Aleah has read the same page of her history text a half-dozen times and still can’t remember the name of Henry VIII’s first wife. It’s impossible to concentrate with her parents arguing on the other side of a paper-thin wall—especially when they’re arguing about her.
“We need that money for Aleah’s college,” her mother says.
“Really?” her father says. “With her grades, she’ll be lucky if she graduates.”
“So your solution is to put a down payment on a brand-new SUV?”
“I’m not solving anything. There’s nothing to solve. She’s getting a job and that’s it.”
Aleah slams the book shut, gets out of bed, sits at her desk, and taps the spacebar on her computer. The monitor lights up. She refreshes her Facebook page, clicks on the messages icon, then types in the name of her best friend and neighbor: Gypsy Rose.
“Hey, Gypsy,” she writes, “I thought you were going to send me pictures of your ‘Secret Sam’!!!”
She hits Return, waits.
Her parents keep at it. She hears them moving back and forth between the kitchen and living room, screaming at each other as if they’re standing a football field apart.
“What kind of job will she get with no education?” her mother asks.
“She has as much education as you or me.”
“That’s my point.”
Aleah hits the Refresh button. She can see that Gypsy has read her message, but still no response.
“PHOTOS PLEASE!!!” Aleah types. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’m having.”
She stares at the screen, hears her father say: “Some people aren’t cut out for college. There’s no shame in it.”
The computer makes a pinging sound, and a red “1” appears at the top of the page. Aleah clicks as fast as she can. Instead of photos, she finds a message from Gypsy:
“THAT BITCH IS DEAD.”
Aleah pushes back in her chair, feels her pulse quicken. She’s never heard Gypsy say so much as “damn.”
She hits Refresh again, hoping for a punch line. After a long beat, she yells, “MOM!!!”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, she’s sitting at the front window with her mother, watching two cops approach Gypsy’s front door. The shorter of the two rings the bell, then presses his face to the side glass panel. The taller one shakes his head, knocks with his baton, and seems startled when the door, unlocked, swings open a few inches. They look at each other, then step inside.
“Police,” Officer Weir, the shorter one, calls. “Anyone home?”
Officer Crace, Weir’s partner, switches on an overhead light. They are standing in an L-shaped living/dining area. The space is crowded with oversized furniture and a robust collection of medical supplies: expensive-looking wheelchairs line the back wall; the long dining table is nearly covered in pill bottles and syringes; a series of shelves house braces and casts shaped like every body part a person might injure.
“This some kind of clinic?” Crace asks.
“Just a residence,” Weir says.
“Hello,” Crace calls. “It’s the police.”
No answer.
“What did the message say again?” Crace asks.
“That bitch is dead.”
“And it was the daughter who sent it?”
“Yeah.”
“Any info on her?”
“The 911 caller said she’s a shut-in. Sick since the day she was born.”
Crace points to the row of wheelchairs.
“So I guess those are hers?” he asks.
“Looks like she’s got one for every day of the week.”
“We know anything about the mother?”
“Name’s Dee Dee Blancharde. Single mom. Used to be some kind of medical assistant. Now she just takes care of her gimpy kid.”
“All right,” Crace says. “Let’s have a look around.”
They start down a narrow hallway off the dining area. Crace takes the first door on the right: Dee Dee’s bedroom. The room is pitch dark. He switches on the overhead. A blackout shade covers the only window. An unmade king-size bed with a noticeable sag in the middle takes up most of the room. The air smells of vapor rubs and menthol. There’s a thick, well-worn medical encyclopedia on the nightstand.
His partner calls for him from the next room: “Crace, get in here. You’ve got to see this.”
He finds Weir standing at the center of what looks like a dollhouse bedroom built to human scale: yellow walls with rose-patterned wallpaper trim, a canopy bed with hospital-style rails, pristine shag area rugs, a white dresser with gold handles and a heart-shaped mirror, a matching white desk to house Gypsy’s computer. The wall above the computer is plastered with intricate, detailed drawings that might have been ripped from a fantasy video game—pages and pages of monsters and dragons and women in tight-fitting armor wielding swords.
“It’s just a bedroom,” Crace says.
“Yeah, but there’s something creepy about it,” Weir says. “It doesn’t fit with the rest of the house. It’s like walking into a shrine or one of those museum recreations. Everything’s a little too perfect.”
“If you say so.”
Weir starts for the door, stumbles over an object buried in one of the shag rugs.
“What’s this?” he asks.
He kneels down, finds a beige inhaler with a chewed up mouthpiece.
“Jesus,” Crace says. “Is anything not wrong with this girl?”
They move back through the dining area and into the kitchen. And that’s where they find her: Dee Dee Blancharde sprawled on the linoleum floor, her plain white shift soaked in blood.