  51

  WHEN THE STOVETOP IS FLAMING

  After work and after I pick up Chloe from daycare, I put Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood on the TV.

  “No Rogers’,” she says.

  “It’s Rogers’ or the highway.”

  “I want the highway.”

  “OK, I’ll look to see if we have the highway in a minute. I have to get the noodles going.”

  I put on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood nonchalantly, non-confrontationally. I fill a pot with water, set it on the stovetop, and while I’m igniting the burner, the doorbell rings. Hulk darts to the front door, barking like she’s never heard the doorbell.

  It’s James, I know it. I ignored his text.

  My stomach sinks. I stare into my pot of calm water, unsure if I should answer the door. Is he going to arrest me? Will he show me a court order and demand a cheek swab?

  “I’ll get it,” Chloe yells and runs for the door.

  I intercept her with a big scoop-hug and tickle. “You’re so helpful, but it’s a grownup for Mommy so I’ll get it, sweet angel.” I burrow into her neck, worried they might take me away, worried this crumbling house, this lovely, gorgeous crumbling house and our chaotic but perfect life may be over.

  She is giggling from my tickling when I set her on the couch.

  “Again, again,” she begs.

  “In a minute, Chlo. Let me answer the door before Hulk wears herself out.” I choke a little on my words.

  Make it quick. Leave the burner on as an excuse. He can’t arrest you when the stovetop is flaming.

  Walking down the hallway to the front door feels psychedelic or like a horror scene: the hallway goes on and on.

  Hulk barking beside my calf, I open the door.

  “I’m so so sorry,” he says quickly, before I even meet his eyes. “I couldn’t give you warning because I wasn’t alone all morning and I was so worried you would think I planned this and didn’t tell you on purpose, but it came up only this morning. Cross my heart. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  I wasn’t expecting this gushing apology. My fingers are ice-cold and I’m sweaty. I gaze into his eyes. Pale blue, gentle waters, sad and longing.

  He says, “I need to know we’re OK.”

  “We’re not OK.” It’s not just that I thought he was going to arrest me or betray me. It’s so much more complicated. I told him I didn’t want him to meet my kids. Now he’s on my porch. He messed with my head all day. I have so little clarity left. I can’t allow him to steal my attention away from my kids. My kids deserve my full attention and energy.

  “Grace. I can’t stop thinking about you. Can I come in for a minute?”

  Mister Rogers is singing a pleasant song. I should have put on something more catchy than Rogers. She’s going to run to the front door any second.

  I put my forehead against the screen. “This, us, it’s not a good idea,” I say, but I’m not committed to the argument. I want it both ways. “I can’t fall for you.”

  He opens the screen and steps close to me. “You’re not falling for me. You’re going to fuck me, and I’ll be on my way.”

  I love the smile curving around his voice, but I’m still caught in the fight. I’m righteous in the fight. “I don’t want you to meet my kids, I told you. I don’t need a man confusing things.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “That is such a guy thing to say. You should fucking help it. Women help it all the time.”

  Except he drops his hand and cups me between my thighs. Brain signals overload and sizzle, and my focus is gone. I can’t form a single coherent thought. My legs are weak. I let him back me into the bathroom.

  He pushes my skirt up around my waist and gets down on his knees. Uses his finger to hook my underwear to the side.

  Oh God. When was the last time?

  My toes are tingling. You’re floating away. My head drops back as if my neck has been slit and bumps the knob on the medicine cabinet behind me. The cabinet pops open, and a number of hair accessories that had balanced on narrow, water-warped, toothpaste-crusted shelves inside the cabinet spill onto the counter and floor. Later. Clean it up later. I reach both hands behind me and brace my fingertips against the cool laminate sink so I don’t collapse. My legs are going numb.

  I explode into a blackhole of thoughtlessness and pleasure. He turns me around, and eases into me slowly, my orgasm still shuddering through me.

  I open my eyes. Eyes beholding me, he bites my shoulder and moves his hands underneath my shirt. He moves my bra up, which is the absolute wrong way—he’s going to stretch it out and I only have two (good bras are expensive)—and tugs my nipples and gets rougher inside me.

  I am cooling, wanting my personal space back, but I fake enthusiasm for the sake of good manners.

  “Mom!” Chloe’s bare feet are padding down the hallway. “Where are you, Mom?”

  “In the bathroom. I’ll be there in a second.” He pumps faster, rougher, staring at me through the mirror. Will he hurry up already?

  “I thought you screamed, Momma.”

  “I’m fine, baby.”

  “I don’t like Rogey.” Her body fall-leans against the door. Her mouth is five inches from me. “Can you put on another show?”

  “Yes. I’ll put one on if you go sit on the couch. You want Octonauts?”

  “Yes!” Delighted and chatting to herself, she runs down the hallway.

  I pull away from his stare and assess the countertop. Wyatt’s toothpaste, toothbrush, and an air freshener are in the sink. Chloe’s barrettes and rubber bands are scattered on the counter.

  He moves faster.

