Chapter Twenty-One

KATE

We’re finally able to get out of our neighborhood, and we’re on our way to Rudy’s to pick up the kids, when you change everything. Neither of us is sure where to go from here. That much is clear. Our neighborhood is swarming with cops and news crews, and neither of us wants to address what’s going on. So we don’t talk about it, not really. We’re numbed out, hollow, empty. We’re what you are when you’ve given your all and you’re not sure what’s left to give. We love each other, sure, but there’s a deeper unspoken question that hangs in the air between us: Is love enough? It was back there in our bathroom and it is for now. It’s clear, though, that some things bring you together and others tear you apart, and what comes next is often anyone’s guess.

“I think we should go to marriage counseling,” you say, looking over at me.

I study your expression, waiting for the punch line, and when it’s apparent there isn’t one, I shake my head slowly.

“We need this, Kate.”

“You know me,” I say. “I don’t do therapy.”

“It’s just a conversation,” you tell me.

I cock my head, and I can’t believe these words are coming from your mouth. “Why do we need a third party to have a ‘conversation?’”

You stare out the windshield for a long time without answering, and I can see that you’re thinking it over. I chew on my bottom lip, and I consider for a moment that this is some sort of joke.

“I can’t have you running, Kate.”

“I’m right here.”

“You won’t stay.”

I glance away and then back at you. “Say’s who?”

“I know you.”

I scoff. “You think you do.”

“That’s why we have an appointment with the therapist tomorrow,” you say. You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “To find out.”

‘House of horrors,’ the headlines read. ‘Terror in suburbia,’ others say. ‘Evil in plain sight.’

“Can you believe it?” Josie says. I’ve heard this before, but she’s the last to call. The rest of the neighbors have all called or come around, one by one. Each of them asking the same question. Can you believe it?

“No,” I tell her, and it’s only a partial lie. But that’s what bothers me. I both can and can’t understand what’s occurred right down the street. I’m a walking contradiction, and everything makes sense in hindsight.

“Yeah, well,” she remarks. “Remember what happened at your party?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Everything makes so much sense,” she tells me hurriedly, and that much we can agree on. “It’s like they unraveled before our eyes, you know, like a mental breakdown or something,” Josie says, and she’s not wrong but she’s not exactly right either.

I hang up the phone and field another call. You turn on the news, and I switch it off. Details are starting to emerge about what took place in that house, and they don’t add up.

Nine immigrants found dead. Human trafficking at its worst, I hear the newscaster say when you switch it back on.

“Are you sure, Kate? There’s nothing tying you to this.”

“We’ve been over and over it,” I say, and I shake my head. “Like I told you. I shot Anne and Stanley and then I left. Those girls were alive, as far as I know.”

“But you didn’t see them alive?”

“No.”

You sigh and you leave it at that. I follow suit. I don’t tell you about the missing link, I don’t tell you about Sophia because I know what you’ll say. You’ll say we need to run. That it’s just a matter of time before she spills the beans to the cops, if she hasn’t already.

But the thing is, I promised you I wouldn’t run. The fact that we would be doing it together matters little.

I’m tired of running, Jude.

It’s time to face the music, whatever that might be.

Eventually, I join you in bed, but I don’t sleep. My heart races, and I consider that it’s just a matter of time before the cops show up at our door. It’s possible that I’m making a major mistake by staying, by not telling you the whole truth about what happened down the street. But I’m pretty sure you don’t tell me every detail of your kills, either.

My phone chimes, and it startles me. I realize it isn’t the cops at all I should be worried about. I roll over, pick up my phone and I read the text. It’s Sophia: Meet me at your back door.

I put on coffee, and Sophia sits at our dining room table. Her eyes are wild, her hair matted. Her clothes are muddy, and she’s aged thirty years in the short hours since I saw her last.

“Tell me everything,” I say, and then I look up at the ceiling. “Quietly.”

“I—I,” she starts, and she cups the mug in her palms. She’s shaking, and I ought to offer her a blanket, but I need answers before I can really care.

“Start from the beginning,” I tell her. “It’s all right,” I lie. “You’re safe.”

“I killed them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I can’t believe I killed them.”

“What happened, Sophia?” I demand. “After I left.”

‘They would’ve told,” she says.

“Would’ve told what?”

“About you. And about Monique.”

“About Monique? What about Monique?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kate. I won’t tell. Monique did bad things. She was different.”

“What do you mean, bad things?”

She takes a sip from her cup. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she says taking a sip. “I know you killed her,” she tells me, and she’s wrong but she’s close. Too close for my comfort.

I bit my lip and I test her. “I didn’t kill her.”

She looks away. “It’s okay,” she says, eventually meeting my eye. She wears a dazed expression. “I’m just happy we can be together now.”

“Why did you kill those girls?”

She smiles, and it lights up her whole face. “So they wouldn’t tell the police about you. Small sacrifices, you know. I read that in one of your books.”

“My books?”

“On parenting,” she shifts her position. “I need this job…and I could be a part of your family. I never had a mother. But I like the way you do it. You and Mr. Jude. You protect your kids. You make sacrifices. It’s important.”

