Lies She Told(46)

Images of earth and metal continue to plague me as I roll my suitcase across the airport to the short-term parking lot and retrieve my car. Burying the gun is too similar to how the mother hides the murder weapon in my bestseller. Well, it worked then, Beth quips. Throwing the weapon in the river makes the most sense, I argue.

BUT I BURIED IT!

BUT YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE!

I get onto the highway, still thinking about the gun. That gun! I can’t leave it there, waiting in a mound of dirt like a body in a wall or a telltale heart beneath the floorboards. It will make me crazy. It is already driving me nuts. Rather than concentrating on the road, I am inventing excuses for Beth to bury the weapon. I’ve outsourced the car’s operation to an automatic part of my brain, the section that controls breathing and bathroom urges.

There’s little traffic heading back from Queens on a Monday evening. I pull into the garage in under an hour and run to the elevator, eager to get back to my manuscript. A woman rushes in before the door closes. I know her vaguely. She has two boys, middle school age, and lives in one of the penthouses above me. She wears her power suit from work. In my peripheral vision, I see her smile at me as though we’ve spoken and not simply acknowledged one another’s existence with the occasional nod. Fortunately, she must sense that I’m preoccupied and doesn’t attempt small talk.

As soon as the elevator doors shut behind me, I hurry to my apartment and twist the key in the lock. “Hi, honey,” I shout as I enter, letting David know an intruder hasn’t broken in.

Silence responds. I don’t sense my husband’s presence. Instead, there’s a strange energy. An odd smell. Stagnant odors have been released from hidden places, as though a bin of decaying paper was uncovered and left in the center of the room. The shelving unit in the foyer has been rearranged. A glass vase with crystal roses—a wedding present from one of David’s tchotchke-loving aunts—has been put on the same shelf as a wood-framed picture of my mom. The two items do not belong together. The books, too, have been moved. My fiction stack is now squashed by one of David’s law textbooks.

I drop my suitcase in the foyer and walk through to the living/dining area. Legal documents are scattered on the glass table. David’s briefcase is on the floor. It’s the first sign that he might be in the house, though I doubt it. If he were in the bedroom, he’d yell, “Welcome home,” or, at least, “Hello.” Our home is not big enough to hide in.

“David?” I yell. “Babe?”

I pile the papers up and place his briefcase on top of them. Loose leafs secured, I open the French doors out to the balcony to drive the stale scent from the house. Street noise rushes in: honking on the FDR drive, the din of voices below. I look out at the building across the street. If I dared to lean out over the railing, I’d see the East River.

I call for my husband again as I walk to our bedroom. The sheets are in a tangle. David is the type to make the bed. Did he have to rush out? He knew I was coming home this evening. I tell myself that an unmade bed is not cause for panic. He’ll be home shortly. He probably headed out for food.

I return to my purse atop my suitcase and retrieve the laptop. My anxiety inexplicably builds as I carry the computer back into my bedroom and place it on my desk. Beth must toss the gun into the river. Why didn’t I write it that way?

Repetitiveness, I decide. My reluctance to have her act rationally must be because I don’t want a series of paragraphs ending with a splash. Details can fix this, though. Beth can contemplate her act while staring at the gun, tying her observations about its small size to the weight of her guilt. She will be so preoccupied with the image of the weapon that she won’t even notice it sink into the water.

I open the laptop and call up the manuscript. The cursor blinks at the end of my last sentence. I see only it. Not the gun.

I need my Ruger.

I slide back my closet door and stand on my tiptoes to look at the shelf above. The black lockbox lies in its usual spot. As I reach for it, my brain starts throbbing. I rub my temple with one hand as I swat at the box with the other. When I push the case far enough to the lip of the shelf, I take it down with both hands and place it on the bed. There’s a combination lock on the front, three wheels that must be turned to the right numbers. One thousand combinations for a thief to try. One right answer: my wedding anniversary, June 28. 628.

The numbers are already in the right place. The lid pops open with a simple press of a button revealing an empty, gun-shaped space surrounded by black padding.

The throbbing becomes a pounding. It doesn’t make sense that my weapon wouldn’t be here. I haven’t used it since the writers’ police academy workshop. Did David take it? Why would he need a gun?

I grab my cell from my shoulder bag. The glare from the windows intensifies the pulsing between my ears. I close my eyes and let my fingers navigate to the speed dial from memory.

David answers on the second ring. “Liza. Are you home?”

“Hey, yeah. Where are you?”

“Liza?” Static clouds the connection.

“I’m home. Question for you—did you take my gun?”

“Liza. Are you home?” The white noise increases. He hasn’t heard me.

“Yes. Where are you? I need to talk to you. Did you take—”

“Wait. Wait. Listen.” David is nearly shouting. He never yells. “I’m at the police station. You need to come here. They have questions. They—”