So they all have g-and-t’s, and that’s when Alice says things started to get fogged-in. She thought it was because she’s not used to alcohol. Tripp suggested she have another. Because, he said, the second drink will fight the first. He said it’s a known fact. One of the roommates put on some music and she thinks she remembers dancing in the living room with Tripp, and that’s where her memory pretty much runs out.
She picks up the washcloth and breathes through it again for a little while. Her bra is still underneath the coffee table, looking like a small animal that died.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ she says.
Billy tells her what he saw and did, beginning with the screech of brakes and tires and ending with putting her to bed. She thinks it over, then says, ‘Tripp doesn’t own a van. He has a Mustang. He picked me up in it when we went to the movies.’
Billy thinks of Ken Hoff, who also had a Mustang. And died in it. ‘Nice car,’ he says. ‘Was your roommate jealous?’
‘I’m on my own. It’s just a small place.’ As soon as the words are out, Billy can see she thinks she’s made a mistake telling him she’s on her own. He could point out that Tripp Donovan probably also knew this but doesn’t. She puts the washcloth over her face again and breathes, but this time her breath keeps whooping.
‘Give me that,’ Billy says. This time he wets it under the kitchen tap, keeping an eye on her while he does it, but he doesn’t think she’ll break for the door wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt. He comes back. ‘Try again. Slow deep breaths.’
When her respiration eases, he says ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
He takes her out of the apartment, up the stairs, into the foyer. He points to the vomit drying on the wall. ‘That’s from when I brought you in.’
‘Whose underwear is that? Is it yours?’
‘Yes. I was getting ready to go to bed. It was falling down while I was trying to keep you from choking. It was actually kind of comical.’
She doesn’t smile, only repeats that Tripp doesn’t drive a van.
‘I imagine it belongs to one of his roommates.’
Tears begin to spill down her cheeks. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God. My mother can never find this out. She never wanted me to come.’
Billy thinks he already knew that. ‘Let’s go back downstairs. I’ll make you some real breakfast. Eggs and bacon.’
‘No bacon,’ she says, grimacing, but she doesn’t say no to the eggs.
5
He scrambles two eggs and sets them before her with two more slices of toast. While she eats, he goes into the bedroom and closes the door. If she bolts, she bolts. He has been gripped by the fatalism he felt during Operation Phantom Fury, clearing the city of insurgents street by street and block by block. Checking for the baby shoe on his belt loop before stacking to go in each house. Each day he wasn’t wounded or killed increased the odds that the next day he would be. You could only roll so many sevens or make so many points before you crapped out. That fatalism became sort of a friend. What the fuck, they used to say. What the fuck, let’s get some. Same thing now: what the fuck.
He dons the blond wig, the mustache, the glasses. He sits on the bed and checks a couple of things on his phone. Once he’s got the info he needs, he goes into the bathroom and spreads a handful of baby powder on his stomach. He’s found it helps with the chafing. Then he takes the fake belly into the kitchen.
She looks at him with wide eyes, the last forkful of eggs suspended above the plate. Billy holds the Styrofoam appliance against his stomach and turns around. ‘Would you tighten the strap for me? I always have a hard job doing it for myself.’
He waits. A lot depends on what happens next. She might refuse. She might even stick him with the knife he gave her to butter her toast. It’s not exactly a lethal weapon, she could have done more damage with the paring knife if she’d decided to use it on him while he was sleeping, but she could put a hurt on him even with a butter knife if she put her arm into it and got it in the right place.
She doesn’t stick him. She pulls the strap tight instead. Tighter than he’s ever managed even when he starts by turning the fake belly around to the small of his back so he can see the plastic buckle.
‘When did you know I knew?’ she asks in a small voice.
‘While you were telling me your story. You were looking right at me and I saw it click. Then you had the panic attack.’
‘You’re the man who killed—’