I still sleep in the house where Adrienne lived, where Dwayne died, and yes, I’m afraid of that, too. Afraid to stay here, afraid to leave. It’s morbid that I haven’t moved, I know, but it’s the only place I have now that feels even a little like home. Like mine. I wasn’t here with Dwayne long enough for his memory to chase me around every corner. I keep the door to the office closed. I pretend there’s nothing behind it. I never did clean up the blood, and now it’s been too long; the carpet will have to be replaced, the floor refinished where it soaked in beneath.
I shouldn’t stay. I know that. Maybe not in the city, but definitely not in this house. I know people think it’s strange that Adrienne Richards is still living in the house where she shot her lover to death. I know I should downsize. I should listen to the people who are so eager to tell me what to do, and do what they tell me. Advisors and consultants. Realtors, like the one who sold this place to Ethan years ago, who called me the day after the death notice ran. He wanted to offer his condolences . . . and his honest opinion that the house was much too big for one. I told him it was too soon, muttered something about walls full of memories, the kind of schmaltzy shit that Adrienne sometimes posted on social media when she had nothing else to say. But the truth is, it’s the emptiness of the place I like. There’s something comforting about all that space, like a cushion between myself and the world. At night, I pour a glass of wine and look out at the sparkling city. I could lose myself here, or maybe find myself.
Or maybe someone will find me first, and put an end to all of this. I think about Jennifer Wellstood, staring into my face, shouting at me without seeing me. I think about Ian Bird, his fingers grazing my body, his breath hot and urgent as he whispered Adrienne’s name in my ear. I think about the man he caught, the one who killed Laurie Richter, so desperate under the decades-long weight of his crimes that confession was a relief.
If I believed in fate, I’d say that story was a message from the universe. A warning of things to come. But then again, if I believed in fate, I’d probably think that all of this was meant to be. That I was always going to pull that trigger, and then pull it again. That Adrienne came into my life just so I could step into hers, and was it really my fault if I was only following the path that destiny set out for me?
But I don’t believe in that stuff. It was my hands holding the gun, my choice to take this life. I’m no victim of circumstance. And I’ve carried worse burdens than this.
I stopped going to that Chili’s, though. Just in case.
I don’t know how long this will last. I’ve been lucky; maybe I’ll stay that way. Sitting in this enormous house, drinking a dead woman’s Sancerre, petting the cat, who doesn’t seem to mind at all that I’m his family now. He didn’t have a tag or anything, so I went ahead and named him; whatever they used to call him, he’s Baxter now. I know what you were probably expecting, and no, I didn’t name him Rags. Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus, like I want to relive that memory every time I open a can of Fancy Feast. Like I ever want to think about Rags again, or the junkyard, or Dwayne.
I do still think about Dwayne.
Adrienne’s gym bag is still in the closet, still stuffed with cash and diamonds and a toothbrush if I ever need to run. I’d head north, I think. After all of this, I still prefer the cold. I like a hard winter, the slap of the air on a dark, frigid morning, the eastern sky just beginning to blush with light. The groaning of the lake as the ice settles. A fresh blanket of new snow, the trees heavy with it, the whole world sparkling white and clean. I’d take the cat with me. I’d leave everything else. This is what I would do, will do, if someone gets curious. Or if I slip up. Or if I can’t bear it anymore.
But I’m going to try. This life I’ve taken should be lived by someone; it might as well be me. And as for Lizzie Ouellette, let me tell you: she was nothing but trouble. She was the trash someone should’ve taken out years ago. That redneck bitch, that junkyard girl. She’s gone, and good riddance.
No one will miss her, not even me, and that’s the truth.
I almost believe it.
Epilogue
Bird
The junkyard that had been Lizzie Ouellette’s childhood home was nothing but a vacant lot now, black and bare as a socket where a rotting tooth had fallen out. Bird pulled to the side of the road and got out, leaning against his cruiser, staring across the narrow street at the empty space. He didn’t need to go any closer to be sure that the place had been abandoned, left to be reclaimed in due time by the creeping perimeter of forest surrounding the lot. The woods were lush and green, and a few tentative tendrils of weedy growth were already beginning to find purchase in the cracks and crevices that had once been buried under piles of scrap. Soon, the place would look like nothing at all, just part of the landscape—except to the people who’d always lived here, who would always remember what it used to be. Bird took a deep breath and smiled as he exhaled. The last time he had stood on this spot, the air had been full of floating ash, unbreathable even with a mask on. It smelled different now. Sweet, even a little bit heady, like grass that had been freshly mowed after a long day warming in the July sun.