Look What You Made Me Do Read online

  He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “How’d everything go the other night?”

  I choke on a bite of soup and cough into my napkin. I know he’s referring to Friday’s “work emergency,” but my heart still pounds. “Ah, okay.”

  “Uh-oh. More office antics? What’d Troy do this time? Microwave fish? Buy single-ply toilet paper?”

  Anyone who’s ever worked in an office knows exactly how atrocious those things are, but they don’t come close to the truth.

  “Everything’s fine,” I lie. “I’m sorry again about missing dinner.”

  He shrugs. “That’s okay. We have lots of time.”

  I hope he’s right. Some of my relationships have ended because they weren’t meant to be, but some I ended myself because knowing I cared gave Becca too much power over me. Power she knows how to leverage and lacks the emotional competency not to. People are pawns to Becca, pieces to shove around on the chessboard of life, flicking them off the edge when she gets bored or irritated or simply wants to hurt someone.

  I had one friend in high school, a girl name Sariah, an awkward loner like me. We met eating our lunch alone in the hallway and became fast friends. My parents were delighted I finally had a friend, unlike Becca, who had so many friends—followers—my parents were often begging her to stay home or hang up the phone or stop having so many parties.

  When Becca was in twelfth grade, she wanted an extraordinarily overpriced dress to wear to homecoming. My parents, in a rare show of strength, refused to pay so much, and not even Becca’s tantrums would sway them. In hindsight, I remember two of the neighbors’ pets disappearing during that time, but there were rumors of a coyote spotted in the area so everyone blamed that. I was no longer keeping my money in my underwear drawer, and I had nothing else of value for Becca to steal. So I thought.

  One night, she came to me with an offer. If I paid for her dress, she’d let me go to homecoming with her. I didn’t want to go to homecoming. I didn’t like dressing up, and no boy had ever noticed me. I turned her down.

  Four nights later, she approached me again. She’d been arrested for attempting to shoplift the dress, flirted her way out of being charged, and promised not to return to the store. So she needed me to steal the dress. “No one will even notice you,” she promised. “You’re practically invisible anyway.”

  After my humiliating gum theft attempt, I wasn’t about to break the law again, and I told her no. She cajoled and threatened, but at that point, she was my mean older sister, not a serial killer—that I was aware of—and though I was shaking by the time she finally left my room, I’d held my ground. I’d stood up to Becca.

  The next day, she passed me and Sariah in the hall. “Hey,” she said, flashing us a bright smile. It was weird and blinding because she never so much as acknowledged me in public. There were a lot of people who didn’t even believe we were related. I did a double take when I saw Sariah smile back. I’d told her the stories of how wretched Becca was—why would she acknowledge her? “Because she’s scary,” she whispered.

  The following day Becca invited us to join her for lunch. Sariah said yes before I could demand to know what Becca was up to. I was fifteen but still too naive to understand that some people had no moral bottom. Becca was all charm and laughter during the lunch, complimenting Sariah on her kohl eyeliner and heavy black boots. There was lunch again the next day, and the next, and the following Monday, I waited alone in the hall for Sariah, who never came. With a sick twist in my stomach, I crept to the cafeteria and looked toward Becca’s choice table in the corner. There, with her crew of dim-witted minions, sat Becca. And Sariah. Giggling side by side like new best friends.

  I’d never really had any friends, and so had never lost one before. It struck me like a blow to the head, making me nauseous and dizzy, my eyes watering before I even thought about crying. And maybe it says something about me, but even more than the loss of Sariah, I was devastated by the theft of her. Becca carved out of my life the one thing that made my miserable school days bearable, and she did it because I wouldn’t steal her a dress.

  They were friends for the entire week. Lunches, strolling through the hallways. Becca even invited Sariah over one day after school, and they sat in the living room watching movies and eating popcorn while I did homework in the kitchen. If there was an iota of consolation in the entire experience, it was that Sariah couldn’t meet my eye. She knew Becca was a monster, and she’d walked into the lair, fully informed.

