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
I wake 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 na?f-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 reading Romeo and Juliet aloud 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 like Romeo 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.
“No,” he says, “I don’t have any more questions for you right now. I’m calling to tell you that we’ve located your husband’s missing car.”
“Oh,” I breathe out. I don’t know what I expected Officer Boone to say, but this wasn’t it. I reach out to set a hand on the window for support, and then I lean my head against the glass, because the glass is cool and I’m feeling hot all of a sudden and dizzy.
Jake’s car. They found Jake’s car.
Officer Boone’s news is good news, but it brings no relief. If anything, it makes things worse because where is Jake if not with his car?
“Where did you find it?” I ask. Behind me, my classroom suddenly descends into chaos. I turn back, finding Ryan in the hall with me, brought out of his own classroom by the mayhem in mine. He gazes at me from a distance, and then he turns away, going to my classroom door where he stands in the open doorway, keeping watch over my students like a sentry. It works. They quiet down immediately and I’m grateful.
“At a hotel,” Officer Boone says through the phone, “in Bridgeview.”
“What is it doing there? Is my husband there? Have you found him too?”
“No. Your husband was not with his vehicle.”
A hotel. Jake’s car was found at a hotel in Bridgeview. Bridgeview is much closer to the city than where we live. As far as I know, he doesn’t know anyone who lives out that way. He doesn’t have a reason to be there. What would his car be doing in Bridgeview, and where is he if not with his car?
“Can I come get it?”