I fold my lips and I nod, as though what she’s just told me makes perfect sense. And the messed-up part is, it kind of does. But I know crazy when I see it, and it has just shown up here in our kitchen. It’s sitting in our chair, drinking our tea, asking to be let in. Only it’s already in, and now we have a situation on our hands. My mind races and then it slows. I think of the children sleeping upstairs, and sacrifice knows no limits. Apparently, not for her, and certainly not for me. And all I can think about is how in the world I’m going to tell you. Also, I realize you’re right about one thing: we don’t need a nanny. Certainly not now, and maybe not ever again.

I clear the mugs off the table and tidy up the kitchen. I can feel Sophia’s eyes on me.

“Why don’t you let me get that, Mrs. Kate?” she smiles. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving her off. I look over at the microwave. The clock reads 3:52 a.m., which leaves me only a few hours before the kids are up, to figure something out. I place the cups in the dishwasher and close the door, and then I turn toward Sophia. “Why don’t you shower?” I say. “I’ll bring in some fresh clothes.”

“I had to hide in the woods.”

“I can see that,” I say, not sure why she’s telling me something that is apparent.

“I’m good at hiding.”

“It’s a good thing.”

She smirks. “I learned from you.”

“Of course, you did,” I tell her, because what else is there to say?

She stands and dusts herself off, shuffling mud off of her and onto the floor. I watch as she looks down at the mess she’s made and then she looks at me.

She takes a deep breath in. “I’m so sorry,” she cries, and she falls to the floor. “I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up, I promise. Just please don’t make me leave. Please.”

“Sophia. Shh,” I whisper, but it’s useless because her sobs only grow louder.

“I didn’t mean to do it, I swear. I didn’t mean to,” she cries, repeating the same sentence over and over until I’m left with no choice but to sink to the floor and take her face in my hands.

She weeps and she weeps until eventually my legs go numb, and I have to shake her off of me. I never did care much for the criers.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kate. I promise I’ll be good,” she tells me snot running down her chin.

“It’s fine, Sophia,” I say. “Just take a shower,” I order, my tone commanding, in charge. She perks up, and it’s as though she realizes this was the missing piece all along.

“Use the downstairs bathroom,” I say, wiping my forehead. “I’ll go up and get you some fresh clothes.”

I open bathroom door slowly, and I place the clothing on the edge of the counter. I can see Sophia’s silhouette from inside the shower, and for a moment I hesitate.

“I’m sorry for crying,” she says, catching me off guard. Her nose is stuffy, her tone soft.

I can hear the water run over her and splatter against the tile, and there it is, that urge. It never goes away; it’s forever creeping up. She sighs, bringing me back to the present, to the task at hand. “I know you’re not good with emotions. But I promise we can work it out.”

I raise my brow instinctively, even though I know she can’t see from inside the shower. “I was thinking about running out for breakfast. Are you interested in coming along?”

“Sure,” she says, and I hear a hint of amusement in her tone. I turn to go, and that’s when I see it.

Written on the mirror are the words: I’ve got my eye on you.

“What is this on the mirror?” I ask, one hand on the doorknob, one hand balled in a fist.

She laughs. “A joke.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No?”

“So you knew about the letters, then?”

“Ann and Stanley thought it was a joke. They liked to talk about it…”

“I see,” I tell her, and I feel my hand slip from the knob, desire pulling me back in.

Blood runs down the drain, tingeing the clear water, turning it pink. “Why Sophia?” I ask. “Why did it have to be this way? I almost liked you,” I tell her, and she stares up at me, her expression pained, as it should be, the light in her eyes fading.

She digs her nails into my hand and I pull the towel tighter on her throat. She doesn’t scream, and I didn’t want it to be this way. I want to hear her talk. I want answers. I want to know why she didn’t tell me about the Morrises, why she kept it from me, why she killed those girls. I want to know why this whole thing happened. I want to pick her brain for a bit, to understand Anne and Stanley and why they did what they did, I want to ask if crazy begets crazy. I want to get her take on whether like attracts like, and if this is how we ended up here, soaking wet, tangled together on the shower floor. But maybe not every question gets an answer. Maybe sometimes it is what it is. And you do what you do, and you let it be.

Also, there’s the fact that you and the kids are upstairs, and it takes at least three minutes to strangle a person. Thinking about what I’ll need to do afterward to get rid of her, I realize answers will require patience, and no one’s got time for that. In turn, I pull tighter on the towel, giving it everything I’ve got. I watch her eyes roll back into her head. When her face goes slack, I give it another minute, my biceps burning. I embrace the pain and I count. When I get to sixty, I check her pulse. I count again just to be sure.

Afterward, I stand over her, towel-drying her naked, lifeless body. Then I change into the clothes I brought down, pleased with myself because you say I don’t plan ahead. Then I drag her through the kitchen and out into the garage, where I place her in your trunk. It’s not that I made the conscious decision to put you out, it’s just that your car is lower to the ground and killing a person is hard work.