Page 3 of Crawl
This time, Remedy says nothing. I press my eye to the hole, but the desk is all I have. The nail polish stains. An empty water bottle. A peel of an orange.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” the friend stammers.
This time, Remedy walks past the peephole, and I catch a glimpse of her hand—black nail polish, always chipped, her fingers clutched around the other arm like she’s holding herself.
“I have to do this,” Remedy says. “Or I won’t forgive myself.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“I’ve dealt with people like him before.”
“Brody was still your family. Winstone isn’t. He can really hurt you, Remmie.”
“I’m not going to let anyone get away with it again.”
There’s a boisterousness in those words that silences the both of them, an emphatic declaration that Remedy knows what she wants. The friend groans, but Remedy doesn’t offer anything to placate her. She’s not going to give up on this. I like that.
“You have to be careful,” the friend says.
“I will.”
“You’re doing this alone. That means he’s got more power over you.”
“At least he’s not getting us at the same time,” Remedy chuckles.
“That would almost be better. I could distract him while you take him on.”
“Yeah, right!”
The two women laugh, and finally, I zone out. The conversation wanders into monotony, droning about work, school, family, topics I care little about. I don’t understand the term ‘best friend,’ but with the way these two talk, I imagine this is what it is.
Eventually, the friend leaves, and Remedy sighs. She’s relieved, and I let out a breath too. The friend’s voice is like shredding eardrums on a cheese grater. The lock shudders in the front of the house, the bedroom door slams shut, and then the computer chair squeaks with Remedy’s weight. The keyboard clicks. She’s using her laptop, then. I check the phone app, switching to the mirrored screen. She flips through the usual social media pages, even searching for the Winstone Estate and Mr. Winstone himself.
She hovers over an old headline:Cassius Winstone, owner and CEO of The Winstone Company, reclusive developer of the Southeastern United States, discusses his new projects in Key West.
At least they got the ‘reclusive’ part right.
Her phone pings, and as she checks it, I switch to the webcam view, her hand resting on the keyboard, her eyes on her phone in her lap. She smiles, then gets up, walking out of the room. The plumbing shudders through the house like an old machine stumbling to wake up. She must be starting a shower. Usually, I prefer to wait until the residents are sleeping to leave, but this is my queue. I take long, careful side steps through the wall cavity. With the gradual, stroking movements of my chest and legs against the inner walls, it’s less likely that she’ll hear anything, especially with the shower running. Once I bend into the crawl space, I emerge from the floor hatch. I brush my hands over my clothes, wiping off the dust from inside the cavity, then exit out the back door. She never hears it.
I relax behind the wheel of my truck. The pale moon breaks up the bright blue sky, and I nod my head at the tourists on the sidewalk: drunk, comfortable, completely unaware. A few police officers roam beside them, more than usual especially during the day, but the civilians seem fearless. A gruesome murder like the Key West Killer’s victims won’t keep them from enjoying their afternoons out. They hold on to the belief that it’ll never happen to them.
A woman in a red lace leotard and a thin sweater skips in front of one of the spring breaker bars, bumpy winter goosebumps covering her thighs. My mind wanders to Remedy. The tattoos of lace on her chest, dipping between her legs, like she can never truly be bare again. The way she answered the phone call from her agency was amusing, so formal and polite, like she’s completely trustworthy, not a deviant who yanks off toothed clamps from her nipples to get off. No. To everyone else, she’s Remedy, the angel willing to take a job working for a man who had committedterriblecrimes against her best friend. She’s doing it to protect her friend and the rest of the world from him.
Queue applause. This, my friends, is Remedy Basset.
Inside Mike’s Home Supply, the closest hardware store in the area, the cashier bows his head, shrinking behind his shoulders, like a dog that’s been kicked too many times, but he’s not as innocent as he looks. I click my teeth at him, making sure he knows I see him. The owner emerges from the back.
“What’re you doing back here already?” he asks. “You still working?”
“I was one batt of fiberglass short. You got any?”
“Twenty-three by ninety-three?”
That’s the one. I nod. “Same rate as yesterday?”
“I’ll send it upfront.”
I wander for a moment, always keeping myself in view of the cashier. I want to cut off his fingers, just to see his expression when he realizes that every suspicion he has about me is true. But if I kill him, then I won’t be able to see him squirm.
