I shook my head and smiled. “Not at all.”
“Ain’t hardly ever a scene ‘round here ‘cept when it comes to that bar,” she said, a disapproving frown forming as she shook her head and got up from the booth. “You let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling as she winked at me.
“Diner’s slow. I can grab some coffee and lend an ear if you’d like the company?” I raised my chin, surprised by the offer, thinking that it was sweet, but said nothing. The bell above the door chimed, catching her attention. A small group of teens charged in, bringing with them the smell of the weather and stories and speculation about the ambulance and why the lights and sirens weren’t on.
“It means the dude is dead!” someone hollered over the commotion.
“Think about it! Why would they need lights and sirens if they’re carrying a dead person?” another voice added.
“It was quiet for a spell, anyway,” Ms. Potts said, letting out a sigh and giving me one last wink before corralling the teens into nearby booths. She whipped out her order pad, flipped the pages over, and pulled a pencil from her bluish hair.
When she licked the end and began to write, I dropped what I owed onto the table and found my way to the door.
The taste of my sandwich stayed with me as I crossed the playground, passing the jungle gym and the spot where Pigtails had thrown the tree branch into the street. By now, the ambulance was far enough away that it just looked like a tiny matchbox toy sitting in a row of traffic. Everything looked faded in the drizzly, wet air. Although the heavy rain had saved Pigtails that afternoon, I knew Ghoul would have been back the next day. I felt certain of that deep inside. He was about repetition and routine and patterns. That would have led him to kill Pigtails eventually. And while I’d killed again, I knew I’d also saved a life today. I was convinced of that fact. As I stared at the smashed tree branch, it warmed me inside to know that Pigtails would now have a chance to grow up.
TWO
Finally accepting what we’ve always known to be true but have tried to ignore is usually painful. I’d learned that sad fact after killing the homeless man. His death released the truths of the past into my dreams. One of my painful truths was that, while I’d always known who I was, I now knew my mother had been just like me. And, sadly, I fear my daughter may be one of us too.
A tangle of sunlight slipped in and out of my baby girl’s hair, the summer light turning her locks golden. She peered up as if knowing I was thinking about her. She had been occupying herself by playing a game where the carpet was hot bubbling lava, teeming with monsters eager to eat her, so she had strewn a path of pillows and cushions across the floor as stepping-stones. I motioned, urging her over. She hopped from one to another, up and down, until reaching my feet. I smiled at the glow on her cheeks, and the wrinkle of concentration on her face stretched into a smile.
“Why you look sad, Momma?” she asked, perching her tiny hand on my knee. I sat up, her question catching me off guard.
“Momma’s not sad, baby girl.”
“You sad because you miss your momma?” I shook my head, feeling an unexpected sting. But what bothered me more than my girl’s question was that I had no idea how much my mother had influenced her. As far as I knew, there was just the one drawing, just the one crayoned Killing Katie design. Since that day, I’d combed through all of her drawings, heavy with concern, searching for anything resembling what my mother had handed me at Katie’s graveside. Finding nothing, I’d hidden the one drawing in my secret box, then watched and waited. For a while, my heart skipped whenever her school called. I’d waited for the voice on the phone, waited for the voice to tell me there were issues and concerns and that it’d be best to discuss them in person. Those phone calls never came, though.
My mother drew that picture, I thought, trying to convince myself that there must have been evilness guiding my baby girl’s fingers. She drew it and gave it to me on the day of my best friend’s funeral. It might have been Snacks holding the crayon, but I was certain my mother drew the picture.
“Grandma?” I asked, seeing my baby girl’s eyes flick open and sparkle. “Do you miss her?”
She lifted herself up onto her toes, “We go? Go play with Mom-mom?”
Stuck for words, I couldn’t answer. Snacks cocked her head, catching more of the sun in her hair. I looped a lock of auburn red between my fingers, then tucked it behind her ear. She waited patiently, blinking slowly, expecting me to tell her we’d go see her mom-mom soon. She didn’t understand what she was asking, though. She couldn’t.
