“David?” I yell. “Babe?”
I pile the papers up and place his briefcase on top of them. Loose leafs secured, I open the French doors out to the balcony to drive the stale scent from the house. Street noise rushes in: honking on the FDR drive, the din of voices below. I look out at the building across the street. If I dared to lean out over the railing, I’d see the East River.
I call for my husband again as I walk to our bedroom. The sheets are in a tangle. David is the type to make the bed. Did he have to rush out? He knew I was coming home this evening. I tell myself that an unmade bed is not cause for panic. He’ll be home shortly. He probably headed out for food.
I return to my purse atop my suitcase and retrieve the laptop. My anxiety inexplicably builds as I carry the computer back into my bedroom and place it on my desk. Beth must toss the gun into the river. Why didn’t I write it that way?
Repetitiveness, I decide. My reluctance to have her act rationally must be because I don’t want a series of paragraphs ending with a splash. Details can fix this, though. Beth can contemplate her act while staring at the gun, tying her observations about its small size to the weight of her guilt. She will be so preoccupied with the image of the weapon that she won’t even notice it sink into the water.
I open the laptop and call up the manuscript. The cursor blinks at the end of my last sentence. I see only it. Not the gun.
I need my Ruger.
I slide back my closet door and stand on my tiptoes to look at the shelf above. The black lockbox lies in its usual spot. As I reach for it, my brain starts throbbing. I rub my temple with one hand as I swat at the box with the other. When I push the case far enough to the lip of the shelf, I take it down with both hands and place it on the bed. There’s a combination lock on the front, three wheels that must be turned to the right numbers. One thousand combinations for a thief to try. One right answer: my wedding anniversary, June 28. 628.
The numbers are already in the right place. The lid pops open with a simple press of a button revealing an empty, gun-shaped space surrounded by black padding.
The throbbing becomes a pounding. It doesn’t make sense that my weapon wouldn’t be here. I haven’t used it since the writers’ police academy workshop. Did David take it? Why would he need a gun?
I grab my cell from my shoulder bag. The glare from the windows intensifies the pulsing between my ears. I close my eyes and let my fingers navigate to the speed dial from memory.
David answers on the second ring. “Liza. Are you home?”
“Hey, yeah. Where are you?”
“Liza?” Static clouds the connection.
“I’m home. Question for you—did you take my gun?”
“Liza. Are you home?” The white noise increases. He hasn’t heard me.
“Yes. Where are you? I need to talk to you. Did you take—”
“Wait. Wait. Listen.” David is nearly shouting. He never yells. “I’m at the police station. You need to come here. They have questions. They—”
A sucking sound chokes his words, air slurping through a straw. “I need you to come.” His voice breaks. “They found Nick’s body.”
Chapter 11
I can’t go home like this. Gravediggers are cleaner. Blood and dirt cover my dress, my arms. Soil and sharp bits of construction debris are embedded in my heels. I can only imagine what my face looks like.
Colleen’s keys are inside her bag. The grit on my feet makes putting my heels back on impossible. I hobble out of the construction site, still barefoot, and cross the street. There are two keys on Colleen’s ring: one is bronze and one is silver. The lock on the outside door is bronze. I open it with the corresponding key, keeping my head down so passersby on the street can’t get a good look at me. I’m sure my cheeks are freckled with blood. There was so much of it.
I hurry up the stairs to the first floor and exit onto the landing. A dark reddish-brown splotch stains the concrete floor near Colleen’s neighbor’s door, which, given the keypad lock on the outside, is likely a shared artist space, only at use during the day. For a moment, I consider cleaning up the blood but then decide that it’ll only delay the inevitable. Someone will figure out she’s missing soon enough. Maybe even my husband.
I enter her apartment with the key and shut the door behind me. Her lights are off. I don’t dare turn them on. From her narrow foyer I can see straight to the window through which I had watched her so easily. She could have neighborhood friends who will realize that someone strange is in her apartment.
I open one of the doors to my right and am greeted with empty hangers and an NYPD windbreaker. Hanging beside it is a man’s suit jacket and pants in dry cleaner plastic. Jake has left a change of clothes in her apartment. The sight saps the last of my adrenaline. I fall to my knees, feeling fully connected to my feelings for the first time since I swung that lead pipe. Tears stream down my face. How could he do this to me? To Vicky? To this woman, even?
I imagine how it must have gone down. Like most things, it probably started innocently enough. She was working with him, found him attractive. Smart. Funny, maybe. He would have figured out that she was a bit enamored and turned on his charm, enjoying the ego boost, not thinking that it would go much beyond some flirty conversations and friendly e-mails. Then one night, their chatter became more than that. Maybe she confessed her feelings and he was curious. More likely, she said something sexual and he pounced on it. I won’t only blame her. Yes, she shouldn’t have fallen for a married man. But he was worse for taking her up on whatever offer she put out there. He made promises to me. She didn’t owe me anything.
Yet she paid the price.
I struggle to catch my breath. It’s too late to feel sorry.
I walk through the second door. Her queen bed is an unmade mess. Silvery sheets hang off the mattress. A blue coverlet is balled on the floor. Feathers from a busted-open pillow are scattered across her rug. Did she and Jake have sex or a pillow fight? Did she tear apart the pillow after he walked out on her?
I don’t touch anything and walk through to her bathroom. It’s small, separated from the bedroom by one of those pressurized walls that the city’s young professionals are forever installing to add illegal Craigslist renters. There’s a sink with a flat mirror above it, which I avoid facing. The toilet is pressed against a small shower, separated only by a chevron curtain. I fling back the plastic and begin peeling off my dress. The fabric that had covered my chest is damp with Colleen’s blood. It slaps and sticks against my face as I pull it over my head. Once it’s off, I drop it in the bathroom sink. Then I slip from my underwear and step onto the four gray tiles that serve as the shower floor.
I turn the water to its hottest setting. It blasts out of the square showerhead above with all the force of a fire hose. Freezing cold. I tilt my face back into the stream. It flows red into the drain beneath my feet. Thinned by the water, the blood looks like dye. Part of me is able to pretend that I’ve colored my hair some intense shade of auburn. This is no different than what the water would look like after a trip to the beauty salon.
I stand stock still beneath the stream until it starts to warm. Then I reach forward to a shower caddy on the ground bearing Colleen’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I pour the soap into my hands and begin rubbing it on my face. The smell is instantly recognizable. This is the citrusy scent I’ve caught on Jake’s clothes. I’d thought he’d been using a new aftershave.