by P. J. Vernon
“You both wear rings.” She gestures to my left hand. “Can I ask why you haven’t married?”
“Our situation works for us.” It’s the truth, but it must sound like something else. “And until recently, marriage wasn’t an option since, I don’t know, the Constitution was ratified.”
“Sure it doesn’t have anything to do with finances?” She flips back a page or two. “Your family does quite well—”
“How do you know anything about my family?”
“Nice pictures.” She points to my desk photos instead of answering. “That the Williamsburg Bridge you two are standing on?”
“It is.”
“Oliver’s dressed sharp. He could almost pass for a Klein. If he was included in that other one, I mean.” She refers to the next frame over. Me, Mother, Father, and twelve-week-old Tilly on a beach in East Hampton. “Any complete family photos?”
“Plenty.” Complete lands hard because there are none.
“Your mom,” she says, and my jaw nearly drops. “I rang her up yesterday. Same as you, I wanted her thoughts on Oliver.”
Sweat gathers on the back of my neck. “I’m sure she had many.”
“No. Surprisingly,” Detective Henning says, which in itself is surprising. I peak my brow. “I mean sure, she had emphatic opinions on Oliver and yourself, generally. But regarding Oliver’s assault? The woman had no clue what I was talking about.”
“I don’t appreciate where this is going.” As if summoned, the phone in my coat pocket buzzes. I must’ve finished a final, thirteenth Bloody Mary chant because it’s Mother. “I’m also entirely unsure how this brings us closer to finding Oliver’s attacker. It’s irrelevant and invasive.”
“How bizarre that she wouldn’t know. Given how frequently you speak.”
“Because women like her worry, so thank you for this.” I show her my phone. “You know what’s bizarre? Bothering her over a mugging. Eighty whole bucks.”
“You don’t think violence merits a follow-up?”
“Sure do.” At this point, I’m grinding my teeth. “So why is my family a priority over actual investigatory work to hold actual violence accountable?”
“Women like her,” she parrots. “Tell me, Dr. Klein, does being questioned by a woman bother you?”
“It’s the content of your questions, Detective Henning, that bothers me.”
“All right.” She raises both hands as if to say I give up. She follows this stupid gesture with: “I know you’re a busy guy, and I’m genuinely grateful for your time.”
I give a smirk and unlock my phone to catch Mother’s missed call and its accompanying texts.
Father and I are in Washington right now. Awards gala tonight. Call soon please. Mother has attended exactly zero DC galas, and the timing of this one is highly suspect given Detective Henning’s reveal. Seems there are two Kleins telling lies now. But it’s her second message that holds a hook: Also need to discuss the Georgetown property.
“Before I take off”—Detective Henning stands as I return my phone to my coat—“I do want to remind you of one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Spousal privilege.”
The second curve ball in a row I didn’t see coming. And I see all curve balls thrown my way. Bringing that up implies suspicion of not only me or Oliver but of us. Said suspicion intrigues me as much as Mother’s gala–slash–sudden need to talk real estate. “Are you serious?”
“The notion that conversations between spouses are shielded from law,” Detective Henning says, needlessly. I can’t tell if she’s more interested in actual answers or my reactions, but no question, she’s both good cop and bad cop. Something stirs deep in my chest. Something alive and quite like a scorpion.
“I know what it means.”
“Then you know Oliver and you don’t have it.”
15
OLIVER
I stand frozen in the foyer. Locked in place and position from the moment Kristian’s face blurred by, in the flesh, inside my house.
As if my motionlessness would halt the march of time, give it a chance to correct its mistake. Because that’s what it must have been. That’s what it has to have been. A mistake.
My hands are trembling fists.
There’s no way, no possible way, Kristian could’ve walked past me just now.
The front door closes behind him. Behind whoever the fuck just strolled out of my house. With ice-cold ocean eyes and an inflamed slash through his left cheek, threaded with black stitches.
The quaking spreads up my arms and swallows me whole. I turn slowly; the blinds still dance on the shut door.
