Now the car is clean. There’s a water bottle, mostly empty, in the cup holder, and a green pine tree air freshener. I’m thinking about getting a crystal cross from the Christian bookstore I saw in town. Crystals fill every space with pale little rainbows.
“I’m Dara.” The neighbor clips on her seat belt and gives me a coy smile. “Probably should have opened with that.”
Already, she interests me. Getting to know her routines and earn her trust won’t be a chore, I can tell. I’ve never had a female friend, apart from my sisters. Not even the pretend kind, like Dara will have to be.
“Jade,” I say, and put the car in reverse. “You might have to show me where Safeway is. I got lost last time.”
On the way to the store, she asks where I’m from and what brings me here. I give her the same story, and as I do, I listen for my phone. It’s almost nine, and it’s a Monday. Edison would be at work by now. He doesn’t have read receipts on his phone, and I’ll have to remedy that when I get my hands on it. Just a quick adjustment in the settings that he won’t notice on his end, but it will make all the difference for me.
Dara asks if she can roll down her window. The AC is too much and she likes the fresh air. I tell her sure. I’m easy—I can just go with it. Inside, my stomach is hot and anxious. Why hasn’t he texted back? I played everything perfectly. I asked questions, but not too many, and I answered all of his.What do you do for work? Oh, that sounds like a great way to meet people. Me? I want to be a musician. I’m thinking about setting up a YouTube but I’m afraid of putting myself out there, you know?
My phone pings. Dara checks her own phone to see if it’s for her, but it’s not, and she squints as the sunlight hits her face.
I have to force myself not to speed. I let Dara guide me through streets I am already familiar with, and I pretend that I’m interested in what she says. I should be paying attention, studying her, but all I can think about is that one lone text. It has to be from Edison. My sisters have burner phones, and my smartphone number isn’t programmed into them. We bought three identical flip phones, calling cards, no internet, paid in cash and for emergencies only.
The burner phones were a source of contention. The less technology, the better. But Iris insisted. She is also the one who insisted I do this mission alone, and I know she’s right. At twenty-five, unlike both my sisters, I’ve never dealt the fatal blow and I’m still a virgin. I’vehidden behind the cleanup and the research, and if Iris hadn’t been so damn demanding, it would be her turn again, not mine.
If I didn’t kill Edison, I wouldn’t be able to have him at all. That’s the rule. Sex is only for men we murder. No distractions. If I hadn’t been on the hunt in that diner, I wouldn’t have even seen him because I wouldn’t have been looking. The world and all its patrons have a muted sheen to me, like a city overtaken by early-morning fog. I’m never here for long, and no one matters beyond what I can make them do for me. Not even Dara—sweet, benevolent creature that she is. We’ll never be real friends. I’ll come in for wine and we’ll gossip about the neighbors, and I’ll get her to trust me. But she’s just like the frogs I caught in Elaine’s pond and put in little jars with wax paper and a rubber band on the top. I can’t keep her.
If Dara knew what I really am, she would be thankful for that.
We make it to the Safeway and split up at the door. She heads for the ATM by the bottle return and tells me to take my time. She’ll find me when she’s done.
I grab a cart, smiling sweetly at the teenage boy who has just finished rolling them in from the parking lot. As soon as I’m behind the cereal aisle, I slip my phone out of my purse.
The aurora borealis burns brightly in its twist of rainbow colors against the night sky, and superimposed over that is a text from Edison:
You shouldn’t give up on your dream, Jade.
Edison is the type who falls over himself to help people—I saw that at the church, the way he patiently fielded requests to repair a leaking pipe in the church basement and a running toilet at someone’s grandmother’s nursing home. If he tries to set up an online presencefor my music, I’ll have to come up with a creative way to say no without arousing suspicion or wounding him.
But none of that matters right now because he replied. He’s still here with me.
I move through the store in a haze that’s almost manic, biting my lip, throwing random boxes and bags into the cart.
It’s too soon to reply. Give it ten minutes.I’m busy, Edison, and my life doesn’t revolve around you.
Bruises are starting to form around my wrists. Little nebulas of pink and purple and blue, courtesy of Iris. I fight the anger that flares up. Iris and her temper, Iris and her moods. When we were kids, she would sneak up on Moody and me. Lock us in closets, hook an elbow around our necks, always getting us when we were absolutely alone. Walking home from the store or sleeping. She would demand that we fight back and she wouldn’t relent until we got in a good punch. Once, I jammed a hairpin up her nose to stop her strangling me. It was the only thing I had and I really thought I was going to die.
She fell back, hemorrhaging blood through her nostril, and there was pride burning in her eyes when she looked at me.
Without Iris, life would be a lot more peaceful, or Moody and I wouldn’t have survived this long. I’m not sure which.
From where I’m standing, I have a clear view down the aisle and between two cashiers at Dara. She extracts a huge wad of cash from the ATM, and then she holds it in one hand and stares at it.
It must be at least a thousand dollars. More than I would expect anyone from our apartment complex to just have at their disposal. After about a minute, she grabs an envelope from the service desk and stashes her money inside. She unzips a compartment inside her purse—notablynother wallet—and tucks it away.
Well. Miss Girl Next Door is full of surprises.
She meets me in the produce section and she helps me figure out which avocados are ripe enough to eat.
“So, you’re a musician,” she says. “What types of music?”
“I’m not any good,” I tell her with a self-deprecating laugh. I perfected this laugh in group homes and tested it thoroughly on my foster parents. It makes boys melt, but it puts girls at ease. “I just sing in church.”
“I bet you are good,” she counters. “I wish I were able to sing. Or do anything, really. I can’t even keep a job.”
While she’s distracted by the bin of tomatoes, I sneak a glance at her. I mistook her bubbly presence for confidence, but that was wrong. There’s a mask that keeps slipping, and I can’t quite figure her out.
