Jane Doe(26)

I didn’t speak to her for over a month. I was furious.

The next time he kicked her out, she was so embarrassed to tell me. She was ground down with humiliation. And all I could offer was I told you so.

She stopped telling me to be nice. And I couldn’t remember.





CHAPTER 20

Hey, where are you?

I glance down at the text from Steven and imagine answering him honestly. I’m in a rental car in the Minneapolis suburbs, following GPS directions to your house. I smile a shark’s smile and pull over to the curb in front of a row of 1980s ranch homes. It’s 8:45 in the morning and freezing cold. A lone jogger bounces by in winter gear, but otherwise the neighborhood is quiet.

I called in sick, I respond.

Are you okay?

Sure. I just have a headache. And I felt . . . weird.

Weird?

After yesterday.

Why?

I shouldn’t have done that with you.

Don’t say that. I loved it! ?

Ok, but . . . you never texted me. You said you would.

Sorry. I had a beer and fell asleep on the couch.

Well, I feel like a slut.

No no no! It was great.

I roll my eyes at his weak-ass assurance. Sure, it was great for him.

Ok. I have to go. I didn’t sleep well last night.

Why don’t I make you dinner tonight?

Will that make you feel better?

I dunno. Maybe.

I bet it will. I’ll pick you up at 6. I might even bring flowers . . .

Flowers for a public hand job. What a bargain. He’s a simple man, really, and I’m sending all the right signals. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex; it’s that I’m worried he’ll think badly of me afterward. This gives him access to sex and the ability to control me with it. What could be more perfect?

I throw the car in gear and pull back onto the quiet street. His house is half a mile farther into this sea of browning grass and falling leaves. But when I drive past Steven’s house, there are no leaves on his lawn. His neighbors are ankle-deep in orange and yellow, but there are only a few stray leaves on his square of yard, as if he rakes every morning.

Steven really likes to keep up appearances. He doesn’t want anyone to see his mess. I laugh as I drive one block over.

Feeling very satisfied with myself, I park and grab the satchel I packed this morning.

The cold is keeping everyone inside, but I’m not worried about being spotted trying to get into his house. I’m an average white woman. Worst-case scenario, I’ll wave and yell something self-deprecating about being dumb enough to lose the key, and that will be enough for the neighbors.

I reach Steven’s house and head up his front walk to check under the welcome mat. When I don’t find a hidden key, I walk around a corner to the gate of his privacy fence. I don’t glance around. The more sure of myself I look, the less suspicious any witness will be.

Once the gate latches behind me, I’m free to slow down and look around. The backyard is just one tree, some grass, and a covered grill on a square stone patio. There’s no dog to worry about, of course. Steven wouldn’t put up with cleaning dog crap off his lawn.

I tried to teach myself to pick locks a long time ago, because it looked like fun, but it turns out I’m not great at it. Not enough patience. I was hoping to find a simple window lock to jimmy open, but I spot a sliding door in back, which is even better. All it needs is a quick slip of a bent metal file and I’m in. If I ever have to go on the run, maybe I’ll make a good thief, at least when it comes to houses with patio doors.

The house is dead quiet and smells of bleach. The kitchen I walk into is spotless. Not high-end, though. It hasn’t been renovated since it was built. The floor is old tile. I turn to survey the living room and immediately notice that the carpet in the rest of the house appears to be dark chocolate brown. Gross. But it’s spotless as well, and I can see the vacuum lines as I step in.

Jeez, will I have to vacuum before I leave to hide my footprints? At least I know he’ll be well groomed when we finally have sex. Not much to look forward to, but it’s better than the alternative.

I give myself a tour of the rest of the house. He’s using the first small bedroom as a workout room. I can’t tell if it feels still and antiseptic because he never uses it or because he wipes the equipment down after each use. Mounted judo belts decorate the wall.

The brown carpet continues down a short hallway to another bedroom that appears to be half office, half storage. The last bedroom is the master. A big bed with an oak headboard dominates the floor. The only other furniture is a wide dresser with a mirror. And there’s a big flat-screen TV on the wall, of course. His brown drapes and forest-green comforter give the impression that I’m in a tree house. It’s pretty awful.

The attached bathroom is as clean as the rest of the place, but the tan tile continues the old 1980s look. Steven cares about appearances, but he definitely doesn’t have an eye for design.

There’s not much clutter in the bedroom, but I’ve lucked out. There’s baseboard heating, but there are air-conditioning vents as well, and he won’t be using those at this time of year.

I toss my satchel on the bed and unzip it to expose the equipment inside. None of it is legal in the US, not unless you’re law enforcement. I bought it all in Malaysia and shipped it to a rental box here in Minneapolis.