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Though Phoebe had been hurt in Afghanistan before she’d been deployed a full year, she’d been on an infantry fireteam. She had killed people: three whom she’d seen die by a bullet she’d shot—one at close range—and very likely more in the chaotic engagements where bullets flew back and forth in a swarm. She recalled each of the three with crystal clarity and was sure she’d remember them until her dying breath.
But that was war, and those men had been trying to kill her at the same time. She was deeply affected by the lives she’d ended, but wouldn’t say she felt guilty about any of them.
Yesterday she had killed a woman in her own stable. In her home.
She didn’t know how she felt about that.
Her memory of the day before felt like an old sponge, stiff and porous. She knew what had happened, but her mind couldn’t absorb it as something that had happened to her. It was more like watching an old movie on a malfunctioning projector. She saw herself hiding behind the propane tank, texting Vin and Margot, running to the stable. She saw Copperman come in. She saw their truncated argument, saw Vin come in, saw Copperman fly at him and knock him down. She saw herself grab her, saw them start to fight.
After that, there was nothing but noise and red fog, like film getting jammed in a projector. And then Duncan was there.
Nothing about yesterday felt real, but she knew it all was.
She had killed a woman.
The impact of that sentence should have been seismic. She had killed a civilian. In her own home.
No matter how many times she thought those words, however, they never accrued any power.
She didn’t care that Copperman was dead, and she didn’t care that she was involved in it happening.
God. That made her a monster, didn’t it? No matter how horrible the dead person had been, a normal, decent person would feel guilt or loss or at least worry about what might happen next. She felt none of that.
Finally Phoebe identified the emotion she felt most keenly this morning: relief.
She was glad Lydia Copperman was dead. She didn’t care that she’d been involved in making it happen. If that made her a monster, so be it. The people who loved her, her family, would understand.
A new thought stepped into the spotlight, and Phoebe sat bolt upright. Lydia Copperman was dead, and Duncan had done something to get rid of her body. There was nothing more that woman could do to hurt her.
“Hey,” Duncan mumbled sleepily as he sat up. “Hey, it’s okay.” He put his arms around her again. “I got you.”
Phoebe settled into the comfort of that embrace, but she said, “I’m okay, Dunc. Really.”
He leaned back and peered into her eyes. “Yeah?”
She smiled and set her hands on his hair, smoothing his bedhead. “Yeah. It probably makes me a monster, but I’m not fucked up about yesterday.”
“You were pretty fucked up yesterday.”
“I know. That’s all weird in my head, like it’s underwater or something, but I think that was about Afghanistan more than yesterday. Or maybe it’s all tangled up into one nasty mess, like a trauma bomb. But I’m okay about what happened. I’m relieved, actually.”
He blinked. As he shifted to lean against the headboard, he brought her along with him, and she settled in under his arm, with her back against his chest.
“Wow,” he said softly.
Now she felt a little anxiety. “Are you thinking I’m an awful person?” She really needed him to understand.
“No, not at all,” he answered right away. “I’m just surprised. After yesterday, I thought you’d have a rough time for a while.”
She shook her head. “I think ... like I said, I think yesterday was more about the Army and what happened over there than what happened in front of me in the stable, or feeling guilty about it. I guess I would have been scared what would happen if Margot or Vin had called 911 and gotten the cops involved.” She shifted in his hold and smiled back at him. “But they called you. And you and ... Dex?”
“Yep. Dex, and my dad, and Eight Ball, our president. They came with me.”
“And you all helped me.” Remembering the big gap in her memories, a gap into which Copperman’s body had disappeared, she asked, “What did you do?”
Duncan surprised her when he shook his head. “I think you’re better off not knowing what we did. Probably you’ll never hear about that woman again, but we made it look like she had trouble after she left here. If cops do look into it, it’s better if you can say she came, you made her leave, you don’t know what happened afterward. As much truth as possible.”
So maybe it wasn’t completely over. Maybe cops would come and ask if she’d seen Lydia Copperman. Strangely, that thought didn’t feel dangerous. A new worry entered her thoughts, but her mind didn’t get noisy or muddy or numb. She was simply worried.
