My knee bobs up and down. “Maybe I can come back when I’m…” I falter. “Rested.”
She presses her lips into a line. “We’ll see, shall we?”
She stands up, and I know it’s time to leave. But if I’m about to be fired, then I have to know one thing before I go. I stay in my seat, and she hovers above me, impatient and disapproving.
“The cleaner,” I begin, and she raises an eyebrow. “Jeff Johnson’s cousin…” I don’t know how to put this delicately, and her stare is making me nervous. So, I just blurt it out. “Was he fired for making copies of the office keys?” I lick my lips, thinking about the note in the attic. “And maybe house keys too?”
But she’s already shaking her head. The little heart pendant glints, and something about it makes me nervous.
“Why was he fired, then?” I ask bluntly.
She sighs impatiently, gives me an annoyed look like she’s completely done with me. “I can’t answer that, Sarah.”
I stumble to my feet, open my mouth to ask more questions, but she’s already ushering me out.
“You take care now,” she says, distracted, and closes the door in my face.
—
I don’t remember driving home. But I do remember sitting in my car, staring up at Black Wood like I was in a trance, my seatbelt strapped firmly across my chest.
Fired. I’ve been fired.
For the first time in a long while, I thought of my mother. She worked odd jobs throughout my childhood. House cleaner. Kitchen hand. Grocery store clerk. She hated them all, and when she got the sack, she used to celebrate. But I don’t feel like celebrating.
I slump in my seat, eyes on the blackwood tree. A cockatoo shrieks on a bony branch.
My mother died two years ago, an overdose. She was forty-six, far too young. I don’t know where my dad is. He’s dead to me, and I to him. I have no family but Joe and my cat. I hang my head, press my forehead to the steering wheel.
What have I done? What have I fucking done?
If I could take it all back, I would. God, I would.
I look down at my left arm resting on my thigh. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel my arm. I shriek so loud the cockatoos in the blackwood tree stare. My breathing is frantic. I bring my hand up to my mouth and bite down hard. Bones. I can feel bones under my teeth. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.
I take my hand out of my mouth, place it in my lap. Help. I need help. Reflexively, I grab my phone with my right hand, open Instagram, and hatefully scroll through. Look at all these shiny, pretty people on my feed.
Now look at me, breathless and frantic andfired.
I start a new post. I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying.
Gloomy day here at Black Wood House!! But just because the sun isn’t shining doesn’t mean it isn’t there! #bestrong #murderhouse
I hit post and wait for people to comment and like and fill my hollow arms with flesh.
Come on. Come on.
Heal me. Fill me. Orfucking kill me.
Nothing.
No likes. No love.
Fuck.
I undo my seatbelt and fling the car door open. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do for the rest of the day. And for all the days to come. I hadn’t anticipated being suddenly unemployed. But I shove that thought away too.
Dazed, I open the front door and freeze.
