“Absolutely. But I feel very bad.”
OK…that doesn’t quite tally with “it’s my fault,” but he’s grieving and has had quite a bit of wine…
“So, the theory is still that a stranger murdered them? And it had nothing to do with my message about Aimee and Warren?” Yes, I am absolutely putting words in his mouth now, but I also need this to be true.
“That’s it: it has nothing to do with you.” He reaches across the table and rests his fingers on mine, then pulls away as though he’s remembered that we don’t know one another very well.
But the gesture is touching. And an hour later, when I slip into bed, I can still feel the imprint.
65
Venetia
Thursday
There are many ways you can get at people who’ve done you wrong, Venetia knows.
You can spread rumors about them.
You can target them online.
If they have a business, give them a one-star review. Make up a whole host of accounts and give them lots of one-star reviews.
You can send an anonymous note to their boss or their boyfriend.
You can smile at them when you see them, then for your own quiet satisfaction whisper “bitch” as they go past.
Venetia has done all these things. The girl who made her life a misery in sixth year is baffled by the negative reviews for her yoga studio. The man who fired her from her last bar job doesn’t know where the rumors of rodent infestation started. The customer who was rude last week is trying to convince his wife that he knows nothing about the woman on Facebook who keeps asking to meet again.
But all of that was before this. All of that was when Aimee was hereand life was good. Now it seems petty and trite. Now her rage is directed at one person only.
She makes her way up Susan O’Donnell’s driveway and slides a leaflet from her satchel into the letter box, pulling her baseball cap low over her face. Nobody ever questions leaflet drops. She’s often thought that, as she watches them make their way in and out of residential spaces, unopposed and undisturbed.
Once the leaflet is in the letter box, she moves away from the porch as though going back down the driveway. But she slips to the side, past the corrugated door of the garage and around to the side gate. She sticks her hand through the slats and slides the bolt. One of these days they’ll surely padlock it, but they haven’t yet. It’s Thursday morning and the husband has gone to work, even earlier than usual. There’s a man not interested in spending time with his wife and child, she thinks.
So it’s just Susan and the baby in the house.
The back garden is swathed in sunlight and the patio doors to the huge kitchen-dining space are closed this time, but unlocked. Nothing stirs from inside. Susan might be upstairs or in the living room, Venetia supposes. She steps into the kitchen. What will she do if Susan suddenly appears? She doesn’t know. But she also doesn’t care. She stands still to listen. From upstairs comes a sound. The hum of a vacuum cleaner. She pads quietly into the living room, her rubber-soled boots making no sound. And there it is. In a bassinet, wide awake and babbling. Venetia steps closer and stares down. The baby coos and smiles at her.
Oh, you can smile, she thinks. You don’t know what I can do to you. You don’t know who I am.
Venetia reaches into the crib and lifts up the baby. She holds it at arm’s length. It’s still smiling. She squeezes it. Just a little. Not quite as much as she did on Monday, when her fingermarks branded its arm. Its face changes. Confusion. Like it doesn’t know humans can hurt it.
Venetia carries the baby to the kitchen and outside, then through the side passage to the front garden, keeping well out of sight of the doorbell camera.
Yes, she thinks, the baby hasn’t yet learned to fear humans.
That’s about to change.
66
Venetia
Last week
“Just go through the red light, for god’s sake, Felipe. It’s eleven o’clock at night, there’s nobody around.”
Felipe did as he was told. Venetia gripped the seatbelt with one hand and kept trying and retrying Aimee’s number with the other. No answer. Please let her be asleep. Please let her be OK. The last words Aimee had said kept coming back.
