“I have a message for the women of California.” This is what she practiced in the mirror. “The wives and the sisters and the girlfriends.”
Charles shifts on the couch. The producers share nervous glances.
“Be aware of who is out there on the streets.”
Charles nods, relieved, begins to turn back to the camera to start his mongoose segment again.
“And in your homes.”
Charles stiffens.
“Women are getting hurt.” Roger will be enraged if she reveals specific details of the case, but she cannot get into trouble for saying what has always been true, that women are not safe.
“Keep your doors locked and bolted,” she continues, staring straight down the lens. “Shut your windows at night, no matter how hot it gets outside. And keep an eye on the men in your life.”
Charles clears his throat beside her, but the camera does not move; it stays trained on her face.
“Watch your husbands, brothers and sons,” she continues. “Even if he seems like an honorable man, is he acting differently? Is he cold, detached, prone to volatile mood swings or outbursts? Is he spending more time out of the house than normal? Have you found evidence of sexual digressions, perversions? Do you catch him making excuses? Is he tired, injured, secretive?”
“Hold on one moment there, Mrs. Lightfoot,” Charles finally interrupts her. “Are you saying women need to be afraid ofallmen?” He barks out a laugh. “Because that doesn’t really seem fair. Am I right?” He opens his arms and makes a show of looking around the studio for backup.
“Of course not,” Beverley stammers. “I just mean—”
“Santa Claus?” he taunts. “He’s a man. Should we fearGodbecause he is male? The Easter Bunny—anyone have tabs on him?”
The camera moves from Beverley back to Charles, and she knows she’s blown it.
She wants to grab the lens and jolt it back to her, to tell California that thereissomeone out there on a spree, killing women. She wants to tell them about the arrow, the tattooed knuckles, the designer coatand suspender stockings—all the shocking, strange details. But she has ruined her chance.
She is numb as staff swarm around her, removing her microphone and leading her through dark corridors and eventually out into the blinding California sun.
“Good luck, Mrs. Lightfoot,” a runner calls grimly as he turns and closes the studio doors, leaving Beverley alone on the stark, bright street.
Four weeks missing
I will dance tothe Beatles on the radio.
I will eat an apple, the skin removed in one single curl, like my father taught me.
I will wear comfortable slippers, stretch my toes out inside them.
I will browse the aisles at the grocery store, leave with only a bunch of grapes, a copy ofVogueand a bottle of cold champagne.
I will pet a dog.
I will take a vacation.
I will swim in the ocean, submerge my head, blow bubbles under the water, splutter from the salt.
I will smell a baby’s head.
I will brush my hair in front of the mirror.
I will bake a cake, run my fingers around the bottom of the bowl, lick off the frosting.
I will wear fresh underwear.
I will move my body freely, feel the sun on my face.
