He closed his eyes, basking in the fantasy. All he’d have to do was slide up against the kitchen wall, hide behind the open basement door, wait for her to walk up the stairs, and then slam the door into her face. And Billy would be able to listen to her body cartwheel down the steps, would be able to crouch over her as she died and watch the look in her eyes as she realized what he’d done and why. You shouldn’t have lied to me, he’d say. You shouldn’t have used me. You shouldn’t have been such a whore.
In the dark of the kitchen, Billy shook the image from his mind. He couldn’t do that. It was absurd. And really, did he actually want Krissy to die? Or did he just want to teach her a lesson, to scare her? Once she was good and afraid, he thought, she’d never cheat on him again. Maybe she’d even stop bitching about their life. Maybe she’d actually be grateful to him—for their life, their house, their money she used to buy all her clothes and pills and wine. Maybe she’d actually put a little effort into cooking dinner, or wear some makeup, or kiss him on the lips when he came home at night.
Billy heard another creak of the dryer door, and then, without quite telling his legs to do it, he was walking quietly across the floor and slipping into the space between the wall and the open basement door. He listened as his wife’s footsteps began to ascend the stairs. And then, she was there, at the top, stepping onto the landing.
Billy held an image of Krissy in his mind—she was sorry, she was begging forgiveness, she was promising to be a better wife—and he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and swung it hard. There was a loud thunk, like a hammer against wood, as the door collided with her. He heard her tumble down the stairs, landing with a crack at the bottom. The silence afterward was deafening.
Billy stood in the darkness, his hand still on the doorknob, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe he’d done it. Panic began to bubble in his stomach. He opened the door and stepped gingerly around it. But something was wrong. The body at the bottom of the stairs was too small. He blinked down at it, his brain working in slow motion. Krissy didn’t wear that nightgown. Her hair wasn’t that light. When he finally understood, he contracted. His stomach lurched. It was January. It was his baby girl.
“No.”
Panic blurred his vision as he made his way down the stairs to her. He tried to move fast but he felt as if he were underwater, the air around him viscous. January’s body looked all wrong—her limbs bent at sharp angles, her face slack. He reached out a hand and softly touched her cheek.
“January?” His voice was tentative.
She didn’t move.
“January?”
Still nothing.
“No,” he breathed, clapping a hand over his mouth. Bile rose in his throat. “No, no, no.”
Shaking, he reached down and scooped her body into his arms, cradling her like a baby. “January, wake up. I’m sorry. Daddy made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
But her body remained limp, her face expressionless. If it weren’t for the extreme angle of her neck, she could have been sleeping. “January.” Now his voice was a harsh command. “Wake up!” His arms tightened around her, shaking her body, trying to get her to open her eyes.
And then, he saw it—the flutter of her eyelids. His heart soared in his chest. He let out a sob. She was alive. She was alive, she was alive, she was alive. In his arms, his daughter let out a little moan, turning her head slightly in his arms.
“Good girl,” Billy said, his voice trembling. “Good girl.”
He shot a look up the basement stairs. He needed to get to the phone in the kitchen to call an ambulance, but he didn’t know if he should move her body. Would that make it worse? He looked into January’s face. By now, she’d blinked her eyes open and was gazing up at him, looking confused. “D-Daddy?”
“Shh, baby. Don’t talk. I’m gonna leave you here for one second, okay? You’re gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you help.” Moving more carefully than he ever had, Billy placed her body down, straightening out her arms and legs.
He stood to leave, but then, just as he was turning to race up the stairs, January’s little voice said, “You hurt me, Daddy.”
Billy froze. An iciness flowed from his head through his body. She knew. She knew what he’d done. He stood, unmoving, for a long time, and then, finally, he turned and knelt down.
“No, no, January. I didn’t,” he said slowly. “Don’t say that.”
January started to whimper, looking scared. “You did.”
“I didn’t. So don’t say that.”
Her eyes widened in fear. “Where’s Mommy?”
“Shh,” Billy hissed. “Be quiet.”
But she was crying now, her voice getting louder. “I want Mommy!”
Billy grabbed the sides of January’s face, his fingers white. “Shut up.”
She began to scream, “Mom—” but Billy clapped a hand over her mouth.
As he did, her head turned ever so slightly, and in his daughter’s face, Billy suddenly saw the shape of Krissy’s eyes, the angle of Dave’s chin, and Billy remembered that January wasn’t his daughter after all—not really. And then, his mind was a blank. He heard himself saying, as if from a great distance, “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” He watched, detached, as his hands tightened around January’s head, his thumbs closing her eyes and pressing them shut so she couldn’t see him anymore, so he couldn’t see Krissy. And then he looked away as he lifted her head and slammed it against the floor. It only took once for her to stop moving.
Billy crouched, motionless, over her body, his breath coming in ragged gulps. From somewhere very far away, from underwater or through layers of glass, he heard someone crying, and then, vaguely, he registered tears on his cheeks, growing sticky on his jaw.
“Oh God.”
What had he done? He gazed down at January and his stomach twisted. What had he done to his darling girl? Then, ever so slowly, he stood as a new question formed in his mind: What was he supposed to do now?
He gazed around at the blackness of the underground room, feeling as if he were standing in the mouth of a monster. He did not want to leave January down there in its jaws, but it was beginning to dawn on him that he had no choice. He couldn’t call an ambulance now. He couldn’t call the police. It was too suspicious—him finding January in the middle of the night, moments after she’d died. He needed to put distance between her body and himself. He needed January’s death to look like an accident. When he and Krissy woke the next morning and found January dead at the bottom of these stairs, the only logical assumption would be that she had sleepwalked and fallen to her death. It would be horrible and believable.
He didn’t look at her as he turned to the stairs. He took one step, then another, and that was when he saw it: the little scrap of baby blanket on the basement stairs. So that was why January had been down there that night. She never slept without her baby blanket, but Krissy had put it in the wash earlier. He remembered because January had made a big deal about it at dinner. She must’ve woken in the middle of the night and gone to get it.
Quietly, Billy stepped up the stairs to retrieve it, then returned to January’s side. He couldn’t just leave her like that, cold and alone. He’d given the blanket to her the day she was born. He always told her it would make her brave if she just squeezed it tight enough. It was their thing together—their little secret. He leaned over to tuck the scrap of snowflake-patterned fabric into one limp hand. He knew it was stupid and worthless, knew she wouldn’t need it wherever she was now. But—who knew?—maybe, just maybe, it could bring her some peace.
Billy turned from January to climb the stairs, his mind already spinning with what the next day would bring, preparing himself for the performance of a lifetime.
For all of my Crime Junkies
Acknowledgments