What You Don't Know(102)

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.”

Gloria opens another bottle, shakes out more pills. More and more, until the cup of her palm can’t hold any more.

“You love him, don’t you?” the boy had asked, as he’d been buttoning his pants. He’d shaken his head—in awe, or admiration. “Everything you did for him. You’re the perfect wife.”

That girl in the garage—she’d been cold. There were goose bumps on her bare skin. She’d been wearing nothing but panties and a T-shirt, and her lips were purple.

Gloria presses her face into the towel hanging from the rod. It’s one of the rough ones, and the fibers scratch at her face—she usually saves those for mopping up spills and isn’t sure how it ended up here, but it doesn’t matter this time. She goes over to the shower and turns on the faucet.

The girl, she’d begged for help. And Gloria had gone back inside the house, snapped the padlock back in place. And then she’d made dinner. And now that girl is dead. Finally dead. Gloria saw it on the news, not too long before.

She pulls back the shower curtain, carefully steps into the tub. The water is turned up as hot as she can stand, and she lets it run over her shoulders, burning down her body.





SAMMIE

She’s kneeling beside a steaming pile of her own vomit.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” Ethan demands, pacing in front of her, three steps to the left, and then back again. They’re in the living room, where just a while ago they’d been ready to do the dirty, but now it couldn’t have gone further in the opposite direction. The coffee table is pushed out of the way, and Sammie is kneeling where it had stood, one of her knees sunk into the divot left in the rug. Her thighs are spread painfully wide, and her wrists are tied behind her back and to her ankles with a length of twine that Ethan had pulled from his pocket. He was prepared. “Why’d you have to be poking around in things that aren’t your business?”

“I was chasing a story,” she says simply. She’s not crying, her eyes are hot and dry in their sockets, more like loose marbles than what she uses to see. “Besides, the police will catch up with you sooner or later.”

“The police?” Ethan laughs wildly. “Those idiots can’t find their own assholes. I’m not worried about them.”

She’s never seen this side of Ethan. With her, he’s always been kind and sweet, soft-spoken. Not like this. But maybe he’s right. Hoskins and Loren might never catch him. He might go on operating for a long time, the way Seever did.

“Why’re you doing this?” she asks. “You’re a good guy.”

He stops his frantic pacing and stares at her like she’s an idiot. Like the answer should be obvious.

“I started all this for you.”

“What?”

Ethan drops down to his knees on the rug so they are face-to-face, only inches from each other. From this close she can see the blackheads scattered across his nose, the one hair in his eyebrow that’s so much longer than the others. It’s funny, she hadn’t noticed any of that before, when she was ready to sleep with him, but now she’s repulsed. She tries to shift back, to put some space between them, but he has her locked down tight.