48

A taxi brought me from the airport to our house. It was still late afternoon in California. The lights were on in our house, and for a moment I thought my family had miraculously returned. But it was just the timer. I went inside and turned off the alarm. It was so quiet: no pans clanking or children squealing and running, no cooking smells. I had put away all the dishes, but the kitchen still felt disassembled. I wondered if it would ever feel like home again.

Something else wasn’t right.

I whirled. No movement in the living room. Nothing in the dark hallway. My shoes made slow, soft steps down the wooden floor.

The doors to both my children’s rooms stood open, the lights on. In Garth’s, his bag of toy soldiers and blocks lay in the same place on the floor. His mattress rested on its side in the same spot against the wall, the urine stain still hidden. In Frieda’s room, her dolls and stuffed bears lay on the carpet next to stacked air duct grates. But the bookcase was different. The police had removed the books and pictures to do their search, and now something sat on the shelf.

It was a single framed photo. I stepped closer. The picture was in black and white and showed a child’s grave with dolls planted on top. My father’s photo. The dead child had been six years old. Frieda was five, almost six.

Breathing hard, I stepped out of her room. Rested my hand against the wall. A faint sour smell came from the far end of the hallway. Even after so many years, the odor was unmistakable. The stench of Béni-Messous.

I flicked on the hallway light. Spots of blood ran down the center of the wooden floor to the closed door of our bedroom.

Frieda.

Suppose he was waiting inside with a knife or some drug? But she could be wounded or dying. The police would take time to get here.

I lay my ear against the wood of our door. No rustling or quiet breathing. Only the putrid smell that was worse than any sound. The metal handle was cool. Softly, slowly, I turned it. The door silently slid open to reveal a crack of darkness.

The smell hit me like a hammer—rotting and palpable.

I kicked open the door and rushed into the dark room. My head jerked from side to side. I whirled behind me. Nothing moved.

I switched on the light. On the bed, the outlines of a body pushed up the covers. Light hair extended over the pillow. Like Jill’s hair.

I couldn’t think. The smell filled my whole head. I stumbled to the bed.

The head wore pearl earrings. It wasn’t Jill. Thank God it wasn’t Jill.

Vanessa’s blue eyes bulged out. She was so pale, her face like wax. I looked for the blankets covering her to rise with her breathing. Nothing. I threw them off. What should have been her body was an inflatable sex doll reconfigured with Vanessa’s head. Jill’s Colombian necklace hung between its blown-up breasts.