An engine cranks, lighting my blood on fire, and I leap to the drawing room’s bay window. I part the blinds and realize with horror that I’ve made myself visible to him, vulnerable to him. I drop to the floor. Through a crack between the windowsill and the bottom slat, I peer into the street.
The van backs up, turns its front wheels, and pulls from the curb. The driver wears a cap. Darryl. The man in the front seat is the same one smoking outside. Kristian must be in the back.
I fall and catch myself before my skull strikes the coffee table. As I sit there, silent and shaking, a second engine hums and I crawl on my knees to the window.
A police car pulls into the space vacated by the van. The marked patrol car, courtesy of Detective Henning. Meant to impart security, a sense of safety and protection. Instead, it mocks me. The patrol’s timing, a malicious joke.
Kristian’s been inside my house. He saw, smelled, touched my life with Nathan without my knowledge or consent. Despite the thrumming heat of my pulse, coldness settles over my shoulders.
Panic blooms.
I crated Tilly upstairs in our bedroom because Darryl would be working today. Men would be coming in and out. I spring from the floor and fly up to our room.
I round the second-story landing, push off the railing, and catapult down the hallway. The door to our bedroom is shut. I didn’t close it. Tilly gets anxious when she’s in the crate and it’s closed. When she can’t see what’s going on around her.
I nearly tear the door from its hinges. My eyes find the crate. Its occupant.
Panting, Tilly bolts upright. Her bobbed tail wags wildly. Little paws eagerly padding about. She scratches at crate wiring, and I undo the latch. She leaps, front paws propped on my shoulders, tongue lapping and licking and searching my face.
I exhale. She’s okay. Nathan’s dog is okay.
“Hey there,” I coo. “That’s our good, safe girl.”
She pushes off and gallops, nails clicking against the hardwood, downstairs. Next, the sound of lapping water from the kitchen. The water. Paranoia spikes again, sends me racing downstairs.
Terrifying thoughts of Tilly’s water. Horror stories of hateful people, irritated neighbors, poisoning dogs because they bark too much, too often. Antifreeze tastes sweet, and an unsuspecting dog would drink it till they’re dead.
Sliding into the kitchen, I snatch Tilly’s bowl from under her, spilling most of it. Making for the sink, I sniff what’s left. No odor—chemical or otherwise. I dump it, start to rinse and refill it, but shove it in the dishwasher and grab a clean bowl from the cupboard.
“Here ya go, girl.” I thread my tone with gentleness. Tilly perks her ears and cocks her head. She’s baffled, and I don’t blame her. I’m baffled by my behavior. I’m baffled by why and how Kristian was in my house.
I monitor Tilly as she bounces around my legs for another minute or so. When I decide she’s okay, that she’s not ingested anything dangerous, I pace. Same as my first homecoming from Haus. When I escaped from Kristian’s grip. His attempt to crush my windpipe and snuff my life out. Now he’s been here.
Inside my house. Walking where I walk. Sitting where I sit. Breathing my air.
&n
bsp; Nausea churns, and the room lists. A spring of bile bursts into a geyser. I almost don’t make it. Cupping both hands over my mouth, I start to vomit just before flipping the porcelain lid in the bathroom.
I heave, blood rushing to my head, straining as though my cheekbones might pop out of my face and fall into the toilet water. I gasp between violent heaves. I’ve eaten nothing, save a few sips of coffee coming back up as hot spoonfuls.
I wipe spit from my bottom lip and prop myself against the toilet. How did he do it? It’s too much of a coincidence to consider he worked for Darryl by chance. But how did he know I’d called him? Needed a job done? How did he know to approach Darryl for work?
Has he been watching me at home ever since?
Flush, wash my hands, splash water on my face, gulp straight from the faucet. I leave the hand towel crumpled on the floor and stagger back down the hallway.
Tilly trails behind me as I make my way from room to room. First downstairs, then up. Looking for anything out of place. Anything missing or moved. Anything suggesting Kristian’s long fingers may have touched or brushed or prodded.
