Look What You Made Me Do Page 6

  “Thanks for dinner.” I get up and open the dishwasher to add my plate and freeze. It’s a disaster inside. Five pots and nearly every utensil I own with massive amounts of gunk caked onto every item. At the bottom, shards of broken glass reflect the light. Glass Becca knows will jam the machine and force me to call a repairman, racking up hundreds of dollars in charges. Again.

  “What the hell is this?”

  She watches me over her wineglass, reveling in whatever havoc she hopes will follow. “I cleaned up,” she says simply.

  “How did you even use this many dishes?”

  She drinks every drop of wine in her glass. “I made you dinner,” she says, enunciating. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not grateful.”

  She stands, flicking the wineglass with the tips of her fingers so it slides to the edge of the small table, its base hanging half an inch over the edge. “No kidding,” she pouts. “You never are.”

  I turn my back on the performance. Giving Becca an audience is like giving a fire oxygen. It’ll just intensify things. I know she’ll linger if I start emptying the machine, trying to wring any perverse joy out of watching me clean up the latest mess she’s made, so instead I just add my plate to the scene in the dishwasher, close it, and open the cupboard for the box of cookies I’d stashed behind a package of scalloped potatoes. It’s still there.

  I’m rewarded with Becca’s tiny huff. She always takes whatever snacks she can find, eating everything or taking a bite from every cookie and leaving the wasted remains for me to throw away. There are two cookies left in the pack so I take one and bite into it, crumbs sticking to my lips. I throw the plastic sleeve into the garbage and use my nail to carefully separate the glued flaps at the bottom of the box so I can flatten it for recycling.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Becca mutters, stomping off toward the front door. “You’re just so— Ugh.”

  She’s the murderer, but I’m the problem.

  I say nothing, just wait as I hear the rustle of her putting on her coat and shoes—and probably stealing something of mine in the process—followed by the slam of the front door and an icy wash of October air floating down the hall. A spike of adrenaline rushes through me, making my head pound and my hands shake. I press them down on the counter, something sticky clinging to my palm. Even with Becca gone, traces of her linger everywhere. Her plate in the sink, her glass on the table. The slow cooker, the wine bottle, the mess in the dishwasher.

  “Fuck you, world,” I mutter, though the world is hardly to blame. My lower lip trembles, and my sinuses sting. I’m not upset about the fight. I’m frustrated. I hate her, and I can’t get rid of her. I can’t stop her. She just comes and comes and comes, and she never gets tired. Despite her complaints, she never gets bored. I’ve found ways to sidestep her intensity, but it mostly involves a calm facade that hides the simmering resentment underneath. These surges of adrenaline have no outlet except my shaking hands, clattering dishes together as I yank the mess out of the dishwasher to scrape clean and reorganize. I resent the energy I have to expend in not reacting to every one of Becca’s petty stabs at my sanity.

  I stalk into the living room to clean Becca’s mess there, too. She must have come over early in the day because the cereal has had time to absorb the leftover milk, the pink circles bloated and leaking, one clinging to the side, already crusty and hard. There’s an inch of beer left in the bottle, reeking of yeast, but the soda can’s empty, some brand I’ve never heard of with a bright-pink tab. Becca must have brought it over in the hope I’d take the hint and start buying them for her.

  I pause on my way back to the kitchen, turning slowly to look at the television tucked into the corner. I’d raced home, fully intending to plant myself on the couch and watch the news, but as always, my plans had taken a backseat to Becca’s. I balance the items in one hand and scoop up the remote with the other, pressing the POWER button. I flip to the local news, still reporting on the discovery at Kilduff. My mind flashes back to that moment in the forest, the movement in the trees. The pale glow of two dots catching the moonlight before flickering away.

  Another creak from upstairs has me yelping, dishes flying. The cereal bowl crashes at my feet, soggy loops staining my socks pink. The beer bottle manages to land upside down, murky liquid immediately sliding under the couch, courtesy of my sloping floors. My heart pounds so loudly I almost miss the next creak, quieter than the first, more careful.