“Outside?” I asked, hoping to persuade her interest. We were just about at the birth of summer days. The air moved slowly and the trees came alive at night with the glow of fireflies. A guttural rumble came from the west, and I could smell the damp warning of a late-spring storm. The rain doused my ideas for a playful distraction, but I thought maybe we could take to the porch and watch the rain.
And then came the scent of wet asphalt. It distracted me with the memories of a truck stop, the sounds of an air-hose bell, and the scent of men and creaking leather. I shuddered, but I couldn’t ignore a deep sense of fear and excitement, forgotten but not gone.
I didn’t know what to do about my mother. Was she the monster, or was I? I might never know.
I’ve killed too, I reminded myself. But she had to have shown me how. Right?
What truth was I fighting? That I’d been born a murderer, or that I’d been taught how to murder?
“Not today, baby,” I answered, an apology in my tone for the disappointment that I knew would come. “We’re going to stay home. Just us. Maybe watch a movie with Daddy and Michael. Would you like that?”
She straightened her head, catching the angry rumble of storm clouds. “Storm!” she said excitedly. We’d been lucky to have children who weren’t afraid of thunder. “Storm!”
“Storm!” I answered, raising my voice to match her pitch. “Want to sit on the porch and count down the lightning and thunder?” Snacks shook her head up and down wildly and gathered a few of her Beanie Babies from the floor.
“Storm!” she repeated, pointing toward the door, a velvety-red Beanie Baby dog swinging in her clutches.
Snacks plunked down on the porch swing—an anniversary gift from Steve the year before—and began to pump her legs back and forth. Her sneakers moved through the air like a mechanized pendulum but did little to move the seat.
“Like this,” I told her. I leaned forward and back, slowly rocking until the porch swing began to sway. “But easy. Not like at the playground. This swing is for relaxing—” A flash of white creased a giant bruise in the sky, interrupting me. I flinched, but in fun. Snacks playfully shrieked. Thunder bellowed from the parting clouds and the sound of gentle rain pattered on our porch roof.
I snuggled up close to my daughter, wrapping my arm around her. I closed my eyes and listened to the storm, telling her to do the same. Another stab of electricity turned my eyelids orange, and she jumped. We let out playful shrieks and her little frame tensed for the coming thunder.
Steve and I weren’t usually ones for prayer, but with my baby girl, I’d found myself praying for her to be normal, wishing her to be anything other than who I was, who her grandmother was. And maybe wishes are like prayers. Maybe after the storm passed and the cloudless sky filled with night stars, I’d wish upon one of them, and my prayers would come true.
THREE
STEVE GRUNTED AS HE stood up from his office chair, his bad leg weak and trembling. The scowl fixed on his face reminded me of how I’d nearly lost him to the bullet Sam Wilts, the owner of that sleazy White Bear biker bar, put inside him. And while his days of chasing after Snacks and running down pop flies with Michael would never be the same, at least our children still had a father.
We were living an unexpected reality, stringing together days one at a time and hoping that somehow that would make things seem a little normal. A new normal. Some co
uples never reach normal again, finding it impossible to recover from an event like that. The thought of us being one of those couples sat like ice stuck in my throat, a freezing burn. It terrified me. Our new reality came with problems too. Steve’s resentments. I’d watched him pound on his leg a hundred times now, cursing what he could no longer do. I tried to be there for him, but I wasn’t enough—I’d never be enough—and my greatest fear was that I’d eventually lose the man I fell in love with. Something broke inside him the day of the shooting. He was off the way a cracked bell could never ring true again, and it broke my heart to think he might never be the same.
“Babe, can you get that for me?” Steve asked, pointing to his cane. “Amy?”
“Sorry, wasn’t paying attention,” I answered, sounding apologetic as I took it to him. “Here, babe.”
He gave me a curt nod and dropped back down into his chair, his neck and cheeks flushed from the struggle.