  I feel both relaxed and anxious. I adore him, hate him. I vowed I’d never bring a guy in the house when my kids are home. And why is he taking so long? Wyatt will be home from soccer any minute. How did this happen?

  James stares at my eyes in the mirror while he fills me up. I stare back at him for the sake of politeness. Orgasm is such a private act, it’s odd that he prefers eye contact. In his vulnerable state, I see him. Not a player. Not a traitor. Not a user. This morning was unforeseen, a mistake. He rests his forehead on my shoulder like Chloe does when she’s tired. Puffs his cheeks, then exhales. “I like you.”

  “I bet you do.”

  He lifts his eyes up to look at me in the mirror. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  “Did any of my neighbors give you a cheek swab?”

  “Three out of ten.” Thank God. I don’t stand out. My neighbors appear to be a cynical, paranoid bunch. My respect for this neighborhood jump
s.

  “Why are you asking random people for DNA samples?”

  He zips up his pants. “We ran the crime scene DNA against our previous arrest database and came up with no matches. Asking for voluntary samples is one of the next steps.”

  “Have you ever volunteered your DNA sample?”

  “Hell no. Once they have your DNA, it stays in the databases forever.”

  I turn and I poke him in the chest, jokingly. “Hypocrite.” His detective pop-in wrecked my morning and had my adrenal glands working overtime. I swallow a small but hard seed of resentment.

  He gives me a mischievous, self-satisfied smile. Notion striking him, he tilts his head, one of Hulk’s moves. “So,” he says, “you’re feeling scared now?”

  “Yes. I was out with Hulk late last night and started thinking about the scene. Blood. Violence. Imagining what it looked like and what type of person could do that. You said blunt force trauma to the head. What was the murder weapon? I never asked.” Well played.

  He hesitates; it’s against the rules to tell, but he owes me. “Forensics is working on narrowing it. For blunt force trauma, the typical suspects are pipe wrench, golf club, Kel-Lite, Maglite, crowbar, or hammer. Looks like it’s probably a pipe wrench or a hammer.”

  I let my mouth drop open, surprised even though I shouldn’t be. “Oh God.”

  “It’s probably better you don’t volunteer DNA,” he says, a touch of schoolboy nervousness creeping into his eyes. He shifts his weight. “It will give you a break from Ariana.” He hesitates. “She thinks you did it.”

  “What?” I mean to sound appalled, insulted, but my voice barely cracks a whisper. I want space, I want to turn away from him so he can’t see my throat reddening, but this bathroom is so small. I back against the door. He’s still so close.

  “I told her she was way off,” he says, his eyes guilty. Probably realizing he should have told me this before he fucked me. “Ari said, ‘That’s because you’re screwing her.’” He smiles, he can’t help it.

  “What? You told her?” Now my anger settles in, which is good. It will explain away the red blotches probably creeping up my neck and cheeks.

  “No, no, no,” he says. “I wasn’t acting myself when we asked you to volunteer DNA. She said it was a dead giveaway. She’s no idiot.”

  “Is she going to tell on you, get you fired?”

  “No, we’re like family,” he says, sure of himself, sure of her.

  “Why would she think it was me?”

  He shrugs and takes a step closer. “She thinks it’s one of the neighbors. Blood splatter puts the killer between five six and five nine, so she’s leaning toward a woman. She thinks you’re strong enough. She wonders if he threatened one of your kids or said something about one of your kids to make you lose your shit.”

  Worry slithers in my gut like snakes. James is too close. And these bathroom lights, with their yellow cast, make everything ugly.

  Is he really blowing off Ariana’s suspicion of me? Or is he trying to trip me up?

  He wouldn’t. You saw the vulnerability on his face. No one’s that good at faking.

  When you’re screwing him, you’re not faking it either. Yet, you have his semen in your crisper.

  “Are we actually discussing whether or not I am a killer? I was going to sell my house, you know. I told my realtor to come take pictures.”

  “Unless you called your realtor and told her you were selling as part of your premeditated plan to kill your neighbor.” With the back of his hand, he brushes my cheek.

  “You think I’m that strong?” I force a smile.

  “Have you ever heard of a mom lifting a car when her child was underneath?”

  “I thought that was urban legend.”

  Blood pumps through my arteries in frantic spurts. I have to redirect this conversation, and by redirect I mean pull out the floor so he free-falls. Dirty talk and shoving my hand down his pants are my best distraction, but we just had sex. Did he plan it this way?

  “Stay here,” I say, pulling my skirt down to cover my ass. My thighs are slippery and sticky. I pull my bra down over my breasts, irritated because it’s a clawing sensation—why didn’t he unhook my bra?—and close him into the bathroom. I’m only halfway to the TV room when the splash and sizzle of water boiling over the top of the pot jars me.

  Idiot. How could you forget so quickly? God knows what could have happened to Chloe!

  I turn off the flame, put Octonauts on for Chloe, then peer out the front door.

  No sign of Wyatt.