A crushing sense of betrayal and invasiveness replaces nausea. Of soiled surroundings. For the second time, the wretched feeling of being attacked—strung up and splayed open for all to see—takes hold. Kristian’s seen me naked. At Haus, without my partner, thirsty for anonymous sex. And now he’s been inside my home. He’s explored my life. He’s penetrated my privacy, befouling and defacing it.
It’s poisoned now. Our home, our things, all poisoned. Sown with salt and there’s no one to tell without losing everything.
Back in the master bedroom, Darryl’s work in our en suite is hidden behind closed doors. The sheets are neatly tucked beneath the mattress. The duvet pulled tight by Nathan same as every morning. No impression or shallow groove from a man’s weight. In the dresser mirror, a stranger peers back.
Bloodshot eyes. Deep shadows beneath them. Pants hanging loose at my hips, wild hair. I’m unraveling. My chest heaving from running and vomiting and running again. The man glowering from the mirror’s far side is a cruel image. Insult to injury, but I’ve done nothing to deserve an empathetic reflection.
Something else steals my focus. Something I hadn’t noticed when bursting into the room for Tilly. Each and every dresser drawer sits flush in its place. Except one. One is pulled out an inch from its mooring.
My underwear drawer.
I step back, heart thumping. My gut moves like I’ve swallowed a teeming knot of hornets. Kristian’s been through my drawer. It’s been left ajar to call attention to itself. As though Kristian wishes it known he’s been through that specific drawer.
But Nathan and I share a dresser. There’s no way he can know…only, he can. My black briefs—the ones he pulled down my trembling, eager legs. I’d diligently washed, folded, and returned them.
I yank the drawer open and there they are. Clean briefs. Except they’ve been unfolded. Deliberately strewn atop neat garments. I pinch their elastic waistline with my thumb and forefinger.
Under them, something else beckons. A USB stick, tiny and neon and terrifying. We’re dealing with a dangerous person, Detective Henning cautioned. And now a flash drive has been tucked beneath my briefs.
His whispers hot on the back of my neck, before I’d even seen that face, those eyes. Now a fresh heat crawls my spine, and I hear that same question that thrilled me at Haus.
What are you looking for?
16
I sink into the duvet. Nathan doesn’t like it when I do. The way my weight tugs and wrinkles the smooth cover is irksome. My clammy fingers pinch the flash drive. The device now includes my prints alongside Kristian’s—unless he wore gloves.
My first instinct is to smash it and scatter the pieces in the dumpster out back where my wallet met its fate. My second, to flee from what frightens me. And I am very afraid of what waits on this USB stick. Afraid enough to lock it away without looking. Unscrew the downstairs duct grate and push it deep inside with my other secrets.
Most people would have to look. That’s not me; I can live without knowing. I did it before. Reinvented myself nearly a thousand miles away.
Never confronting Hector because that’s what running away is. No matter how many times he called, how many texts and emails and DMs. Voicemails deleted and not listened to. Maybe they were conciliatory or even heartbroken pleas. They could’ve been, probably were, violent. The point is I don’t know. I erased them, one after another, as they came through. Killing off each and every chance for a future that included him. A vast departure from my life with Nathan in that now there’s a life worth living. If only barely.
TYRE, IN
New Year’s Eve, and Hector sat at our shitty kitchen table in our shitty, prefab apartment. Hector, somehow sun-kissed even in winter. The whole place reeked of liquor. Sweet like stale Skittles.
“It’s almost midnight,” I said from the sofa. “Blaire’s texted like a hundred times. We gotta go.”
Blaire, the obligatory girlfriend–turned–best friend TV sitcoms required me to have. A hangover from high school, but a welcome one. New Year’s was her thing. Backyard binging behind her family’s farmhouse. Firepits. Cases upon cases of piss-cheap beer. Backslapping and smoking—cigarettes, pot, whatever else—till the sun came up. This would be the first time I’d gone with someone.
