Real Bad Things(77)

An odd sound escaped his throat. She turned to him.

“How do you not remember how you killed a man?” he asked, incredulous.

She stared at him awhile and then returned to the photos. Something about them. Maybe she was overtired after being overstimulated, but she felt almost sorry. Emotional in a way she couldn’t pin down.

She shuffled through the handful of photos taken from different angles and distances. Chuck stood quietly behind her, probably judging. But he probably had never felt fear when walking through the door of his home.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She sniffled and chewed a nail. She didn’t know what she had thought she’d find. Evidence. Maybe she was looking for absolution. Or courage. “I just wanted to see.”

“Well, you have. And there’s nothing there. Nothing to know or tell anyone should they ask . . .”

While he reminded her of her promise not to tell anyone that he’d shown her the report and photos, she put the photos back in what seemed like their original order, but she couldn’t be sure. And it didn’t matter. She was wasting time, hesitant for reasons only her body, not her brain, had access to.

“I should really get back home,” he said.

Something about the bones.

“My wife is going to kill me if I’m not there when she wakes up for coffee.”

Something about the arm wasn’t right. The hand.

“It’s our little tradition. Coffee and buttered toast and . . .”

The missing finger.





Twenty-Eight

GEORGIA LEE

“Are you awake?”

Tom had installed a sheet between Georgia Lee’s and Jason’s cells for privacy. He’d also moved their beds to the opposite sides of their cells like they were young, unmarried lovers who couldn’t be trusted to sleep in the same bed or room. The lights were out, and the sun had yet to rise after a long, anxiety-filled night. A long night where Jason refused to talk to her. There was nothing to do but contemplate her situation.

Nothing from the other side of the sheet. Not even a bit of snoring for pretend. Georgia Lee eyed her hands. There should be cuffs around her wrists.

She wished she had a drink.

She wrapped the thin blanket around her, padded across the cold floor, pinched a bit of the rough sheet, and rubbed the fabric between her fingers.

“Are you awake?” she asked again. Earlier, before they had a chance to discuss the particulars of their individual confessions further, Benjamin had rushed into the room and separated them. They’d kept Jason in the interrogation room for hours. When he returned, he wouldn’t talk to her.

Probably because she’d thwarted his plan to be the hero—which he clearly thought he’d be—and now he applied the silent treatment. He’d mapped out his defense and everything. She wondered if he had a whole wall at home full of note cards and string tying together the plot and outcome and a wall dedicated to his story of revenge and redemption.

She couldn’t figure why he’d want to take credit for killing a guy—even to protect Jane—unless he was deeply disturbed about everything that had happened. That being the case, he should go to therapy, not confess to her crime.

She’d spent all that time fretting about the truth coming out and then fretting some more, and here came Jason, stealing her thunder by telling John and Benjamin that he had hit Warren on the head, not her. Men were always taking credit for her actions in business, in politics, and now even when it came to her crime. If Jason wanted to take credit so bad, then why did he wait until after she’d gone and done the thing? He’d had years to confess! She’d not let that stand. She’d not let Jason or anyone else take credit for what she’d done. She’d fought a predator. She’d rowed the body in a boat toward the dam. She’d bailed out at the last minute and kicked her legs and cut her arms against the current, terrified that it’d take her under with Warren. Her legs, her arms, her lungs screaming for air. She’d shivered on the riverbank. Grateful to be alive. Terrified of what would come. Her, alone.

With Jason in the picture, no one would believe her. She was simply the body person. Not the hero who had killed her attacker. An accessory, like a purse. Georgia Lee got so wound up she could barely stand still. Her jaw ached from clenching down on the patriarchal oppression under which she suffered. She wished Jane was in the cell next to her instead of Jason so they could commiserate. Maybe they could have gone to McPherson together. Been lovers like in the TV shows. Though she knew that was fiction.

Jason could play the part, but he was no killer. His pants were slim and pegged at his bare ankles. He wore shoes without socks.

“You don’t even look like a murderer.” Her whisper hit the sheet and puffed it away from her before it stilled.

“Jesus Christ.” The sheet puffed back and startled her. How long had he been standing there, so close? “I’m not trying to take credit for it. I’m trying to get us out of this without life in prison. My story makes the most sense,” he said. “Or at least it did, until you showed up.”

“I showed up first,” she said.

“It’s not a competition.”

“Tell that to the mirror.”

He sighed again. “I was there. I saw what happened. Jane and Angie didn’t. And we’re here now. We have no choice but to figure out how to make this work with the both of us.” He paused. “There’s a simple solution.”