  On Saturday, Becca strutted into the kitchen wearing her expensive new homecoming dress. I was eating dinner with my parents, who stared slack-jawed, beef stroganoff cooling on their forks, as she twirled like the pageant queen she’d never be. “Where did you get that?” one of them demanded. The words were halfhearted since, even if Becca deigned to answer, it’d be a lie anyway.

  “I bought it,” she replied. “I saved my money.”

  What money? was the obvious follow-up question, but nobody bothered asking it.

  My parents exchanged looks and then took the easy way out, as always. “Hmm,” my mom said, eating her stroganoff. My dad followed suit.

  Becca waited for me to say something, but I just contemplated the egg noodles like I’d never found anything in the world more fascinating. Eventually she harrumphed and stormed out of the kitchen, taking pains to stomp extra loudly up the stairs on her way to her bedroom before slamming her door.

  “Well,” my dad said after a minute, “it is a nice dress.”

  On Monday, I was eating lunch alone near my locker when Sariah hurried down the hall from the direction of the cafeteria. Her rushed footsteps were preceded by the sound of mocking laughter from a hundred students, reminiscent of the slow-motion footage from a movie, ha ha ha bouncing off the tile walls like basketballs, interspersed with Sariah’s heartrending sobs. I knew what that soundtrack meant.

  She stopped in front of me, shoulders heaving, tears leaving tracks in her too-pale makeup, exposing the acne on her jaw. “Sh-she—” she said, mouth wobbling, too unsteady to shape the words. Not that she needed to. I’d never had a friend for Becca to steal before, but she’d stolen my shoes, jewelry, money. Once a bra that was too big for her but made me feel pretty had gone missing, never to be seen again. She suggested a neighborhood pervert had broken in and taken it. Maybe he had a crush on me.

  I’d learned not to form attachments to things, learned to live with the sting of losing whatever I’d been foolish enough to care about. I’d already cried for Sariah and spent a week steeling myself for this moment. The only way Becca would enjoy this more was if she saw that it hurt me, too. Humiliating Sariah was foreplay; now she wanted the payoff.

  “Fuck you,” I told Sariah, standing up from my spot at the base of the lockers and tossing my half-eaten sandwich in the trash.

  I strolled away calmly, in the opposite direction from the cafeteria, but before I rounded the corner, I glanced back. Sariah stood, huddled miserably, her face in her hands. And ducking out of sight behind a classroom door was a too-familiar blond head, the puppeteer admiring her own show.

  “You all right?” Graham asks, interrupting the memory. He reaches over and covers my hand with his, and I watch his golden tan against my pale skin, his thumb stroking my knuckles.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  Something steals over the café then, a sense of focused urgency, and we follow the invisible tension to the television screens, displaying mirrored news updates and images of a dozen police vehicles, lights flashing, surrounded by a thick wall of trees. The banner text at the bottom reads: BREAKING NEWS—BODIES FOUND AT KILDUFF PARK.

  It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing. To recognize the s at the end of bodies, to understand the plural. Bodies. Then to not understand the plural.

  A stoic reporter faces the camera, wearing a somber black trench coat, her dark hair whipping into her eyes. “A horrifying discovery has been made at Kilduff Park,” she informs us, her tone grave. “Poli
ce have not released many details, but this is what we know so far. A body was found early yesterday morning by a visitor to the park. Police determined it was necessary to bring in cadaver dogs to search the area, and instead of finding remnants of the first body, they found another buried nearby. Shortly after, they found another. Then another. The total number is unconfirmed, but we’re hearing rumors that at least six bodies have been found buried here at Kilduff Park, though that number could be as high as thirteen. We’ll keep you posted.”

  Time stops. Everyone in the café gapes at the television, half-eaten sandwiches in hand. My astonishment is just as genuine but for an altogether different reason. I’ve known for a decade that Brampton had a serial killer. But I’ve only helped hide one body at Kilduff. The other twelve are news to me. My first instinct is to hurl up every bite of soup and sandwich, but I’ve had a lifetime of experience hiding my feelings, and though it’s not easy I force deep breaths in through my mouth and out my nose until the nausea subsides.

