Whatever I’d imagined, it wasn’t this.
Faded lines criss-crossed her flat torso, below her small breasts, above the dark patch of pubic hair.
Shallow cuts. Cruel cuts.
Chaotic and methodical at the same time, different shades of white, red, and pink. As if they were done one at a time, with plenty of time to think about them in between.
“Shall I turn around?” She asked it as if she were modeling a dress for the prom.
“No. No. Please.” I rushed over, closed her robe, tied the belt, and hugged her carefully, as if those scars still hurt. It wasn’t welcome. She remained stiff, arms at her sides. I stood slightly back, but close enough that her warm breath blew on my cheek.
“If you’re not careful, this could happen to you.” She whispered it, and I imagined a man, holding her down. Black bars on the windows. But that’s not at all what she was saying.
“I did this.” Her finger almost prayerfully traced a half-moon scar high on her neck, under her ear, one I’d never noticed. “And this.” She ran a fingernail down the white line on her wrist. I felt a hot sensation on my arm, in the exact same place, as if she were touching me. “I was supposed to be watching her that day. I was always supposed to be watching her.”
Mike had seen it. Misty was a cutter. Old scars. New ones. And Misty wasn’t finished with herself.
“Who?” I asked wildly. “Who were you supposed to be watching?”
“We’re alike, you and me, Emily. We have different stories, but we’re the same. Did you kill your rapist? I can understand if you did. I think about doing it all the time.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Had she been raped, too? Or was she talking about killing herself? Inside my purse, my cell phone buzzed. Someone, reaching out a hand. My fingers scrambled around for it, never taking my eyes from Misty’s, which were trained on me like a loaded weapon ready to go off.
“Hey, Emily.” Mike. Rushed. His at-work persona. “Where are you?” he asked. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, if Jesse’s with you. Just wanted to let you know that we are flying to Kentucky Friday.” Misty dropped her robe and turned away. More pink and white lines in places I didn’t know she could reach. Roads that went nowhere. She leaned over a suitcase and picked up a lacy purple bra. I averted my eyes, ashamed of myself for looking. “Emily, are you there? Are you mad? Sorry I didn’t make it home last night. Things are crazy. I’m here now picking up a few things.”
He was making an overture.
“That’s OK.” I cleared my throat. “Was Caroline’s ex upset about her death?” I asked him on purpose, knowing full well that he was going to spring it on Richard Deacon in person.
Misty’s head jerked at that like I expected. She angrily finished yanking on jeans and tugged a T-shirt over her head.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Mike sounded confused. “I want to confront him in person. Oh, and we did finally get to the right Todd Rich.”
“And?” I egged him on while Misty began to herd me out of the bedroom, her hand firm on my back.
“He’s a man Misty met over a weekend in Vegas six months ago, a blackjack dealer going to law school. They were never married. He claims they slept together once after a night of tequila and slots. He said she insisted on taking a picture. He said he might not even have remembered her if they hadn’t bonded over the same last name. She saw it on his name tag. Struck up a conversation. Frankly, he was a shit. Mostly bothered that she wouldn’t take off her clothes during sex.” I thought of the framed snapshot of Misty and Todd, that vague feeling it had been taken in Europe. Fake Europe. Las Vegas. I thought that sleazy men like Todd Rich never kept the secrets of the women they slept with unless they forgot them. That they looked so normal until you were alone.
Misty ushered me down the stairs, her body inches from mine. She was leaning in, trying to make out what Mike was saying. I pressed the phone closer to my ear.
“We tried to question Misty last night. I asked her to drop by the station. She showed up, but that’s about all I can say. She said she hadn’t broken any laws and if we were arresting her, she wanted a lawyer. We let her go.”
“Mike, I’ll call you later.”
I punched out without saying goodbye. By this time, Misty and I were halfway across the living room on a steady path to the front door.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Misty said with false brightness. One hand shoved me out, the other rested on the door handle. The door was already shutting in my face.
“Misty, I know about Todd.” I blurted it out. I stuck my hand purposefully on the frame so she’d have to make a choice about whether to break my fingers.
“You need to talk to me,” I pleaded. “I can help. Mike can help. At least call me. Soon. Tomorrow. Before you leave.”
She moved her head slightly, an odd little smile, not a happy one, playing at her lips. Yes or no? I couldn’t tell. Certainly not a promise.
“Caroline was my last hope.” I could barely hear her. “I’m never going to know.”
Know what?
The massive door fell forward, like someone had shoved the lid of a coffin. My hand dropped away just in time. The door slammed hard, in my face. I stared at the wild, swirling oak grain, while the lock clicked.
I imagined Misty moving away, soft feet padding across the floor, back to the little girl waiting on the floor.
I wondered whether I would ever see her again.
31
Three days later.
Nine hundred and fifty-three miles away.
I am staring at a roll of yellow crime tape. Blurry. I can only make out the C.
My body is shivering so violently I wonder whether the baby is going to drop right here onto the cold tile, even with my knees pulled up and shut together tight, my arms wrapped around my belly holding everything in.
Breathe. Don’t look at him.
His name is Wayne. I know this, because somebody said, “Hey, Wayne,” when he brushed by me coming in the door. I had immediately reached out for the wall and slid to the floor. The world had almost gone black, until I focused on the bright yellow circle under a desk.
“Emily, what’s wrong?” Mike is kneeling, breathing in my ear. “Is it the baby? Should we go to the emergency room?”
I shook my head. I’d been in this hell more than once. I needed him to be quiet, so I could time travel, imagine myself three minutes ahead of the moment, like a therapist once suggested. The same therapist who told me that almost every woman hid shame about a sexual encounter before age twenty-five. That they shoved it down, and never told.
Wayne leaned casually against a desk thirty feet from me, hat in hand. I am pretty sure that he knows exactly what is wrong. He isn’t about to budge from this room because that’s the kind of guy he is. He had touched me on purpose a few minutes ago, extending his arm ever so slightly as he passed so it grazed against my breast.
Most people would see a possible grandfather with slightly scratched wire-frame glasses and a belly that said he still liked to go out occasionally and drink on Friday nights. He might be that. But he is also something else.
I can smell a man who hates women. It is a very specific smell. It is sweet and sweaty and slightly acrid. That is how Wayne smells. Maybe Wayne has raped his wife. Maybe his high school girlfriend in the back of a pickup thirty years ago. He has stayed off the radar.
I can’t tell Mike this. It is crazy. Wayne is fifty-five, minimum. He is wearing a Kentucky state trooper uniform. I’ve never seen him before in my life.
“I can’t stay here.” My teeth chattered through the words. “You have to take me with you.”
Five Kentucky troopers were grouped around us, gauging how this was going to go. Two of them were supposed to drive up the mountain with Mike and provide an introduction to Richard Deacon. Backup. I was supposed to stay here, in this Kentucky state police office hanging off a hill, with Bridget-who-filed-and-made-the-coffee.