But had Elsie’s house looked like somewhere a killer would live? Who even knows what that looks like?
When Beverley came to Margot and Elsie with the first concrete lead they had since they’d started looking into the string of recent murders, Elsie was loath to believe it.
“Just because a man beats up his wife doesn’t make him a killer,” she argued. “She could be anyone, Bev.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” Beverley reached into her purse. “Then she gave me this.” Beverley opened her hand, and it took Elsie a few seconds to realize what she was looking at.
“That’s not…” Elsie bent to inspect the delicate bracelet inBeverley’s palm, the small silver letters attached to a fine chain. The initialsCJH.Cheryl Jean Herrera.
“Why would this man have Cheryl Herrera’s bracelet in his truck?”
Elsie paused, found she could not answer.
“Sharon said she found it by the brake pedal,” Beverley continued. “Maybe it ended up there during a struggle? Wehaveto take a look at him.”
“You don’t think we should be handing this to the police?” Elsie asked dubiously. But Bev told her that Sharon had begged her not to, that Hank had threatened to hurt her and the kids if she ever spoke to the cops about him.
Bev knocks, and a woman in a robe the color of baby powder answers. She looks tired, and Elsie thinks she can see the beginnings of a black eye forming above her cheekbone. Mascara has collected in the corners of her eyes, and her hair is dry, frizzy. Margot physically bristles beside her, and Elsie knows she is dying to brush out the woman’s hair, to pat some concealer on the bruise.
“Oh, ladies, thank you for coming.” Sharon’s voice is strangely childlike, and Elsie is reminded of a breathy Marilyn Monroe. “I can’t believe I look such a mess. I’m sorry. There just wasn’t time, and Hank would’ve got suspicious if I started dolling myself up before he left for work.” Her fingers flutter to her face, and Margot steps forward, onto the doormat. She always seems to find others’ vulnerability an embarrassment, something to be ignored, like a drunk in public.
Sharon steps aside to let them in.
The house is your average low-to-mid-income suburban three-bedroom, filled with the castoffs of everyday family life—dirty dishes in the sink, baseball mitts near the door, shoes scattered in the hallway. A magazine, open to the advice columns, is spread across the kitchen table.
Dear Wendy,Elsie imagines a letter saying,what should I do if I suspect my husband has murdered four women?
At the center of the table, a camera sits with a bunch of pack film gathered beside it.
“Peter’s latest hobby,” Sharon explains. “He’s got his heart set on film school.” Elsie eyes the camera curiously. It’s a Polaroid Automatic 100. She’s seen it in all the magazines—shiny, new, modern. She imagines Sharon and Hank working overtime at their jobs to gift their son such a thing. She feels guilt pass through her body like cramps. She had simply assumed Hank and Sharon couldn’t afford gifts.
Sharon apologizes for the state of the place as she shows them around, toying with the cord of her nightgown, pointing out parts of the walls that they haven’t got around to painting yet. She shows them the bedroom, and Elsie eyes the vanity, crammed with makeup. Wigs hang from the mirror; magazines are stacked up next to the bed—Reader’s Digest,Better Homes and Gardens.
They make their way back down the corridor, and Sharon indicates the two children’s bedrooms, on either side of the hall. “This is Jessica’s.” She pushes the door wide open. A young girl, maybe eight or nine years old, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, chin in her hands, an assortment of rainbow-haired troll dolls arranged in front of her.
“Jessie, say hi to the ladies,” Sharon orders sweetly.
The girl flashes them a smile worthy of a dentist’s commercial before returning to her plastic lineup.
They step across the corridor. Elsie is not quite sure why they have to meet the children—they’re here to talk about Sharon’s husband, not her kids—but people with children always like to wave them at strangers like trophies.
Sharon puts her ear to another door and knocks softly. “Peter?” She pushes it open and the light from the corridor spills into the room. The curtains are drawn, and there’s a boy, one of those almost-men Elsie knew in high school, stretched out on the bed. A distinctivesmell has burrowed its way into the soft furnishings: old gym clothes and adolescence. Elsie resists the urge to pinch her nose. The walls are papered in movie posters—a suave Sean Connery and a bikini-clad Ursula Andress forDr. No, neon-smeared blood drops across the face ofDracula, Lolita in her heart-shaped sunglasses. There are more baseball mitts and sneakers piled up by the closet. Sharon rushes over, quickly stashes them away. The thought of picking up after children has never appealed to Elsie. Cleaning a teenager’s room is about as tempting as a needle in the retina.
Peter huffs and turns over on the bed. “Mom, can you just get out?”
Nice to see he’s not doing anything to bust the teenage stereotypes,Elsie thinks.Peter raises a hand against the glare of the light from the hall. His palm is bandaged, Elsie notices, and she makes a mental note to ask Sharon about it later. Could Hank be harming his own children, too?
“Sorry, sweetheart. I just wanted the girls to see how handsome you are,” Sharon coos, in that way that only mothers can. She ushers them backward out of the room and closes the door.
Back in the kitchen, Sharon sets about making coffee. “Peter’s girlfriend broke up with him,” she explains as she fills the percolator. “It’s been months now, but he’s still spending a lot of time in bed. You girls know what it’s like, heartbreak.”
“Is Hank ever violent with the kids?” Elsie asks straight-out. Perhaps she should be more subtle, but it’s an important question, given the bandage on Peter’s hand. If Sharon’s suspicions are correct, and Hank’s aggression has escalated into murder, every member of this household is in danger.
“Peter can be protective of me.” Sharon’s eyes drop to the floor. “Boys of his age want to look after their moms, don’t they?” Elsie imagines the son squaring up to his father. Did they exchange blows? Has Peter been hurt in other ways?
“What about Jessica?” Margot asks.
Sharon shakes her head profusely. “He wouldneverharm her. She’s his little princess.”
