Lies She Told(47)

A sucking sound chokes his words, air slurping through a straw. “I need you to come.” His voice breaks. “They found Nick’s body.”





Chapter 11

I can’t go home like this. Gravediggers are cleaner. Blood and dirt cover my dress, my arms. Soil and sharp bits of construction debris are embedded in my heels. I can only imagine what my face looks like.

Colleen’s keys are inside her bag. The grit on my feet makes putting my heels back on impossible. I hobble out of the construction site, still barefoot, and cross the street. There are two keys on Colleen’s ring: one is bronze and one is silver. The lock on the outside door is bronze. I open it with the corresponding key, keeping my head down so passersby on the street can’t get a good look at me. I’m sure my cheeks are freckled with blood. There was so much of it.

I hurry up the stairs to the first floor and exit onto the landing. A dark reddish-brown splotch stains the concrete floor near Colleen’s neighbor’s door, which, given the keypad lock on the outside, is likely a shared artist space, only at use during the day. For a moment, I consider cleaning up the blood but then decide that it’ll only delay the inevitable. Someone will figure out she’s missing soon enough. Maybe even my husband.

I enter her apartment with the key and shut the door behind me. Her lights are off. I don’t dare turn them on. From her narrow foyer I can see straight to the window through which I had watched her so easily. She could have neighborhood friends who will realize that someone strange is in her apartment.

I open one of the doors to my right and am greeted with empty hangers and an NYPD windbreaker. Hanging beside it is a man’s suit jacket and pants in dry cleaner plastic. Jake has left a change of clothes in her apartment. The sight saps the last of my adrenaline. I fall to my knees, feeling fully connected to my feelings for the first time since I swung that lead pipe. Tears stream down my face. How could he do this to me? To Vicky? To this woman, even?

I imagine how it must have gone down. Like most things, it probably started innocently enough. She was working with him, found him attractive. Smart. Funny, maybe. He would have figured out that she was a bit enamored and turned on his charm, enjoying the ego boost, not thinking that it would go much beyond some flirty conversations and friendly e-mails. Then one night, their chatter became more than that. Maybe she confessed her feelings and he was curious. More likely, she said something sexual and he pounced on it. I won’t only blame her. Yes, she shouldn’t have fallen for a married man. But he was worse for taking her up on whatever offer she put out there. He made promises to me. She didn’t owe me anything.

Yet she paid the price.

I struggle to catch my breath. It’s too late to feel sorry.

I walk through the second door. Her queen bed is an unmade mess. Silvery sheets hang off the mattress. A blue coverlet is balled on the floor. Feathers from a busted-open pillow are scattered across her rug. Did she and Jake have sex or a pillow fight? Did she tear apart the pillow after he walked out on her?

I don’t touch anything and walk through to her bathroom. It’s small, separated from the bedroom by one of those pressurized walls that the city’s young professionals are forever installing to add illegal Craigslist renters. There’s a sink with a flat mirror above it, which I avoid facing. The toilet is pressed against a small shower, separated only by a chevron curtain. I fling back the plastic and begin peeling off my dress. The fabric that had covered my chest is damp with Colleen’s blood. It slaps and sticks against my face as I pull it over my head. Once it’s off, I drop it in the bathroom sink. Then I slip from my underwear and step onto the four gray tiles that serve as the shower floor.

I turn the water to its hottest setting. It blasts out of the square showerhead above with all the force of a fire hose. Freezing cold. I tilt my face back into the stream. It flows red into the drain beneath my feet. Thinned by the water, the blood looks like dye. Part of me is able to pretend that I’ve colored my hair some intense shade of auburn. This is no different than what the water would look like after a trip to the beauty salon.

I stand stock still beneath the stream until it starts to warm. Then I reach forward to a shower caddy on the ground bearing Colleen’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I pour the soap into my hands and begin rubbing it on my face. The smell is instantly recognizable. This is the citrusy scent I’ve caught on Jake’s clothes. I’d thought he’d been using a new aftershave.

I scrub my face, my hands, my feet. I press the suds beneath my nails and shampoo twice before using the conditioner. Lather, rinse, repeat. When the water is finally scalding, I step from behind the curtain and let it run, blasting away all my errant hair and skin particles. Finally, I walk to the mirror and turn on the light.

The top of the glass is fogged from the hot water. I dip lower to view my full face and am surprised that the woman staring back at me is the same person who got out of the shower this morning. The word “monster” is not written on her forehead. There aren’t any defensive wounds on her arms or strange stigmata on her hands. This woman is me. She’s a murderer. But she’s still me.

I towel off with a dry washcloth by the sink, which I then add to my bloody clothes pile in the basin. This is the stuff I need to throw away somewhere no one will find it. I detangle my hair with a paddle brush on the lip of the sink and then add it to the stack. Afterward, I shut off the shower, certain that it has done its job by now, and walk into her bedroom.