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She’s getting emotional now. There are definitely tears in her eyes. She’s no longer just on the verge of crying. She’s upset with herself for not remembering. She’s upset with me for the way I keep incessantly asking, for the way I keep forcing her to remember something she’d rather forget. “Okay,” I say, reaching for her, pulling her close to me. “It’s okay, babe. It doesn’t matter.”
If that wasn’t the last time she hit him—when Jake was walking away—then it means Lily hit him again when he was on the ground. At minimum, that’s three blows. One to the forehead, one to the back of the head, and a third when he was on the ground. Which essentially rules out accidental death because how likely is it that you fall and hit your head in three different places?
“Christian,” Lily says, pulling away from me so that I can see her eyes.
“What?” I ask, looking down at her. We’re in the family room. The lights are off. Only the TV is on, the news moving on to other things that are going on in the world, all of which pale in comparison to what’s going on with Jake. It’s hard to believe there’s anything else going on. This, Jake and Lily, is all I can think about.
The TV is bright, the color radiating on the side of Lily’s face, making her look sickly and distorted. “Do you know a lawyer?” she asks, her voice cracking. Lily looks small and scared.
I’m quick to respond, flippant, because I, too, am scared, though I’d never admit that to Lily. “We don’t need a lawyer.”
“We don’t,” she says, “but I might, Christian, if I’m arrested.”
“You won’t be arrested.”
“How do you know?”
“Why would they arrest you?”
“Because I killed him,” she says. She’s crying without reserve now, her shoulders shaking.
“Stop saying that,” I snap. I don’t mean to snap at Lily. I never snap at Lily. It’s just that, if she’s going to get away with this, she needs to be careful about what she says. “Just because you were both at the same place, at the same time, means nothing. No one saw you together. You had no motive to kill him. Look at me, Lily,” I say, setting my hands on either side of her wet face and forcing her to look at me. Her makeup has started to bleed. There’s a smudge of black under her eyes. “You were there, yes. But you did not see Jake. Do you understand?” I ask, and she dimly nods. “Say it, then. Say ‘I did not see Jake Hayes at the forest preserve.’”
Lily says, “I did not see Jake Hayes at the forest preserve.”
It’s weak. She’s a worse liar even than me.
I’ve spent a lot of time doing research on the internet over the last week and a half. I know far more about the justice system, forensics and murder investigations than I ever wanted to know. The thing about an autopsy is that the medical examiner won’t just say who Jake is and how he died. Once they rule it a homicide, they’ll look for things like a killer’s fingerprints, his or her DNA. A dead body is a source of invaluable information. They might find Lily’s hair on him, fibers from her clothes, traces of her blood on him. Lily was bleeding, too, enough that I put antiseptic and antibacterial ointment on her arms. It could have gotten on Jake. Lily’s fingerprints could be on him. Lily is a teacher, which means her fingerprints are in the system.
She would be so easy for the police to find.
NINA
Iwake up in my childhood bed. The bed is small, twin-size, so that my legs hang over the spool footrail and my body fills the whole mattress.
The bed hasn’t been slept in in ages. Last night, before she went to sleep, my mother washed the flannel sheets for me, so that they were still warm and snuggly when I climbed in, wearing a pair of her own knit pajamas and socks. I drifted right to sleep, though it was a fitful sleep and my dreams were chaotic and illogical. I think I must have had a nightmare because I remember at one point waking up to my mother’s shadow perched on the edge of the bed beside me, her warm hand stroking my hair, her indulgent voice crooning, “Shh. There now. You’re okay, honey. Go back to sleep.”—or maybe that was part of my dream. It rained during the night. There is a skylight in the room, above the bed. For the better part of the night, rain battered the window, though in my dreams, it was the sound of a little boy beating sticks on a drum.
The weekend comes and goes. My mother and I don’t leave her house, because there is no need. For two days and three nights, we stay hidden inside.
It’s still dark Monday morning when the alarm on my phone goes off. I need to get up and get ready for work. I have to borrow clothes. I feel guilty for leaving the cat home alone, but cats are resilient like that. She has an automatic feeder and a water fountain; she’s always fine when Jake and I are gone. I only have someone look in on her if we’re gone for more than two days. I’ll check on her tonight and pack a bag for myself for the week.
I pull myself from the bed and go to the bathroom. My mother left a few things in the bathroom for me to wear. The shower, like the bed, is smaller than I remember. It’s 1980s era with glass block windows that, in daylight, allow the filtered light in. The thick blocks of translucent glass are supposed to provide privacy, but also light. In theory, no one can see in, and maybe it’s only the paranoia speaking, but I find it unlikely that if someone was standing in the yard outside the bathroom window, they wouldn’t be able to make out the shape of me standing naked in the shower, even if they couldn’t make out the details.
I shower in the dark, with the bathroom light off, just in case.
When I’m ready, I leave and drive to work. I get there early so I don’t risk running into Lily on the way in. I don’t want to see Lily now. I don’t know what I’d say to her.
My classroom faces the staff parking lot. Once inside my room, I stand by the window, waiting for her to arrive. When she does, I watch as Lily moves gracefully from her car to the building. She walks alone. She is beautiful, dressed in a black jumpsuit and flats, carrying a bag practically as big as her because Lily is so threadlike and petite. Her hair is braided on the side today. It lies over a shoulder and I think how very naïf-like she looks. I wonder if she truly is or if there is more to Lily Scott than I know.
It’s fifth period English. I’m standing in front of the room, leaned against my desk teaching, or trying to anyway. We’re readingRomeo and Julietaloud in class. I’ve assigned parts. Some of the kids are half-asleep, their eyes glazed over and bored. Most of my students don’t likeRomeo and Juliet. They think Shakespeare is lame and they struggle to understand it. I don’t blame them. Early Modern English can be hard for high school students. It’s the reason we read it aloud, so I can explain what’s happening, though I’m practically worthless today because my mind is somewhere else. Listening to my students as they butcher Shakespeare, I feel completely useless. At best, I muster help with pronunciation. At worst, I say nothing as kids stutter and fumble for words. The classroom is quiet now, with the exception of Madison Kief, who’s speaking. Madison is Juliet and she’s doing lines from the famous balcony speech.
In the middle of the scene, my phone rings. It’s in my desk drawer where I keep it during class. It’s usually on silent, but I’ve forgotten to silence it. We have a strict no phone policy at the school, which I enforce. The mood in the room suddenly changes, the kids getting all fired up, turning practically delirious when they realize the phone is mine.
“Ohhhh, Mrs. Hayes,” they say, threatening me with a detention.
I look at my phone. It’s the police calling. I have to take it.
“Officer Boone,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear, ignoring the taunts. But reception is spotty in the classroom and so I step outside, into the hall, to take the call. I drift away from my classroom, walking through the vast blue stretch of lockers for the windows at the end of the hall, where it’s quieter and I may have better luck with reception. “Do you have more questions for me? Have you been speaking to more of our acquaintances?” I ask, unable to control my sarcasm.