“Having a bad day,” he said, fixing a stare on his leg. “No strength.”
I wrapped my arms around his middle, cautious of his leg. I knew exactly where and how to place my hands—a trick I learned from the physical therapist.
He held on to my shoulder and I squeezed myself in next to him, holding him, shaping us until we were one and he was standing up.
“I love you, Amy,” he said, surprising me. He said that less and less these days, and I was trying to understand why. His eyes were wet and filled with shame. He zapped my strength with a single look.
“Babe, come on,” I told him. “This is temporary. They said it could take a year or more.”
“I’m not feeling any improvement. What if this is it?” he asked. I’d considered that too—his leg might never get any better.
“Then, I guess—” I began, and shifted until he was standing and leaning on the cane. “I guess you better just get used to having me help you.”
“Where do you want this?” Michael asked, his voice unexpectedly close to my ear. I nearly lost my balance, but Steve braced and caught the both of us.
“Geez! Sneak up much?” I asked, joking. My son had grown like a spring weed and was nearly as tall as I was. So fast.
Michael cradled an open box, the cardboard torn and the shoddy bottom buckling. It was filled with the junk that had been bouncing around inside my car for the last year. It was time for a spring cleaning, and Michael was eager to earn some cash.
“Still five dollars?” I asked.
“Five for cleaning and vacuuming the car,” he answered, plunking the box onto the floor. “And another ten for a wash. Add an extra five and I’ll scrub the tire rims?”
I played like I was considering the offer, rocking my head from side to side. The truth was, I would’ve given him thirty dollars. “Deal!” I exclaimed. “And I’ll pay you another fifteen dollars if you Windex the windows . . . both sides. And that means all of them—the sides and back too.”
Michael’s lips moved in silence, counting. His eyes flicked wide. “Yeah!” he answered. “That’s a deal.”
“If you do a good job, we’ll talk about cleaning my car,” Steve added. “Could be a big payday for you.”
“I could get two new video games!” Michael said, hopping out of the room. The front door slammed, and we saw him rush past the office window—a blur we followed until out of sight.
“Love spring, but hate the cleaning,” I said and laughed. Then I added, “Isn’t this what we had kids for?”
“What is all that stuff?” Steve asked, picking through the top layer of the box. “You have a secret life as a hoarder that I don’t know about?”
“Well . . .” I began, sighing at the sight of the junk. “That is about a year’s worth of school trips, Little League, and a shit-ton of day trips. I think our last vacation souvenirs might be in there too.”
“So what is this?” Steve left my side to circle the box, his interest growing.
My chest tightened and my heart went into my throat when Steve picked out the tip of my father’s old leather belt. Michael had been thorough. Too thorough. I’d hidden the belt beneath the driver’s-side seat, pushed it up into the metal springs to hide it. I must have stopped on the bridge over Neshaminy Creek a dozen times, intent on throwing it over the side. But intentions aren’t actions, and I could never bring myself to do it.
Steve’s face filled with confusion as he tried to form his words. Finally he said, “It’s a man’s belt. But not one of mine.” He slipped the belt out of the box, spilling an old sippy cup and a bundle of fast-food napkins onto the floor in the process. But Steve ignored the mess he made, his interest locked.
“You know, you’re gonna have to clean that up,” I warned, trying to sound funny as a way of hiding my panic. “Could be one of my father’s old belts. Snacks might have been playing in my mother’s moving boxes.”
Steve lifted his chin and then nodded. My story sounded reasonable enough—and wasn’t too far from the truth. My mother had given me a few things recently, had dropped them off after the last of the winter snows cleared. I had watched her from our porch window, choosing to stay inside, choosing to stay hidden. She crept across our lawn, her shoes sticking in the sopping melt. I watched as she squinted toward our house, searching for any signs that I might be home. I didn’t give her any, though, stayed where I was—standing frozen and squeezing the carpet with my toes. She saw me through the glass, though. Or, I think she saw me. I didn’t dare move. She lifted her hand to wave but then gave up, looking defeated and hurt. After she’d dropped off a small bag of my things, she drove away. I hadn’t seen her since. Whenever Steve asked about why my mother hadn’t visited in a while, I’d tell him she was spending my father’s life insurance money, traveling and having fun. I actually had no idea what she was up to. For all I knew, she could have been strangling some senior while fucking his brains out in the bathroom stall of an IHOP during free pancake day. Frankly, I didn’t want to know. We were all better off not knowing.
