Today’s reflection is different from usual, though. The sensitive spot of flesh below her nose is swollen from where the Jacky-boy had clamped his hand over her mouth, and there’s a bruise rising on her left cheekbone, but it’s not much, nothing that couldn’t be covered with makeup. All it took was a dab of concealer and she was good; the detectives who’d had so many questions about Chris Weber for so long had never even mentioned it. But that was men for you—they only saw what they wanted to see, they overlooked the little things. Like the bruises on her face, and the way she’d moved, slowly and carefully, favoring her right hip, because she was sore and tired—some of it was from what the boy had done to her, but most of it was because of the cleaning she’d done after he’d left. Oh, it would’ve been easy enough to leave Chris Weber on the floor where he’d fallen; she could’ve called the police and told them exactly what happened, they would’ve had to believe her, all they’d have to do is examine her and they’d know she was telling the truth. But she hates the police, hates the way they treat her when they realize who she is, so before she put much thought into it she was taking care of the problem herself, the way she always has. She dug Weber’s keys from his pocket and pulled his car into the garage, careful that the door had shut all the way before rolling him onto an old comforter and tugging it through the house. It took her three hours to move him thirty feet, she almost quit a dozen times, but the thought of having a corpse in the house with her was so revolting that she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Besides, it was too late to call the police—they’d want to know what she was doing with the body, why she was moving it. So she dragged him out, wadding the blanket up in her hands and pulling, wincing when the back of his skull cracked against the steps leading down into the garage, but she finally managed to bundle him into the backseat, and even though her back was twinging painfully and she’d never been more exhausted in her life, she cleaned up. Threw the comforter into the washing machine and got out her cleaning supplies and wiped up the blood—there wasn’t all that much of it, except in the spot where Weber had fallen to the ground, and she was still able to get most of it up off the hardwood, except the faintest maroon shadow, and that could’ve been mistaken for a red wine stain, but she still scooted the rug over it. Of course, if the police decided to run their tests on her floors they’d know the truth in a second—she was a good housekeeper, but not that good. Then she pulled Weber’s car out of the garage, planning to drive it across town and abandon it in some parking lot, or on an old dirt road, but instead left it out front, in the same place Weber had parked. She didn’t consider herself a lazy woman, just tired, and she didn’t think her brain was capable of carrying out any sort of plan, not in such an exhausted state. The last thought she had before collapsing onto her bed and falling to sleep was about Jacky, and wondering how he’d kept it up for so long.
She’d called the police when she woke up, and covered the bloodstains left on the sofa with a big velvet throw. The two cops had sat on that couch, right on top of the evidence they needed, one of them even complimented how soft the blanket was and she’d had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. What a joke it was—not necessarily a good one, but still. It might’ve been easier to skip calling the police, but the thought of someone discovering Chris Weber out there—a child, heaven forbid—forced her to pick up the phone and dial. And the police came, they poked around and seemed satisfied with her reasoning that she’d always been targeted because of Jacky—look at what someone spray-painted on my front door, officers—that maybe this Secondhand Killer was trying to send a message, she knew they’d be back sooner or later, but they would stay away for a while, because she’s not a suspect, not an old lady like her.
She looks in the mirror, runs her fingers over her cheeks and pulls her skin taut. She’s aged, of course, but that doesn’t make the reflection any different from the day before, or the day before that. No, the real changes aren’t so obvious. It’s in the tightly drawn skin around her eyes, the valleys that’re suddenly bracketing her mouth. For the first time she looks old. She never looked like this before, even when Jacky was first arrested, those terrible months when he was on trial and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen to her.
The bathroom is filled with steam now, billowing out over the top of the shower curtain, and she swipes her palm against the mirror, leaving behind a clear fan shape. The Jacky-boy had kissed her when it was over, gently, on her eyebrow, and absently patted the side of her face. I’ll be back soon, he’d said, and then he’d left. She stayed there on the couch for a while, holding her torn skirt against her chest and feeling the rush of warm air from the vents against her bare legs. It occurred to her then, looking at the popcorn-textured ceiling, that Jacky would always be a part of her life, in one way or another, and that’s how it would be, until the end of time.
This is our little secret, the boy had said, and she’d always been good at keeping secrets, she’d kept all of Jacky’s for so long, she’d kept him safe, it might’ve been the only thing she was ever good at. She’d kept his secrets their entire marriage, until she saw the girl out in the garage, tied and blindfolded, and even then she’d been prepared to stay silent, to stand behind her husband till death do us part, until she dreamt that night of going into the garage again, of going to the girl and yanking off her blindfold, but then she saw it wasn’t a girl at all, she was staring into her own eyes.
There are pills in the medicine cabinet, some of them were prescriptions filled in Jacky’s name that she’d never bothered to throw out, she’d toted them all over, one home to another. Pills are funny in that way, you save them, hoard them, even when you no longer remember what they’re for, even when the expiration date has gone by, just in case. And she needs them now, takes all the orange prescription bottles out, lines them up on the top of the toilet. She fills the cup she uses to rinse after brushing her teeth and starts, shaking a few pills from one bottle into her palm and then swallowing, drinking the water so fast a spike of pain settles into the center of her forehead, until her belly feels bloated and full, swishing with liquid. She thinks of the garage as she swallows the bitterness down, the boom-boom room, and of the girl with the ropes around her wrists and ankles, the blindfold over her eyes. She’d known Gloria was there, and she’d asked for help, and Gloria had left, she’d made dinner and then went to bed and the next morning she’d gone straight to the public library and asked to use the phone, because she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go—she hadn’t seen a pay phone in years, didn’t have a clue where to find one, and she didn’t want to do it from home, not for this. The woman behind the counter was more than happy to let her make a call, because the Seevers made generous donations, and Gloria smiled and waited for the librarian to wander away before she dialed.
“I have information on a case you’re investigating,” she’d said quietly. Pleasantly, so no one would think anything was wrong and come over to eavesdrop. A little boy ran by and smiled at her and she returned it, twiddled her fingers, like everything was normal, just another day, but she’d never felt quite so cold inside, so empty. “Those missing people, the ones the police are looking for? I’ve seen them, going into a house, and they never come out again. Yes, I know the address. And also, I’d like to remain anonymous.”