Still Lives(64)

Someone was here.

Or is here.

Steve Goetz isn’t Kim’s killer. This means there is someone else. There has always been someone else. And that someone knows who I am, and might even know what I’ve been doing.

YOU’D BETTER WATCH OUT FOR MAGGIE. What if Greg was framed by the same person who sent him the note about me? And what if that person intended to implicate me next?

Untangled backward, the logic would be simple, believable: jealous Maggie kills Kim, then frames Greg.

Meanwhile, the real murderer gets away.

It wouldn’t be hard to construct my guilt: just find a way to break into my not-very-secure bungalow and hide more objects from the crime. Then an anonymous tip. The police would follow the clues and recalibrate their case: Greg framed by Maggie, who did the actual deed. Jealous ex-lover. Again, this theory doesn’t point to a stranger. It points to someone who knows us, who knows where we both live. Someone from our circle of acquaintances. Maybe even someone from the Rocque.

The bathroom doesn’t lock. I wash my arm and hands again, noting with sudden acuteness my nail-bitten fingers. My ugly and vulnerable palms.

This is crazy. I must have moved the book myself and forgotten.

But I didn’t. I left it upended, bending the pages.

The house throbs with quiet. My purse is by the door, with my keys and phone. If I run, I could grab it and be outside in less than a minute.

But what if a killer is standing right outside my door?

I could climb out the bathroom window, but he would hear me doing it, burst in. Besides, I want my car keys and my purse so that I can drive far away.

I could yell. I could yell out the names of everyone in the courtyard. How long would it take for them to recognize the cries and come running? How many people heard Kitty Genovese screaming? He could kill me before they arrived.

I turn off the faucet and stand there with my dripping hands. Then I wipe them on a rough red towel. I could just stand here and listen until I hear a noise; if I don’t hear anything, then maybe he’s gone. A long time passes after this decision, but it’s probably just a few minutes.

Something creaks upstairs.

I throw open the bathroom, looking left and right, sprint to the kitchen. The kitchen is empty, my breakfast dishes messily stacked in the drain. I grab Theresa’s knife from the counter and stagger into the living room, ascertaining that, yes, the biography is in a different place, and, yes—worse—my desk is different, too. The drawer where I keep staples and scissors is slightly ajar. But this room is also empty. A broom stands in the corner. I hold the knife high.

Five steps. I’m at the door. The living room light pulses. The back of my neck feels sunburned; even the motionless air in here chafes against it. I fling the knife into my purse, grab my keys, and bolt outside into the courtyard, slamming my doors behind me.

If my neighbors glance out their windows now, I am a shadow fleeing across the grass, head down, not stopping to breathe until I get in my car and lock it. I drive eight blocks away, making sure I am not followed before I park, dig in my purse for my phone.

Out comes the recorder, then my wallet, the knife, the flash drive, wrappers and receipts, a lipstick, a cinema ticket, until there’s nothing inside but a few stray pennies, jingling when I shake the leather. I know I dropped the phone in here, so I search again, hands fumbling through my possessions. Then I prop the purse open in my lap and swipe the silky interior, in case a hole has developed in a seam, in case things have fallen through.

When I finally look up, the street is also empty, the cars parked, the houses locked and glassy. Nothing moves but the jacaranda trees, waving their dark, bugle-shaped buds at the evening. The trembling comes from so deep inside me, it makes my teeth knock together. Someone was there, in that room. Someone took my phone, the way he took Kim Lord’s phone and sent messages to convince people that she was still alive. Why? I don’t know how long I sit there, but it doesn’t help. Neither does driving away, east.


Yegina lives in an Evergreen Queen in Silver Lake. She rents from the crazy old hippie who paints all his hilly East Side houses the same shade of deep pine and undercharges his tenants in exchange for underfixing things. Yegina’s place has hardwood floors, a built-in washer-dryer, views east toward Hollywood, and free parking for her canary-yellow Mazda.

But the Mazda is not in her driveway as I race up her winding steps, so shaky on my feet that I trip three times on nothing and almost fall flat on my face. Where is Yegina’s car? It’s clear she’s home; I can see the wooden inner door open behind the screen door. The threshold beckons: a portal to safety. Beside me, Yegina’s terraced gardens of cacti have silhouetted to menhirs in the fading light. I gasp for breath, reaching the top, when a man speaks inside the house.

I recognize the voice but can’t place it, not with this tearing in my chest. I’m about to ring Yegina’s bell when I hear softer sounds, little smacking, breathy noises. Yegina is kissing someone. He says, “Wow,” and now I recognize the depth and treble, though the voice is stripped of its usual heartiness. I peer through the gray scrim: Bas Terrant is sitting on the leather couch, and Yegina is sitting on him, her dark hair falling in his face. They are both still fully clothed, but his hands are probing under her shirt, his knuckles pushing out the cotton. I stare, paralyzed, watching the way Yegina arches and presses into him.

A black car drives slowly, slowly down the street below, the windshield shining. Didn’t I see that car behind me on Sunset? I can’t make out the driver.