  I open the bathroom door. James is meticulously placing toothbrushes and barrettes back onto the cabinet shelves.

  Endearing. Intrusive. Annoying.

  “You need to go. My son will be home any minute. I’ll clean up later. Leave it.”

  He stops tidying and comes close, sniffing behind my ear. “Can I come over tomorrow night?” he whispers.

  “No.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.” Never. Be careful, Grace.

  He kisses my neck. “When?” His breath is warm and moist in my ear, and sends chills down my back.

  “Wednesday.”

  “Can I ask you one more question?” He steps back, his eyes playful, his chin down.

  I am walking a fucking tightwire. “What?” I hold my breath, waiting for his tricky murder-trapping question.

  “Do you do anal?”

  I cough and laugh, my spittle pegging his cheek. Dropping my smile, I stare at him, deadpan. “Not with that thing. If you were the size of my pinky, sure.”

  He closes his eyes and tips his head back like he’s conversing with God.

  52

  THEY KNOW WHO DID IT

  After Wyatt and Chloe are sleeping, I am back to shaken snow globe. The shitfaced toddler has risen, zombie-like, from the dead and is stumbling around, bumping into doorknobs, woolly and hungry.

  Ariana suspects you.

  I am back online with a vengeance, gorging myself on information and anecdotes. Amphetamine-induced psychosis. Anxiety. OCD. Heart attacks. Hallucinations. Emerging viruses. What to write in a letter to your kids in case you die unexpectedly. I circle back to amphetamine-induced psychosis. I should quit my meds. I’m not feeling well.

  The thing is, I’m not willing to quit my meds. At this point, I need them to stay awake.

  It’s 10:45pm when my phone rings. I startle too easily.

  Liz.

  I don’t want to answer, but I need to. I’ve blown her off and I don’t want her to get worried enough that she starts sharing her worries with others—my mom, Nate, our co-workers. And also, she is a good friend. Strange that I have to remind myself of that.

  “Hey, Liz.”

  “Grace. Tell me everything.”

  “I’m OK. Really. Police said it’s a targeted murder, you know, because Leland was a suspect in the Boone case, so they don’t think anyone else is in danger.”

  “Did you ever talk to Chuck?” Her neighbor. It appears he didn’t mention what a nasty dick I was.

  “Yes. He told me, off the record, that Leland was a sicko. Flirting with Ava, giving her presents when he was painting the Boone house.”

  “Hell, I had no idea. You must be relieved. Creeper child molester living next door is dead. Good fucking riddance.”

  I laugh. I have felt bad about feeling relieved. It makes me feel a little sturdier, steadier, more at ease, that Liz, a woman who has her shit together, is validating my relief.

  “Yes, I am relieved. You know he gave Chloe candy when she was on the swing set and I was bringing groceries in.”

  “Shit, I would have killed him myself.”

  Yes. Yes, me too.

  “What did Nate say?” Liz says.

  “I haven’t told him, and he doesn’t look at the news. I’m afraid to tell him.”

  “Fuck it then. Don’t. You don’t read the news, you lose.”

  I laugh again. I might be able to sleep after all.

/>   She’s right. Don’t tell Nate. Maybe you’ll get lucky and Wyatt won’t mention it. It’s possible. The mind of an eight-year-old is fluttery.

  “I heard they know who did it, and they’re getting their ducks in a row for an arrest.”

  “What? I didn’t hear that,” I say, my voice a cracked whisper. “When did you hear?”

  “Thirty minutes ago. Susan texted me. Her brother’s a detective.”

  “But I’ve met the detectives on the case. Susan’s brother isn’t one of them.”

  “Who knows? Maybe they’re sending out that rumor on purpose to see who squirms.”

  “Can they do that?”

  Her voice distant, the phone away from her mouth, Liz says, “Oh, hey, babes, you need anything?” Then, to me, she says, “OK, Grace, Sonya doesn’t feel so hot. See you tomorrow.”

  They know who did it.

  If they are close, why wouldn’t James say so?

  Ariana suspects you.

  And I’m back online, gnawing the wet skin along my fingernails, my mind buzzing.

  * * *

  Chloe calls for me at 5:58am, minutes before my alarm goes off.

  I catch my laptop before it falls off the edge of the bed. I hobble, blurry-eyed, sweaty, and reeking of body odor to tell the kids Good Morning. If I can start their day with a cheery, positive attitude, sometimes it sticks.

  They both politely respond with cheery salutations of their own, which rarely happens. I pat myself on the back for dragging my ass out of bed.

  Ariana suspects you.

  It hits me like a heart attack, wringing the air from my lungs. An impending feeling of doom. I read that symptom last night somewhere. My fingers tingle. My legs feel weak.

  They know who did it. They’re getting their ducks in a row for an arrest.

  I am the first one downstairs. As I head toward the kitchen, my stomach drops.

  Leland Ernest’s cat is standing on my back deck, right outside my sliding glass door, staring at me. I charge down the hallway toward the cat. Go away, you tell-tale heart!