Beverley rearranges her skirt yet again. Is she really going to do this? On live television?
“And that’s ten…”
She used to be good at this, flashing a Vaseline smile and gazing into the camera, feeling as if it were where she belonged.
“…nine, eight, seven…”
They could fill her slot with news about something else—Labor Day telethons, that newStar Trekshow, nuclear tests in Kazakhstan…
“…three, two…”The camera operator holds up one silent finger, and Charles Marston erupts into life.
“Welcome back toThe California Dayon this bright, sunny September morning. Jeez, it’s hot out there, isn’t it, folks? Hot enough to fry an egg. Hotenough”—he pauses briefly—“for the Heatwave Killer to strike.”
There is a loud ringing in Beverley’s skull.
“If that moniker sounds familiar, that’s because it was the nickname given to Henry Lightfoot, the Bay Area air-conditioning salesman turned killer who snuck into young women’s houses through open windows and back doors.”
It sounds as if he is talking about a stranger, the plot of a movie. That is not life; that is surely not Beverley’s life.
“Five years ago, after taking the lives of seven victims, he was captured by police.” She thinks of the pink visiting room, the reek of bleach, Henry’s crocodile smile.I’m getting married.
Beverley senses eyes on her—not just those in the room, but a million pairs of eyes watching her from kitchens and living room sofas. What must the audience think of her? That she’s crass? Pitiful? Evil? Stiffly, she smooths down her skirt again and tugs at the hem. She wants to cover every inch of her skin, to disappear into the seat cushions, pretend she never agreed to do this.
“And with us today, marking the anniversary of her husband’s conviction, is Beverley Lightfoot, the wife of Henry Lightfoot, the Heatwave Killer. Beverley, thank you so much for joining us in the studio. I know this can’t be an easy thing to talk about.”
“Ex-wife,” Beverley says quickly. “Thank you for having me.”It’s a privilege? An honor?“It’s a pleasure to be here.”Shit. No, not pleasure.Anythingbut pleasure.
Charles raises his eyebrows, continues. “Tell us, how did you feel when you first discovered that your husband, Henry Lightfoot, was the Heatwave Killer?”
Like she wanted to hack off her own ears so she wouldn’t have to hear what he had done. Like she could grab a knife from the kitchen counter and slice his neck open. “Well, I felt shock,” she says quietly. “Horror. Disbelief.”
“You had no inkling at all that he was out there at night, murdering young women in their homes?” She recognizes his tone, the undercurrent of judgment.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “None at all.”
“He never showed signs of it in the house? Never harmed you?”
She feels a sticky heat creep up to her chin.
“What about the children? You had children together, right?” He checks his notes. “Benjamin and…”
“Audrey. Henryneverharmed the children.”
“Don’t you worry that they might turn out like him? Little Benjamin in particular?”
The space is stifling. This isn’t what she had agreed to talk about—not the kids. She wanted to protect them from things like this.
“I never really…”
“Do you think there was something in the home that caused him to do what he did, to flip?”
“Flip?”
“With these guys, there must be something that makes them just…explode.” He opens his fingers like a detonating bomb. Beverley remembers Margot doing just the same. “Can you explain that for our viewers, the role that family, surrounding loved ones, can play in enabling these crimes?”
She looks around the studio. A dozen cameras are on her, blurred faces muttering to one another, making notes, choosing the best frames. No one is telling Charles that what he’s saying, what he’s suggesting, might be wrong.
“I don’t really know about that,” she manages to stammer out. “We were all shocked by what happened.”