My heart cramped when Steve showed what had been buried shallow—like the men who’d succumbed to it. He paused, staring at the belt buckle’s metal design, his face puzzled and shocked. A ghostly memory had clearly made a sudden appearance.
“I’ve seen this before,” he told me. His voice’s tone lifted with the curl of his mouth. I said nothing and didn’t move. He put the buckle in his palm, running the tip of his finger over the shape of its airplane wings. A flutter came into my belly and I tried to swallow, but the panic stayed tight in my throat. How many times had I moved my fingers the same way, felt the metal’s bumpy edges? I knew every scratch, every ding. The belt buckle’s face showed the passage of time like an aged warrior. The end of the belt dangled loose, swaying, pleading that I fish it through the buckle’s hinged ring. Steve traced the wings again.
“There are a million belt buckles—” I began, but coughed dryly on my words. “And you’re saying you’ve seen that one before?”
“I know this is going to sound crazy, but yes. This design. It’s unique—down to the scratches and chipped lines on the airplane wings,” he answered, his voice fading, his attention lost in the details. “I mean, after all this time . . . it’s just impossible, really.” Steve’s bemused smile filled his face with intrigue, a detective’s intrigue that I knew well. I suddenly felt scared.
I gave him a blank stare, trying to dismiss his find as trivial. “Babe, it’s a belt, just a belt. My dad collected a ton of junk, and—”
“It’s not just a belt,” he interrupted, raising his voice. I leaned back, frowning. “I mean, yes, it’s a belt. But it’s more than that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, needing to know yet afraid to know.
He stayed quiet, shaking his head and flipping the buckle over and then back. When he laughed, I nervously laughed with him, uncertain of why I felt the need to do so.
“I’m sure this is from an old case.”
“A case?”
“Not just any case, but one of the st
ation’s oldest. It was huge thirty years ago. We had to learn everything about it, study it. John and I spent weeks researching the design, thinking with the technology today, we’d be able to trace the buckle’s origin.”
“You—” I began, my voice breaking again. “You and John studied a case about that?” I pointed to the buckle, my finger twitching. I shoved my hands together, rubbing them as if I’d caught a chill.
“Hold this,” he said, shoving the buckle in my hands while ignoring my question. Instinctively, I wrapped the leather strap around my hand and made a fist. Steve strained to lift a box from atop his office shelves. He groaned, clutching at his leg.
“Maybe you should take it easy,” I urged, hoping to persuade him.
“It’ll pass,” he answered grimly. Then he added, “This is more important.”
When he was in front of me again, he appeared with a small box between his hands—the corners soft and worn, the words “premium typing paper” faded along the sides.
Steve has a secret box too, I thought and nearly laughed. Well, maybe not quite a secret box, but it wasn’t one I’d ever seen.
“I haven’t looked at these in years. Shouldn’t even have this . . . Belongs at the station.” Steve plopped the box onto the table, sending a puff of dust into the air. I waved my hand as a tickle came to my nose. “Sorry about that.”
He tilted the lid, opening the box to reveal a collection of old case files.
How is it that I’ve overlooked it in my own house?
“How old are those?” I asked. At one time, the folders had clearly been reddish-brown but had become pale, almost devoid of color. Their edges were fraying like cotton.
“These are almost as old as we are. I really should give them back to Charlie—meant to give them back. Completely forgot about them.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand,” I offered. “I can take them over for you. No problem.” Steve continued to ignore me as he sifted through the box. Finally, he found the file he wanted.
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 26