  “Carrie?”

  I’m vaguely aware of the cool press of Graham’s fingers on my forehead, slick against my clammy skin.

  “I knew something was wrong,” he says, coming around to my side of the booth and sliding in next to me. “Maybe it’s the chowder.” He leans down to sniff the bowl. “I don’t know. Does that smell off to you? No, what am I— Here. Can you drink some water?”

  The feel of his thigh pressed against mine, the warmth of his body, the realness of him—it makes me even more sick than the images of yellow tape flapping against the tree line at Kilduff. The thought of Graham thinking back on this moment and understanding my reaction makes me feel more guilty than the reason itself.

  He pushes away the bowl of chowder and the small plate holding the crust of my sandwich, as though food is the issue. I play along, like it’s a bad reaction to the meal and not the news that my sister is a more prolific killer than I knew. Eventually I convince Graham I’m fine to return to work.

  “You’re sure?” he asks when he drops me off at the door.

  I get out of the car too fast, making myself dizzy. “Probably just the flu,” I lie, forcing a smile before I hurry inside.

  Weston is typically a quiet office. When you come in, people offer a polite smile, and Good mornings are exchanged if you’re at the watercooler or coffeemaker at the same time, but otherwise, we’re acquaintances, not friends. When I return, however, it’s more like a gaggle of schoolkids gossiping at their lockers than a workplace. Even Troy has ventured from the safety of his office to join the group.

  They look over when I step off the elevator, and I stumble to a halt. Rudy from Accounting, Gene from Concepts, Laverne from Promotions. I’m expecting the crowd to part and a SWAT team to converge, guns pointed at my head, mean voices ordering me to lie on the floor, demanding to know what I did to Angelica.

  But none of that happens. They just stare at me, a sea of sad eyes and worried faces, and finally Troy remembers he’s supposed to be the boss and says, “Have you heard about Kilduff?”

  I nod stiffly.

  “Well, we don’t want to jump to conclusions, but we decided to report Angelica’s absence to the police. Just…in case.”

  Someone sniffles loudly, like the report confirms her death, and I force myself to nod again.

  “It’s too soon,” I say, like a good co-worker, holding out hope against all odds. “Maybe she’s just—” But I can’t finish the sentence. I may be a liar and an accomplice, but I’m not stupid, and I don’t want anyone repeating this to the police when they inevitably speak to us and learn that Angelica and I were up for the same promotion. It takes a concerted effort not to glance at that empty corner office, its walls bare, one waiting for the new painting I have tucked away in my closet, bought for a day I thought would come about much sooner and differently than this.

  Troy clears his throat. “Right,” he says. “Right. Well, we don’t know anything for sure. This is all probably a misunderstanding. Let’s carry on with our day as best we can, and maybe she’ll stroll in and say she forgot to mention her vacation, and she was…out of town.”

  Last year, Troy was passed over for the position of office fire marshal because he couldn’t be reliably trusted to lead everyone to safety during a fire drill, but all eyes are on him now. Everyone wants someone to follow, and it’s better for me if that someone is Troy, because then I can pretend to do the same. Then I’m just one of the sheep, blending into the slow, hapless flock.

  * * *

  The detectives show up near the end of the day. I’m in the small kitchen at the back of the office, preparing a cup of tea, when the low murmur of office work is replaced by a vacuum of silence. This is the opposite of how I imagined them arriving in the endless, looping reel of possible scenarios for my arrest. I pictured doors exploding open, flash bombs and smoke grenades, big guns and bigger screams. But the reality, I discover, when I peek my head out of the kitchen and peer toward the elevator, is just two people in winter coats with badges clipped to their hips, speaking to Troy in voices too low for me to hear.

  There’s a shorter white woman with her hair twisted into a knot, her expression grim, and a taller black man, his expression less easy to read. Her posture is tense; his is relaxed. She’s talking; he’s quiet. Troy can’t decide who to look at.