  My eyes fly to the stairs that climb the wall in the front entry. They’re steep and narrow, the wooden rail shaky. It’s the only access to the second floor, leading straight down to the front door, the only exit point. If there’s someone upstairs, they’ll see me trying to flee and be close enough to stop me. The house technically has a back door, but it’s so warped from bad weather that it’s nearly impossible to open, and even harder to close. I haven’t unlocked it in over a year. Again I see those eyes in the trees and imagine them lurking at the top of the steps, watching and waiting.

  Another creak, this one familiar. It’s the third step from the top of the staircase, and it squeaks like a soul being sucked out of the earthly plane, such a teeth-aching squeal that I always avoid it. I grab one of my lamps, the one with a blue damask shade and a silver trim. I’d spent a fortune on the fabric, but it had been worth it. Its real value, however, is the heavy base. I yank it hard enough to pop the plug out of the socket. My foot slips in the mushy cereal, and I bang my elbow against the wall, advertising my location. I dart a look at the door. Ten feet. Three steps to the hall, around the half wall, five steps to the door. I locked it when I came in, but it’s just a dead bolt. Twist, yank, and I’ll be in the front yard. If there’s someone upstairs, they’ll have to—

  I run. My socked foot skids as I try to turn, and I smash into the side of the banister, my cheekbone banging hard against one of the spindles. I regain my balance and shove away from the wall, scrabbling for the bronze lock as heavy footsteps thud down the stairs at my back. A scream rips from my throat as my fingers slide uselessly around the metal. Then Becca’s cackling laugh pierces my terrified fog.

  I turn slowly, slumping against the door as she sprawls on the bottom steps and holds her stomach, laughing hysterically. I’m struggling to catch my breath, my heart in my throat, my knees so weak I’m only standing because I’m propped up.

  “Oh my God,” she gasps, pointing at me like a circus freak. “Your face! Your—your weapon. It looks like a—a—a penis.” She chortles, the sound shrill and grating, and swipes at the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  I find enough strength to straighten, pushing off the door and walking back to the living room with as much dignity as I can muster. My shoulders shake with rage, but that’s what Becca wants so I busy myself adjusting the lamp and swiping the mess of cereal back into the bowl.

  “Just get out, Becca.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” But she’s not.

  I grab a handful of tissues from the box on the ottoman and get on my knees to clean the spill from under the couch, spotting another one of Becca’s soda cans, its tab glinting in the light.

  “Why is this under the couch?” I demand, snatching it up.

  She shrugs, zipping her coat. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Of course not. You never know how things get ruined.”

  “Uh, yes, I do. You ruin them, remember? That’s why people called you No Fun Carrie.”

  “No one called me that.”

  “Well, they should’ve. Because you’re no fun.”

  “Very clever. Get out, Becca. You’re drunk. I hope you’re not driving.”

  “Why? Because I might hit someone?” She laughs again and reaches for the door. I watch her blond hair flounce, the leather of her jacket winking in the light.

  “You need to stop letting yourself into my house,” I hear myself say.

  She lets go of the doorknob and turns to face me, startled. “What? Why?”

&nbs
p; There are so many reasons, and she knows them all, and none of them matter. After a lifetime of experience trying and failing to win this war, the mere thought of it exhausts me.

  “I need to sleep,” I say instead. “Just go.”

  She takes her time adjusting her coat and fluffing her hair, trying to make me mad. I ignore her and scan the room for any more of the mess she’s left for me to clean.

  “Carrie,” she says.

  “What?”

  Her eyes are fastened on the muted television, the screen casting flickering shadows across her face. “Look.”

  I don’t want to fall for whatever stupid trick she has planned, but I glance over anyway.

  BRAMPTON SERIAL KILLER? reads the scrolling script at the bottom of the screen. They’ve gone to the newsroom now, two serious anchors frowning at the camera. I grab the remote and turn up the volume.

