I am like a kid counting down the days until Christmas while having no real concept of time. I don’t know when they will find her body or where he has stashed her. I’m waiting desperately for the moment when it will begin, but then a part of me wants it to take a little longer. What if it wasn’t flawless? What if I messed something up? I went over everything at length in my mind every day, all day long. I keep thinking about every step taken. I always stop and ask, what if they found this? But then I debunk the question by going over my careful planning.
I envision him slicing her throat open at least a thousand times a day. I remember how he took the blade across her delicate pale throat, and I can’t imagine how he could have felt to do such a thing to her. I can’t believe how callous he is; it’s almost as if he’s forgotten about Anna and pushed her from his mind. He dodges the conversation every time I ask him if he’s heard anything about the case since she worked so closely with him. How cold.
She’s on my mind. Did Anna know she could be so dispensable to another human being? That her life and future wouldn’t matter to someone that she had shared such an intimate relationship with and planned her days around? She probably couldn’t picture John being this bitter about her. Then again, she never saw his offensive side. She didn’t know he could kill her and go on with his daily life as if nothing happened. She probably thought he was an honorable man who would turn himself in and confess. He turned out to be nothing more than an ordinary coward.
“Poor girl,” I utter at the TV as I power it down with the remote. “I hope they find her.”
Medeia’s Journal
Dear Anna,
It’s almost Christmas time. Your family has been coming out of the woodwork now to make a plea for you to be let go for the holiday season. They believe you have been kidnapped in some conspiracy theory. Wow.
You come from strange folks, with very little intelligence or teeth. Is that why makeup became your shield? Was the reflection of your mother’s face looking back at you daily too much to handle? Were the freckles that lined your nose just like your father’s—better to digest when you blended concealer over them?
It’s a shame that they couldn’t act this way when you were alive.
Medeia’s Journal
Dear Anna,
Ten days have passed, and they finally found a body. I held my breath, thinking about you. We get a lot of bodies in the rivers around here, but not often just thrown in the woods. How could he be so careless with you? I took the time to show you attention, and he threw you out like yesterday’s garbage.
Tossed you in the sprinkling of woods along the river as if you were just a piece of litter thrown from a car window. You were more. He left you in the cold for animals to poke at you, for the bitter cold to do it’s worse against your naked skin. He didn’t care.
Forty-One
I open the front door after the incessant knocking expecting to find the little girl who has been trolling the neighborhood selling delicious boxes of cookies, but I see an older female flashing a badge in my face.
“Mrs. Moore?”
“Yes? Can I help you?” My stomach drops.
“I’m Detective Mason, ma’am, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Anna Trayor.” She’s pleasant enough. I scrunch my eyes at her.
“Anna Trayor?” I gasp as the last name hits me, but the truth is it’s all an act for the officer—the name is burned into every part of my being. “Oh, my god. You mean John’s secretary?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in. Come in.” I wave for her to come inside. She nods to her partner, another female of similar age but with a bored look on her face. “Oh, I heard about her on the news, how awful. Missing around the holidays.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore. This here is my partner, Detective Tompson.” We exchange nods and handshakes.
“Please come in, sit down.” I motion toward the living room. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
They both decline.
“Oh, my goodness. I hope you guys find her.” I point to the chairs in the living room for them to occupy.
“Mrs. Moore, I realize that this is an uncomfortable conversation, so please bear with me, but I need to ask you some personal questions about your relationship with your husband.”
“John?” They nod. “I apologize; I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“We spoke to him earlier today, and he’s assured us you’d be available to chat.” I know that it’s a lie because there’s no way John would want them speaking to me about the verbal abuse that he has been dishing out the past ten years, or anything relating to him. He wouldn’t want the secrets of the past coming into the present.
“Wow. Okay.” I sit rigidly on the edge of the couch with my hands clasped between my knees. “I’m sorry, I really don’t understand. You spoke to John about his secretary, and that makes sense because she worked for him, but what does this have to do with me?” They exchange glances. I slip out of reality for a second and float above the scene, and I replace myself with the empty mind of an unknowing wife.
“Ma’am, are you aware of an affair between your husband and Miss Trayor?” Detective Mason asks.
“A what?” I shout and lean forward. “No. No. No. John isn’t having an affair.” I shake my head.
The other detective jumps in. “Can you place your husband’s whereabouts on the night of November twelfthof this year?”
“Wait. Wait. Go back.” I throw my hands up. “An affair? Why do you think John was having an affair with Anna?” I search their faces, one after another. I’ll give them one thing; they’re excellent at their job because they know to look upon me in empathy.
Detective Tompson moves to sit next to me and grab my hand. “Mrs. Moore, I apologize, but it has come to our attention that your husband has been linked to Anna romantically up until recently.”
“How?” I squeeze her hand and rub my forehead with my other hand.
“Well...” She looks to her partner for permission, and she nods. “After talking with several people at your husband’s office where Anna worked as well, it has come to our attention that the two were closer than just coworkers. We are trying to confirm the suspicions. Right now, it’s gossip. Strong gossip.”