The thought of bringing Hector, my boyfriend, cranked my anxiety to eleven. His lack of interest wasn’t helping. I re-scrolled through Blaire’s texts as he prepped another suspension.
“Jesus, Hector, let’s go.” I made for the kitchen. The mildewed linoleum was so sticky, every step took effort.
“Hold on a goddamn minute.” Hector’s eyes, bold and dark, fixated on a ziplock bag of white pills. Dozens of them that he slid into a stone pestle. Percocet.
“It’s been, like, not even an hour since your last one. We’re gonna be drinking.”
“I won’t drink much,” he promised as he made pill powder. Veins in his forearm swelling with each pestle turn. He poured the mixture into a glass of cold water, which he delicately placed in the freezer between a half-empty handle of grain alcohol and oven-ready waffle fries.
Cold-water extraction. Hector taught me that Percocet is a simple combination of two drugs: a narcotic—oxycodone—and acetaminophen, aka Tylenol. The latter is incredibly dangerous in high amounts. Brutal on the liver and added to discourage overdosing on the first ingredient.
In a clever moment revealing his squandered potential, Hector told me oxy was soluble in cold water but acetaminophen wasn’t. Crush the pills, stir them in water, stick them in the freezer. And when you strain the suspension through a paper towel? Almost pure narcotic ready for drinking.
All high, no liver injury, no death.
As soon as he shut the freezer, I opened the fridge. My buzz was kicking up, but now I’d have to wait around even longer. I popped open a PBR and took a healthy gulp. When I lowered the can, sadness bloomed. I’d never watched anyone crushing and filtering pills as a passive observer.
Hector’s hands, trembling with anticipation, worked diligently to recover every last powdery pestle speck. I must’ve looked just as tragic the countless times I’d done the same.
On her deathbed three months earlier, eaten from the inside out, Mom said she’d always be there. Breast cancer had turned into everything cancer, and she knew our time was drawing to an end. She said she’d always watch over me. We never really found time for church with her carousel of shitty jobs, but she meant from heaven. Grinding my teeth, I hoped she couldn’t. I prayed she’d be blinded to my earthly bullshit. She shouldn’t have to see this.
“Let’s go.” Hector coughed, chugged the bitter cocktail, coughed again. We grabbed coats and a fresh sixer of PBR and headed out.
WASHINGTON, DC
That m
oment of self-awareness wasn’t what did it. It wasn’t what spurred me to run and to hide from his texts and voicemails. But the courage to leave him, afterward, may have never come had I not seen myself in Hector at our kitchen table that night.
The USB pinched in my fingers snaps into sharp focus.
New surroundings. Furniture, decor, things inconsistent with my past. Expensive and smelling of well-adjusted decision making. Notes of Nathan’s Tom Ford cologne—vanilla and tobacco—not Hector’s corner-store top shelf. Nathan’s controlling, but he has every right to be, given my behavior. And now this? Lashing out like a child, going to Haus. As if it’d be worth it.
And running away is no longer an option. Not like before. I have to see whatever’s on this. Flash drive in hand, I make for the upstairs office.
Centuries-old stairs shrieking under my feet, I game this out: a threatening clip? An accusation? My tightly coiled gut says it’s media of some kind. Maybe homemade porn—
Haus-made porn. I stop. I would not have noticed a camera. Not in that room in that moment. Reliving that night is suddenly possible.
A memento left in my underwear drawer, because what’s the point of Kristian sneaking inside my house if I don’t know it? And if I hadn’t come home early—which he couldn’t have known would happen—he wouldn’t have been caught. How or when he’d entered would have been a mystery. I’d only know he had, and fear would make him a mythic evil. My life, a porous thing Kristian slips in and out of at will. No way to stop him. Or be certain I’m ever truly alone.
The PC’s fan whirls to life. Entering the PIN to our shared account takes two tries because whatever I’m about to see has my whole body trembling.
My phone vibrates. A text from Nathan.
Dinner tonight?
Just us, then drinks with Tom after?
The question marks mean nothing; he’s already decided. Reservations have been made.
OK.