You always knew the kind of man he was. You knew what he did, and you knew when he did it. But you had never seen their faces. You had never summoned the women’s ghosts, held the remnants of their lives in your hands.
At night, they visit you. You let us die, they say. The ones that came after you. You should have stopped him by now. What are you doing? Why haven’t you run away? Why aren’t you telling the world about him?
You tell them you’re sorry. You tell them it’s complicated. You try to get them to see things from your point of view: You know how he is. I have to do things right. You take one wrong step with him, you die.
Oh, so now it’s our fault, the women say. You must think you’re so smart, whereas us—we’re the idiots who died?
You try to explain. That’s not what I meant. I would never say that. Don’t you know I’m on your side?
After a while, the women stop responding. Even after they leave, you can’t sleep.
So that’s you. Cecilia, though—what’s her excuse? Why so crestfallen?
At dinner, she waits until her plate is empty and turns to her dad.
“Is there really no way we can get out of it?” she asks.
He sighs like it’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation.
“It’s a nice thing, Cecilia. Sometimes people try to do nice things for you, and it’s polite to let them.”
“But it’s Christmas break,” she insists. “They can’t leave us alone during Christmas break?”
He frowns. “Listen,” he says. Such a dad. “I worked all day. I’m tired. I don’t want to do this again. People like you. And they like me. They think we’re nice, and they’ve decided they want to throw us a party. I’m not thrilled about it, either. But that’s how life works.”
Cecilia looks away. He knows, she knows, you all know he’s won, but he carries on anyway. “You remember how we got the house?” he asks her. “It was the judge. He pulled some strings for us, because he likes us. It’s easier to go through life if people like you.”
“It’s just…” she mutters. “Do they have to do it right here? In the yard?”
He shrugs. “That’s what they want to do. Let’s just go along with it.”
The yard?
You try to make sense of it.
This man, in this town? Letting people in so close, into the orbit of his darkest secrets?
He’s planning something.
He would have found a way out of it otherwise. This is a man who does what he wants, for the reasons he wants.
He’s planning something.
Rule number ten of staying alive outside the shed: You can learn from him. You can plan things, too.
YOU LIE AWAKE through another night. Force yourself to remain lying down, pin your back to the mattress. An electric current pulses through your legs; a restlessness tickles the inside of your chest. You did your exercises earlier, while he was away. Tired your calves, your arms. It’s not your body keeping you awake. It’s your mind, like a broken compass, spinning and spinning in vain.
A party. There’s going to be a party. People—lots of people. Right here. In the yard.
He will be busy, so busy keeping track of it all. Focused on making sure people stay where he needs them to be. Focused on making sure his plan, whatever it might be, unfolds as he wants it to.
And there will be eyes. Eyes everywhere.
Your brain thinks, thinks, thinks itself into overdrive. Like your brother’s Lego when the two of you were kids—try it this way and that. Put two things together and break them apart. Build and build and watch it all collapse and start building anew.
She wore your necklace.
Emily. Her name rises through you, over the buzz in your ears.
It’s her. It has to be her. The object of the party, the reason he’s letting everyone in. He has been circling her, casing her like a bank to be robbed.
The women in the boxes start clamoring. You know what you have to do, they say. Are you going to let her die, too? You want to tell them, Please stop, just for a second—let me think, but you can’t, you can’t because your fingers are burning and your throat is burning and there is a woman out there and she was in the living room and you saw her, you met her and she seemed nice, and even if she’s not, she should still live. She should still live for as long as possible.
You roll onto your side and bring the pillow over your head. With your free hand you push, apply pressure until you can barely breathe, until there’s nothing in your ears but the pulsing of blood and the faint rush of oxygen at the back of your trachea. You open your mouth, teeth against the sheet, and bury a silent scream into the mattress.