  I jump back into the kitchen, heart pounding, and pour hot water into my waiting mug. I tell myself to stop thinking about Angelica, though thinking about her is probably the most normal thing to be doing right now. All morning there’s been a tension in the office, like when the humidity builds outside and a thunderstorm is around the corner, ready to correct the imbalance in the atmosphere. We’re divided between two worlds, one in which Angelica is alive and one in which she is not. Only three people in this office know which world we live in now.

  “Carrie?”

  Troy’s voice makes me jump. The tea bag I’m holding flies out of my hands and skitters across the floor. I scrabble on my knees to collect it, my voice too high. “Yes?”

  “Could you come out here, please? There’s someone who needs to speak with you.” His voice gets louder as they approach.

  I snatch up the tea bag and straighten as Troy and the male detective appear in the doorway. I know I look as awkward as I feel as I frantically smooth my bunched skirt, sweat sticking stray curls to my temples.

  “Sorry,” I manage. “I dropped—”

  The detective speaks first. “That’s okay,” he says, his voice low and relaxed. “We just need a few minutes.”

  I abandon the tea and follow Troy and the detective to the office that is supposed to be mine. I’m vaguely aware of the female detective leading Gene from Concepts into Troy’s office and closing the door. I can’t think of any particular reason for them to speak to Gene, but it makes sense they’d speak to everybody. It makes sense that I’m just a box on a checklist, waiting to be marked off. I try to find comfort in this fact, but I don’t.

  The detective pauses at the door and gestures me in first. Troy mumbles something to excuse himself, though without the refuge of his office, he has nowhere to go and nothing to do, and the detective ignores him anyway.

  The room is about ten by ten with a desk tucked into the corner and an empty bookshelf on the wall near the door. The fourth wall is floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the entire office, and with the blinds open, it’s impossible not to feel every eye on me.

  There are two seating options, the leather desk chair and a metal chair someone brought in from the smoking area out back, arranging them across from each other. I hesitate and the detective makes the choice for me, settling into the desk chair and linking his hands over his knees, leaning forward like a friend or a therapist, ready to listen.

  I take the other seat, the October chill still clinging to the metal, one leg shorter than the others so I’m immediately off kilter. I tip forward, leaning more into the detective, and then scuttle backward, the chair grunting over the carpet.


  “You all right?” the detective asks. He wears a heavy black leather jacket with trim along the collar and dark, well-worn jeans with work boots. He looks to be in his mid-forties, with kind, tired eyes and a reserved smile. I wonder fleetingly why he’s talking to me and not Gene. If they’ve mismatched the genders on purpose.

  “Yes,” I say, though it’s far from true.

  “I’m Detective Greaves.” He offers something that might be a smile. “Marlon Greaves. Do you know why I’m here?”

  I open my mouth to say no and then think better of it. “Our co-worker,” I say. “Angelica. She didn’t come to work. Troy said he reported her missing.”

  Greaves nods. “That’s right. He did. But she’s not missing. I’m sorry to tell you she’s dead.”

  Even though I’ve known this all along, far longer than Detective Greaves, my stupid, stunned expression is entirely genuine. This is the first time I’ve ever been told someone I know is dead, the first time I’ve ever heard someone else talk about Becca’s misdeeds. And it finally feels real.

  “D-dead?” I stammer. “Like…” I don’t finish. There’s no other way to be dead. She just is. Plowed into by Becca’s car and then wrapped in a murder carpet and buried at the park.

  “Have you been watching the news?” Greaves asks. “Kilduff Park?”

  I nod.

  “Angelica’s body is the one found yesterday morning.”

  My mouth opens and closes uselessly. Because again, though I knew she was there, she was buried. We buried her. The news report said a body was found and others discovered. I assumed Angelica was one of the discoveries, not the original.

  “We wanted to talk to her co-workers,” Greaves continues, “to get an idea of her activities before she disappeared, her attitude, her behavior. Any plans she may have had. People in her life.”

  My palms are sweating so badly I have to fight the urge to wipe them on my skirt. “I-I barely knew her. I mean, we worked together, but not closely. We’re not a close office.”

  “Your manager gave us your name when we asked who Angelica was closest to here.”