  “…gruesome discoveries at Kilduff Park,” the middle-aged male anchor is saying. “Thirteen bodies in total, one deposited there as recently as three days ago, some believed to have been there as long as five years. All of which is incredibly alarming on its own, but now an inside source has told Channel 6 News that all of the recovered bodies have had one foot severed. The investigation is still ongoing, but the signs are clear: Brampton is the hunting ground of a serial killer. Tune in to Channel 6 for continued updates.”

  I turn slowly to stare at Becca. Suddenly, amid the flickering light and the horrifying news, the monster I thought I knew is the sister I’ve always known. Becca’s expression is, ironically, now some semblance of human. Confusion, surprise, indignation.

  “What the fuck?” we whisper at the same time, for very different reasons. I’ve always made a point not to look at the bodies we hide, and Becca has never mentioned a creepy foot fetish. But I saw Angelica the other night. I saw her ankle with the tattoo, and though I was trying not to look, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if her other foot was missing. That, however, is not the worst part. The worst part is I thought Becca had killed thirteen people, not twenty-five. She’s impossibly more awful than I knew.

  “They,” she says, eyes locked on the television, a frown on her face, “are not talking about me.” This, for Becca, is the worst part.

  I assume she’s referring to the reporter suggesting that a very deranged individual has been frequenting the park, but still I say, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve only ever put one body in Kilduff, and she definitely had her fucking foot attached. That’s gross.”

  I cross my arms doubtfully. “You’re saying you didn’t kill the other twelve people they found?”

  “Not those twelve!”

  “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Becca’s not a good actress, but right now she’s quite genuinely irritated, like she’d always wondered what it would be like to have her crimes uncovered, and this wasn’t nearly as glamorous as what she’d envisioned.

  “Becca,” I say finally, neither willing nor able to believe the even worse alternative to this scenario, “if you’re not the one who put those bodies there, then who did?”

  She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “A serial killer, Carrie.”

  Chapter 3

  By Friday, the police have identified four more bodies. One is from Brampton, the others from surrounding towns and counties. And so far, with the exception of Angelica, they’re people who, if they were reported missing at all, were never really looked for: sex workers, homeless people, drug addicts.

  For perhaps the first time in history, the rest of the country—and many parts of the world—is interested in Brampton, Maine, population 45,509. And while crime buffs are already speculating on the likelihood of a serial killer stalking New England and using Kilduff as a dumping ground, many are busy pointing out that the “true” horror here is the people whose lives were considered so worthless that it’s only once dead that anyone bothered to remember them at all.

  I don’t care about any of this.

  What I care about is the fact that the odd person out in this whole situation is Angelica. Angelica, whom we buried, Becca swears, with both feet. People have already jumped on the fact that Angelica doesn’t fit the “pattern.” No one has asked if she happened to have been dumped in the park by a different person, but they’re certainly making waves that it’s the discovery of the body of a middle-class white woman that has prompted an investigation into the others.

  I don’t know what to believe anymore. My rational mind is certain Angelica had two feet when we dumped her in the shallow grave. My dreams tell me otherwise. That I saw the tattoo and ignored the shadowy stump next to it. That the carpet hadn’t unrolled fully, and I saw only what I was able to handle. And each time the sun rises and I wake, I’m more and more confused. I don’t want to believe Becca has done this. But I’d be a fool not to.

  Over breakfast, I read the article on the front page of the Brampton Chronicle. It’s more speculation and fearmongering than anything: Keep your doors locked, your children close. It will be awhile before they identify everyone, but so far the youngest body found was twenty-two at the time they disappeared, the oldest sixty-seven. Eight men, five women. A mix of races. The only thing they have in common is that they were all dressed in ill-fitting clothes, and they’re all down a foot. Nine right feet; four left. The only thing more horrifying than the story itself is the moniker the press has given the killer: Footloose.

  I put my cereal bowl in the dishwasher and finish my cold tea, collecting the recycling bin from under the sink before heading to the front door. Becca’s specialty soda cans sit on top, the logo a smug-looking elephant wearing a bowler that makes me grit my teeth. I haven’t seen Becca since Monday, and while I asked her to stay away and her absence should be a relief, it’s more suspicious than anything. She never respects boundaries. She also never recycles, which makes me even more suspicious.

