I hesitate. I don’t know how much Judah can handle … how much he’s figured out already. “Because she told me,” I say.
He licks his lips. “Margo, did you do something to Lyndee?”
I stand up, mostly because he can’t follow me, and back up a few steps. Things flash through my mind: looks, frowns, narrowing eyes. All the times Judah was mentally compiling a case against me. All the times he was right.
“Stop it,” I warn him. “This isn’t something you want to talk about. Trust me.”
“I do want to talk about it,” he says. “You’ve done something…”
This is what it feels like to be found out. I can’t decide if I like it or not. There is also the matter of defending myself … or not. Not, I decide. I start to walk away.
“Margo, wait!”
But I don’t. He knows too much. He won’t go to the police … at least I don’t think so. I need to keep my distance. Make him think he’s crazy. My heart knocks fearfully inside of my chest. My stomach is sour. My brain is working slowly—shock, I think. You didn’t think he’d actually find you out. And if it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have cared: my mother, or Delaney, or Sandy. But it’s Judah, the only person in the whole world I admire, and he’s looking at me like I’m a carnie freak.
I turn and run. I have my wallet; that’s all I need. I leave my bag at the apartment he shares with androgynous-named Erin, and catch a cab to the airport. Gone, gone, gone. It’s the end of an era, the finishing of a relationship. That will be the last time I make contact with Judah, or allow him to make contact with me.
I MOVE INTO MY NEW APARTMENT TWO WEEKS LATER. I don’t know what Doyle/Brian told his father, and I don’t care. I saw the fear in his eyes when I smashed the gun into his nose and heard the crack, and that was good enough for me. He’d do what I said … for a little while at least. And then he’ll start thinking about how he can fuck me over. But that won’t be for a while. It will take months for his little pinprick brain to work out a plan.
In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my new apartment. Take life one day at a time. Take the stairs instead of the elevator. I take long walks. Always in a new place. Sometimes I drive thirty minutes … forty … just to go to a new park, a new pathway. A new walk. I don’t know what I’m scared of. People recognizing me? There was an old lady at the park near my apartment. I walked there every day until she started saying hello. So I chose a different park, a new park, until someone there started waving at me. When people look at me, I’m convinced they can see the blood. The blood of all the humans whose lives I’ve taken. Dripping down my face and running off the tips of my fingers like Carrie when Chris and Billy dump the pig’s blood over her head. I am so afraid that someone will see me for who I am.
I think of Judah. Always. Of his hands, and eyes, and voice. If I keep him with me, I don’t feel so afraid. I think I’ve convinced myself that Judah can save me, but wasn’t Judah the one who sent me running in the first place? Do we create our own heroes and then kill them with the truth? Judah is just a man, not the god I made him. If I can tell him this, then maybe…
A strange thing happens. There is a man—a not-so-small man, in fact, he’s rather large in the shoulders. I see him in the most recent park I’m frequenting. The park with a playground: a giant pirate ship rising from the dirt, a colorful shipwreck where children can flip alphabet blocks and gaze through a looking glass toward Rainier. Their colorfully clad legs scamper over and under, screaming and laughing and darting around each other.
He’s standing against a tree, smoking. There is something about his body language that tells me he doesn’t belong. He’s merely observing. I follow the train of his eyes. He’s not watching the children, thank God. I feel the tension leave my shoulders when I realize this. He’s watching the group of mothers. Intently. This, too, could be harmless—a husband trying to get his wife’s attention, a man who thinks he recognizes someone from his past. I go through each possible scenario in my mind, but nothing I tell myself can save him. He’s prickling the hairs on the back of my neck, making my stomach ache. I begin to hear that silent alarm, the same one I heard when I watched Lyndee for all those months. You’re crazy, I tell myself. You’re looking for things.
I turn away, start to leave, but I am half way to my car when I stop. The men who bought nights with my mother … they looked at her that way. The way he was looking at one of those women, with unguarded lust. Like she was an object he got to use. Use. I feel my skin crawl. My heart slows. Ohgodohgodohgod. What am I thinking? I can’t walk away. I take the long way around—through the trees—and the whole time I tell myself how crazy I am. I try to make myself want to stop, go back to the Jeep, hole up in my apartment with movies. I have so many movies I still need to see, I’m working my way through the eighties: Molly Ringwald, Emilio Estevez, Julia Roberts…
I can see his back, the littering of cigarette butts around his tennis shoes. He comes here often. He’s chain smoking. I look for the box. I want to know what he smokes, if it’s the healthy kind. I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing. I think I just want to watch him, watch her. Watch who? I study the playground, the moms. He’s staring toward a bench where three women are sitting. Two blondes, one brunette.
Which one is it, you fuck?