I scrub my face, my hands, my feet. I press the suds beneath my nails and shampoo twice before using the conditioner. Lather, rinse, repeat. When the water is finally scalding, I step from behind the curtain and let it run, blasting away all my errant hair and skin particles. Finally, I walk to the mirror and turn on the light.
The top of the glass is fogged from the hot water. I dip lower to view my full face and am surprised that the woman staring back at me is the same person who got out of the shower this morning. The word “monster” is not written on her forehead. There aren’t any defensive wounds on her arms or strange stigmata on her hands. This woman is me. She’s a murderer. But she’s still me.
I towel off with a dry washcloth by the sink, which I then add to my bloody clothes pile in the basin. This is the stuff I need to throw away somewhere no one will find it. I detangle my hair with a paddle brush on the lip of the sink and then add it to the stack. Afterward, I shut off the shower, certain that it has done its job by now, and walk into her bedroom.
Since it’s an interior room, it lacks a window. I turn on the light and head to a freestanding wardrobe where Colleen must keep her clothing. The stuff inside isn’t my style. It’s all cutting edge and colorful, intended to call attention to the wearer, to assets I don’t possess. I reach for the only items that we could possibly share: skinny black jeans and a black tank top.
I slip the outfit from the hangers, careful to only touch the garments that I intend to wear. The tank slips over my head easily and falls more or less where I’d expect. The pants hit my hips weird, but I can still wear them.
Using the hem of the shirt, I rub down the wardrobe handles. As I am about to close the door, I notice that shoes are stuffed beneath the hanging clothes. Her feet were surely smaller than mine. Next to a pair of seven-inch wedges are a flat pair of floral flip-flops, the kind of gaudy plastic thong sandals that nail salons dole out to pedicure clients. I slip them out and drop them on the ground beside my battered feet. They fit perfectly.
Dressed, I walk into her makeshift kitchen. Using the light from her open bedroom, I navigate to the cupboards. It takes opening three before I find everything I’m looking for: bleach, a plastic grocery bag, and paper towels. I unravel a wad from the roll and pour bleach on it. Then I go around the apartment, rubbing down every surface my fingers have grazed: cabinet handles, doorknobs, the shower controls, the light switches. The handle of the bleach bottle itself. It takes at least fifteen minutes for me to feel sure that my prints are not on any surfaces. When I’m done, I put the wet paper towel in the bag with the rest of the garbage: the bloody clothes, my shoes, the hairbrush, and Colleen’s purse. This trash is destined for a series of dumpsters between here and Manhattan. The more separated, the better. Before I leave, I take one last paper towel and, wrapping my hand in it, open her apartment door.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble as I shut it behind me. “It was either you or me.”
LIZA
The precinct is a windowless building on the East Side, a fortified strip club, only more sinister thanks to the assault rifle–carrying bouncers. As I approach, I feel small and timid, as though my name’s not on the list. Though, apparently, it is. That’s why I’m here.
I walk through a reinforced steel door, past the black-clad guard with the he-man torso, courtesy of his bulletproof vest. The officer’s mouth remains in a straight line as he sizes me up like an usher at a wedding. Is she on the victim’s side or the criminal’s? My voice dries up in my throat, which is probably the point of all this. So much about the police is designed to intimidate. Take the military-cut uniform, all glinting badges and shields. Even if a cop doesn’t have a visible handgun or bully stick or Taser (though he probably has all three), he has the blessing of the US government emblazoned on his clothes. How can anyone stand up to that?
A metal detector stands to the right of the guard. He shakes a plastic container at me and demands my keys and phone, both of which I immediately turn over. It is not until I walk through without incident and approach a small podium in front of another set of fire doors that an officer attempts politeness.
“May I help you?” The officer wears a belt weighed down with ways to immobilize people, though his voice is friendly enough. I explain that my husband asked that I help answer some questions about a missing friend.
“You want missing persons, then.”
“No, I think he’s been found.” I repeat what David told me to say on the phone. “I want criminal investigations.”
The officer directs me through the doors behind him to an elevator bank. I take it to the fifth floor, where I am met by a bulletproof glass window at chest level. A man with a boyish face looks at me like I might ruin his day.
“I’m here to see David Jacobson. My husband.”
The officer continues interrogating me with his eyes.
“It’s with regard to the Nick Landau case. My husband, he’s a lawyer, asked that I come. He needs me to help him answer some questions. Mr. Landau was his law partner and friend. I understand that Mr. Landau’s body was found.”
He holds up a finger and disappears. I curse myself as he steps out of view. I’m talking too much, volunteering way more information than necessary, reverting to some deep-seated childhood desire to please. Pretty soon, I’ll be explaining how Nick was dismissive of me and my friends and confessing that I never liked him.
I press my lips together and try not to sweat as I scan for someplace comfortable to wait. There’s a line of plastic chairs against a wall that look about as hard as the poured-cement floor. When I look down, I can see up my nose in the shiny gray surface beneath the fluorescent overhead lights. At the end of the room is a metal door. There are black scuff marks near its base, probably from an officer’s brand new boot.
Minutes of nervous fidgeting pass before the door opens with the bang of a weapon discharging. The hand holding it open is beefy, an appropriate stopper to the muscular arm attached. Tracing that extremity brings me to a young face with taut tan skin and dark hair worthy of a Just for Men ad.
The officer waves me toward the door. “Thanks for coming in.” He extends his hand. “I’m Detective Bill Campos.”
I shake and stop myself from saying something overly eager. Anything I can do to help. Whatever you need. Nick is dead. He was the best man at my wedding. I should seem appropriately bereaved.
“It’s so awful.” I touch the corner of my eye, as though I feel a tear there. “Is my husband okay?”
The officer gives me a weak smile. I’ve seen this look on my gynecologist’s face, on my shrink’s face, on the face of everyone whom I’ve ever told that I’m trying to have a baby and “exploring different options.” It says things aren’t looking good.
“He’s in with someone at the moment. If you could follow me, we would appreciate asking you a few questions.”
Though his tone is casual, it triggers my alarms. I’ve written enough romantic thrillers to know that the police wanting to question anyone alone is never no biggie. They’re already talking to David. I’d assumed he was crying over the confirmed death of his friend. Maybe not.
“I’d like to see my husband first.”
The officer holds the door open a bit wider. “I understand. He’s helping out some of my colleagues at the moment. If you would follow me, we’re trying to piece together what might have happened to your friend.”
My back tenses. “You found his body, right?”
Officer Campos does his best impression of horrified sadness. Wide eyes. Shaking head. It’s all a bit overacted. Surely this guy must see murder victims all the time. “We found him in the river.”
“What happened?”