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She didn’t agree. Though she knew it would disappoint her grandmother, she no longer saw a higher power as an unquestioned given, certain her mother’s death proved any god inadequate. After all, if God had set it right, then God must also have set it wrong. Maybe he had stepped out of the picture altogether. Maybe had never been in it at all. She didn’t pretend to know.
“I do pity his poor wife,” Grandma sighed. “I suppose she made her choices, but it doesn’t seem she deserved that end.”
The wife, who’d sat immediately behind the killer during those three days. The wife, who’d fidgeted and squirmed nonstop. The lady she’d caught staring at her several times before quickly looking away. The woman with Krystle Carrington hair and jewelry and long-sleeved flowered dresses. The unquiet face of that woman, now dead, she rememberedperfectly.
18
The pale, gray-haired man standing in the doorway wore pajama pants and a T-shirt. He didn’t invite her in, just stared slack-jawed.
“Honey? What is it?” called a woman’s voice.
“Some lady!” he yelled back, not taking his eyes off her.
“What?” shouted the woman.
“Hullo,” she said again through her metal teeth. “I’m your neighbor. Can you help me, please?”
“Shit.” The man winced. “What happened to you?”
She started to fall, caught herself on the brick of the exterior wall.
“Sorry,” she told him on seeing the bloody mark left by her hand. “So sorry.”
“Jesus…come in?”
She stepped into the house and slipped, her bare feet soft jelly things, wet and slick on the tile. She landed hard. The neighbor reached down as if to help her up, then thought better of it, and pulled his arms close to his chest. She dragged herself forward with her hands, feet useless and knees constricted by the fur coat, crawled like a baby until the neighbor was able to shut the door against the storm. He rubbed his hands together, cold from the brief exposure.
She pressed her cheek on the square tiles.
Just a little nap. That’s what you need, a little kittycatnap.
“What happened? Are you all right?”
There was movement farther in the house, a woman hurrying down the stairs.
“Christ!” the woman exclaimed. “What the hell?”
“I dunno,” the neighbor said. “Call 9-1-1, she’s hurt.”
“She might be…dangerous?” The woman mouthed this as though only the man would be able to understand.
“She can’t even stand up. Just call the cops already!”
The woman’s mouth pursed into a tight red O.
The electricity in the house burned her good eye. The tiles were so white. The rug beyond them oatmeal. An enormous crystal chandelier blazed above the stairs. Light wood furniture was visible in the darkened house. Mirrors in the entry, the other rooms. Everything bright and reflective. The woman wore a long pink robe that was liquid behind her as she hurried back up the stairs. Silk.
“What happened?” the man repeated.
“There’s someone in my house,” she said. “He’s trying to kill me. He’s trying to get my children.”
The neighbor had noticed her skin now, was staring at the traces of white.
“Are you contagious?”
“No. It’s…genetic. Please, he’s trying to get my children.”
“What?” The neighbor squinted at her.