“He couldn’t be,” I stutter.
“Do you know where your husband was the night of November twelfth?” she repeats.
“I don’t know. It’s hard when you spit out a specific date.” I take deep breaths. “Sorry, I’ll grab my calendar. I usually write my activities down in there, and it might jolt a memory.”
“Thank you, ma’am. That would be helpful.” She follows behind me while I retrieve my purse from the hall closet. I unhouse my planner, and she waves for me to follow her back to my own living room.
“Okay...” I settle back down on the couch, Detective Tompson taking up residence next to me again. “November twelfth, I was shopping for Christmas gifts. I met my girlfriend, Jane, up at the stores, and then I shopped longer after she left. John was working from home that day.” I look up at their faces. “I remember it now.” I gulp. “I came home from the gym and some grocery shopping, and he was bent over his computer in the kitchen when I got home. He told me he took a half day at work. And then...”
“And then what, Mrs. Moore?” Detective Tompson presses.
“He told me that my father passed away. He said he had died and that we missed the funeral.” I stare at the floor.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Detective Mason says.
“He didn’t die.” I correct her. I glance up to watch the shock settle on their faces.
“What?” Detective Tompson echoes the shock on her partner’s face in my ear.
“John told me later that night when I got home from shopping that he was misinformed,” I state.
“Seems like a pretty big thing to be misinformed about,” Detective Mason quips.
“Yeah.” I nod. “After he told me that he had died,
I remember I went up and took a shower, and left to go shopping.” I squeeze the knee of Detective Tompson. “I’m not callous. It hurt. I drove around and parked for a while, making peace with it. I haven’t seen my father since the day my mother passed. I don’t want to go into details, but I don’t exactly have the closest or best relationship with my father.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Detective Tompson says.
“It’s...” I shake my hand at them. “I don’t know where John was. I think he was home. He was home when I got back, and he was showered so he must have been here awhile.”
“Around what time did you get home, ma’am?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe nine in the evening.”
“How did he seem when you got home?” Detective Mason asks.
“Well, um.” I pretend to be dragging the memory up from the depths of my mind. Meanwhile, the face of John that night is a screensaver up there. “A little odd, I guess. He told me he loved me.”
“And that’s odd?” Detective Mason leans in.
“Lately, yes.” I sit back against the couch. “Huh.” I pretend to connect the dots. “What’s the gossip at his work?”
“Uh, just a few things suggesting Anna and your husband were intimate,” Detective Tompson stutters.
“Like what?”
“I don’t think I’m at liberty to say those to you and cause you any distress when it may simply be just gossip and lies.” She smiles.
“Well, that’s shit,” I blurt. “Oh, I’m sorry. Just, that’s frustrating. See, I’m sitting here with two officers wondering if my husband is cheating on me. I answered your question for the date, and you’re going to leave me scratching my head when you go.”
“One of the coworkers has pictures of them holding hands, and your husband kissing Miss Trayor.” Detective Mason doesn’t share the same secrecy policy that her partner does.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore.” They stand to leave, their use for me over. “If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call us.”
“You should talk to our chef, Hannah.” I slam my planner shut. “You gave me the gossip, so I can at least point you in a direction for John’s alibi. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Why else would you be asking me about a specific date?”
“Chef?” Detective Tompson’s prejudice against the rich shines through.
Detective Mason steps in front of her. “Your husband failed to mention this.”
I glare at Detective Tompson. “She comes in every night for dinner. It’s her job to keep a menu written down. She can confirm his time at home that night. I didn’t stay for dinner.” I watch a spark shine between them. The dumb rich housewife proved to be useful after all.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I rub my upper arms to ward off the chill.
The detectives don’t do well to hide their faces.
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore.” Detective Mason shakes my hand.
“Please, call me Medeia. I’m not sure I like that last name right now after hearing my husband cheated.”
“Medeia.”
Medeia’s Journal
Dear Anna,
I miss you. My days are empty now that I can’t follow you around. I tried to take a selfie today in remembrance of you, and it made me sick. The whole office knew you were a whore. They even took pictures. Funny that none of them ever reached my inbox. I wonder if others were taking your course in blackmail and planning to get raises from John.
Forty-Two
“Medeia, I can explain.” John’s talking to my back because I refuse to turn around and look at him.
“Hannah, a pleasure to see you.” I grab the coat off the rack that our chef just put there. “I’m afraid I need to give you the night off, though. I do apologize for you driving all this way.”
“I understand, Mrs. Moore.” She puts her coat back on, and I can tell by her face that she has heard John’s screams for longer than a minute.
“Mr. Moore. I wanted to speak to you, um, before I go.” She nods to me for permission. I grant it.
“What, Hannah? We’re a little busy,” John barks.
“John,” I scold. “Knock it off.” He jumps back at the tone of my voice, as does our young chef. Never have I raised my voice to him, I’ve always been a pushover when it comes to John and arguments, but now that his affair is out in the open for me to react to, it feels wonderful to let go.
