No One Will Miss Her(6)

She envied them. The young couple in the picture had no idea what they were in for. A horror beyond imagining, only she didn’t have to imagine it. It had happened, and in the few hours she’d slept, had seared itself on her memory in terrible, vivid detail. Last night . . . she had been in shock, she supposed, and so had he, on that long drive home. The two of them sitting in stunned silence as it all disappeared into the rearview: The town. The lake. The house, and everything in it.

The bodies.

The blood.

There had been so much blood.

But it was easy to feel, as the mile markers flashed by in the dark and the events of the night receded behind them, that it had all been a sort of bad dream. Even the mundane homecoming had that sense of being not entirely real. She had nosed the Mercedes into the alley behind the house, and all she could think was that they were almost home. She’d gripped the keys all the way to the door, white-knuckling them with her mouth pressed into a thin line, her husband standing grim beside her. They must have spoken at some point, if only to agree that further discussion was best left until morning, but all she remembered was silence. The two of them moving carefully down the darkened hall, finding their way to the bedroom, not even bothering to reach for a light switch. She had kicked her shoes away, unzipped the dress, stepped out of it and into bed. The last thing she remembered was gazing into the dark and thinking that she’d never fall asleep, that she couldn’t possibly.

But she had.

She couldn’t lie still anymore.

The cat gave her a reproachful look as she shifted her weight, leaping softly to the floor when she slid out from beneath the duvet. Beside her, her husband stirred. She paused.

“Are you awake?” she whispered. Softly. Testing.

His eyelids fluttered but remained shut.

She left him sleeping and left the room, arms crossed protectively over her bare breasts, following the cat out and down the hallway toward the kitchen. She flinched from the sunlight coming through the wall of windows. The place had a lovely view of the neighborhood, but God, it was bright. All that glass, miles of windows, the stone facades of the houses across the street blazing back at her in the sunshine. It was dazzling. Above the narrow streets, the sky stretched blue and cloudless.

The cat twined around her bare legs, meowing. Hungry. She would need to cancel the cat sitter.

“Okay, buddy,” she said softly. “Let’s find you some breakfast.”



She was sipping coffee at the countertop, wrapped in a sweater and tapping at a laptop, when her husband appeared at the end of the hall. She’d heard him get out of bed twenty minutes before, but the door had stayed shut; instead, there was a brief silence followed by the sound of running water. At first, she was stunned. Out of bed and into the shower, as if this were just an ordinary morning. As if there weren’t urgent conversations to be had. Then the surprise gave way to relief. There were worse things a man could do under the circumstances than adhere to his routine. It meant he was handling things.

He paused in the same place she had, gazing at the view through the wall of windows. He was wearing an old college sweatshirt, and he’d shaved. There were bits of toilet paper clinging to his face; one came free as she watched, coming to rest on the sweatshirt’s frayed neckline. She cleared her throat. Time to get down to business.

“Hi.”

He turned slowly at the sound of her voice. His eyes were red—from lack of sleep, she thought. She hoped. Surely he hadn’t been crying. She peered at him, but his facial expression was unreadable.

“Come on. There’s coffee.”

She pointed a polished finger at the cabinet beside the sink. He opened it as if in a daze, pulled out a mug, sat down beside her.

“I fucked up. I cut myself,” he said. His voice was gravelly. “It’s going to bleed all day long.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “You’re going to stay in today anyway. Out of sight. I don’t know how long we have. I made a few appointments and I’m leaving within the hour, to see how fast we can get some things together. All right?”

He set the mug down. “What’s going on?”

“They found her.”

All the color drained from his face.

“What about him?”

She shook her head, leaning forward to read aloud.

“We are seeking the public’s assistance in locating Ouellette’s husband, Dwayne Cleaves,” she said. “Anyone with information, blah, blah, blah. There’s a phone number to call. That’s it.”

“Shit. How? How could they even—”

“The fire at the junkyard,” she said, evenly. “The wind came up this morning. They must have gone around to evacuate. But it’ll be fine—”

He wasn’t listening. He shook his head, beating an open palm against the countertop.“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Dammit, why did you have to . . .”

He looked up, saw the look on her face, and decided not to finish the sentence.

“It’ll be fine. Do you understand? It’ll be fine. It is fine. They’ve got the right idea. Dwayne Cleaves killed his wife, and now he’s on the run.”

There was a long silence.

“They’re going to find him,” he said finally.

She nodded. “Eventually. Probably. But who knows when. You saw what I did. It could be a long time.”