  I pull on a pair of boots and carry the recycling bin down to the curb for pickup, my breath hanging in white gusts in the icy November air. Halloween has come and gone without much fanfare, parents unwilling to let their kids take candy from strangers while somebody’s burying bodies in the local park. I have three bags of mini chocolate bars sitting in the kitchen, chanting my name.

  I wave to Mr. Myer across the street, also bringing out his trash for collection, and trudge back up the walkway and around the side of the house. The brick-paved path is narrow and uneven, and I run my hand along the wood siding for balance as I walk, keeping my head down to watch my step. There’s a larger paved area at the back of the house for the trash cans, and in the colder months, the only reason I come back here is to bring them out front on collection day. The dead grass in the yard is gilded silver, the blades sticking up straight and twinkling in the early-morning sunshine. It’s the sunshine that makes the flattened patches of grass stand out stark among the others.

  Footprints.

  I stumble to a halt and gawk at them, trying to think of the weather over the past week, since the last time I was out here. They could be mine. Maybe I walked over the grass and it’s simply stayed so cold that the imprints remained. But I know I only walked on the paving stones, retrieving the garbage cans and dragging them up front. I don’t need to step on the grass. And these steps go past the trash and stop at the base of the stairs that lead to my decaying deck. Which accesses the back door.

  I glance around cautiously before stepping past the other prints and following them up to the deck. It’s gleaming with frost, already melting in the morning sunshine, but there’s no mistaking the dirty tread marks in front of the door, the one I haven’t been able to open in a year, its wood too warped and misshapen. From three feet away, the door appears the same as I remember it. Peeling white paint, tarnished brass knob, one of those cheap locks you twist from inside. It has no window, no peephole. A piece of wood trim is broken off, but it was always missing.

  There are no scratch marks around the lock, not
hing to suggest anyone tried to pick it. Even if they did, it would still be nearly impossible to dislodge the door, swollen and stuck as it is. Still, my breath comes shallow as I think about those eyes in the woods, the ones watching us bury Angelica. I reach out a trembling hand and grip the knob, freezing my fingers, and turn. It moves half an inch before the lock catches.

  My shoulders sag in relief and embarrassment. It’s locked. And coming around back, trying the handle and giving up, is the work of a lazy person. Which means it’s Becca, not some mysterious watcher.

  I step carefully off the sagging deck and retrace my steps, parallel to the others, like half a rainbow arching to the paving stones. The imprints left by my boots are considerably smaller than the first set, by at least two inches. Becca’s feet are bigger than mine, I remind myself. It’s one of the few things she didn’t have to lord over me when we were growing up. She was taller, thinner, had straighter teeth. And bigger feet.

  I drag the trash cans to the curb and park them next to the recycling, telling myself everything is fine. But my breath is coming faster, hanging in the air in desperate, heavy clouds, lingering like an omen.

  * * *

  The atmosphere at the office that day is subdued, as it has been since we got the news about Angelica. The detectives haven’t come by again, but I’m still too paranoid to relax. Fortunately, that paranoia only helps me blend in, since everyone in Brampton is now living in terror, glancing over their shoulders at every turn, double- and triple-checking their doors at night.

  I gaze past my computer monitor at the dark office in the corner. There’s been no word about the promotion, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I certainly can’t ask, not with Troy pacing uselessly back and forth in his own small office, like he might help solve the mystery if he just walks enough.

  From my seat, I can see a handful of other monitors, and hardly anyone is working. They’re reading every article, every forum, every word they can about serial killers and theories about who and what and why and how. Beyond having identified a few victims and confirming that they were found missing a foot, the police have released little more. No official cause of death. No word if the foot was severed before or after they died. No suggestion that Angelica’s death is being treated any differently than the others. The lack of information has created a vacuum, and the world is desperate to fill it with its own unhinged theories.