“Go on,” I coax.
“Well, Mr. Moore...” She looks at me before adding, “Mrs. Moore. I need to resign.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Why?” John advances toward her, and I intercept by putting myself the middle.
She stares down at the floor and wrings her hands, and I take them in mine to reassure her. “Why, Hannah?” I ask softly.
“The police, Mrs. Moore, came to my house today and asked me a lot of questions.” She looks at my husband. “I don’t want to work for you anymore, Mr. Moore.” Translation: She doesn’t want to work for a philandering murder suspect.
“That’s fucking ridiculous,” John screams. I watch the spittle from his bottom lip fly off toward Hannah’s face. “You aren’t allowed to quit. It’s all hearsay.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t want to associate myself with you and your case this soon in my career.” I watch as she tries to keep a professional head while wiping the spit off her cheek.
“Career?” John laughs like a maniac. “I took you in from culinary school. You are nothing without me. Nothing.”
“Enough, John,” I scream.
“I understand, Hannah. I’ll mail you your last pay.” I show her out the door, the whole time protecting her with my arm away from the steam of John’s angry breath.
“That’s great. That’s just fucking wonderful.” He points at the door after I close it on our ex-chef’s retreating back.
“Can you blame her?” I yell.
“I lost six employees today over this shit. The whole office is going on about an affair with Anna. Now, our cook is gone. What am I supposed to do, Medeia?” He slaps his thighs, out of breath.
“Cook for yourself.” I push past him and up the stairs toward our bedroom.
“Where are you going?” I hear him take the stairs two at a time while I calmly stride up them.
“I’m going to my bedroom, John, where I will pack your things.” My tone doesn’t raise again.
“This is my house!” he shouts.
“Then you can move your shit into your guest room. I’m not fucking leaving because your dick couldn’t stay out of your secretary’s mouth.” He slaps me across the face. I slap him back.
“Hit me again, John. I’m sure that’s what the police want to hear, how you are so weak in anger that you can strike a woman. Do it. Hit me again, you coward,” I seethe in his face, watching my saliva now be the one to fly onto his open lips of shock.
“I’m sorry, Medeia. I didn’t...”
“You didn’t what? Mean it?”
He nods.
“Which part?”
“All of it.” It sounds like a question rather than a statement.
“Forget it, John. I’ll pack my things. You can have your big old mansion.” I swing my arm around to the empty house. “I won’t be sleeping anywhere near a murderer tonight.” I will, in fact, forever sleep with a murderer every night for the rest of my life.
“I didn’t kill her.” He lurches forward and enunciates every word so that they hit the base of my spine one by one.
“Prove it.” I pack my stuff to stay at Jane’s for the night.
“You don’t have anywhere to go. I’m not paying for you to stay in a hotel tonight.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry about me, John.” I had Jane now, and some money saved from my job and taking cash back at stores. I had everything I needed to stand on my feet alone, and it feels good. I don’t want to be rich anymore. I want to be free.
“Medeia, wait. I
need you.” He grabs at my arm, but I dodge his touch. He’s begging now. He can’t find an angle to work, so he’s flailing.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the rest of my things, John. Until this is sorted out, or I decide what I need, I won’t be in this house with you.”
I throw clothes into a suitcase I have inside of the closet, careful not to spill out any of the food or money I have hidden in certain items of clothing. John paces around the room while I pack in a fury. I toss makeup into a bag and zip it up and head out.
“I would never hurt you, Medeia.” He yanks on my suitcase as I’m walking down the stairs.
“You just did.”
“I apologized for that,” he sputters.
“Yeah?”
He nods.
I grab my coat and car keys, then pause. “Then go tell Anna you’re sorry, see if it works for her.” I shut the door as tears run down John’s face.
Medeia’s Journal
Dear Anna,
I never had a sleepover when I was younger. Hell, I didn’t even have friends let alone someone who wanted to have me come over to their house. I like being in Jane’s home. It’s smaller than mine; it’s perfect. Thank you for fucking John and for weirdly giving me my freedom. I hope I gave you yours. I hope now your sins are repented because of the price you paid for them.
By the way, why did you never invite Samantha to sleep over? She’s working so hard for you, but I have an awful feeling you weren’t the kind of friend she is trying to be for you now.
Forty-Three
The morning brings sunshine to warm my face through the glass doors leading to the balcony of Jane’s guest bedroom. Jane’s ex-husband was rich. When he passed away, the life insurance money afforded her to buy this charming place with luxurious features.
It was extravagant in the best ways: a balcony off the guest bedroom, a vaulted ceiling in the living room, marble countertops in the kitchen. Aside from those features, it was down to earth everywhere else, and I blame that on Jane. She didn’t come from riches, she wasn’t ever as poor as I was, but she didn’t have a silver spoon anywhere near her mouth for the longest time. Even when she did, she paid dearly for it.
Dear Anna Page 18