Page 88 of The Inmate
I grab the small bag containing the meager belongings I chanced bringing with me. It’s a few pairs of jeans, underwear, some shirts, Turtly, and that’s about it. If I took too much, the police might think I went on a trip instead of coming to the conclusion we want them to reach. I sling the bag on my shoulder and follow Caleb out of the car and up to the motel room.
The motel room has the same dingy look as the last place. Everything seems to be covered in a layer of grime. Not the kind of grime that will come off on your finger if you touch it—grime that’s built-in from years of overuse of already second-rate furniture. When Caleb flicks on the light, there’s even grime on the lampshade.
I scrutinize the bed. The thin blanket is brown, and when I yank it loose, the sheets underneath are a pale yellow color and the pillowcase isgray. Does anyone even make the slightest attempt to match the linen? I can’t even fathom pairing a gray pillowcase with yellow sheets.
He notices the expression on my face. “Sorry it’s not nicer.”
“It’s fine.” It is far from fine. There’s nothing I can do about the sheets, but I will spend all day tomorrow scrubbing this room until the level of grime becomes acceptable. “It’s good enough.”
“It’s only for a few days.”
Right. A few days and off to the next place, which will be exactly the same.
I pull off my wig and baseball cap, and then I spend a good minute scratching my scalp. That wig is awful. I should probably try to grow out my hair, but I hate having long hair. I hate the way my hair feels against my skin. “Can I have your phone?” I ask.
Caleb reaches into his pocket and pulls out his iPhone. He hands it over to me, and I immediately look up news updates. I’m searching for articles about Natalie. I want to know if there’s anything new in the case. My heart sinks when I discover an article announcing that police have “confirmed that the identity of the dead body found in Cohasset was not, in fact, Dawn Schiff.”
“They found out the body wasn’t me,” I say.
He doesn’t seem particularly concerned. “It was going to happen sooner or later.”
“Do you think Natalie will get out on bail?” I wonder aloud.
“I don’t know.”
“She probably will.” I put down the phone on the bed, face up. “I’m sure the judge will fall in love with her and go easy on her.”
Caleb snorts but doesn’t comment. I’m not sure what that means. I have asked him in a casual sort of way if he finds Natalie attractive—he did kiss her, after all—and he always reacted like I was being ridiculous. But sheisattractive. He would have to be blind not to see it.
I always wondered what his type is. I am not anyone’s type. I believe that he does love me, but it’s despite the way I look, rather than because of it. I don’t know what sorts of girls Caleb dated before he dated me. I wonder if he has a thing for blondes. Most men do.
If Mia were around, she could answer that question. She adored Caleb and knew absolutely everything about him. She used to constantly mention him casually in conversation, like to tell me the TV show we were watching was his favorite, or that he taught her to hide the icky lima beans from dinner under her pillow. At the time, I wasn’t terribly interested, but now I wish I had listened closer to the things she told me about him. I wish I had come to dinner that Thanksgiving night she invited me, when Caleb was home from college and had brought his girlfriend.
That girlfriend was long gone by the time Caleb and I got together, but I wonder what she was like. He liked her enough to bring her home for Thanksgiving. I wonder if, like Natalie, she had blond hair and blue eyes and no soul.
I lie back against the mostly flat pillows on the stiff motel mattress. “Do you think she could get sentenced to life in prison?”
Caleb rifles around in the backpack he brought with him. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
“Maybe or probably?”
“Probably.”
“But…” I shift on the uncomfortable mattress. “There’s no dead body. Do you think they can convict her without a dead body?”
“We looked it up. Prosecutors can convict someone if they have enough evidence to show that the victim has died. Like lack of communication problems, lack of recreational activity, bank activity, abandoning their home. And obviously, signs of a crime scene. We got all that going on.”
“Right, but it will be harder to convict her without a dead body.”
“Harder, but there’s a very good chance.”
“But there would be a better chance if there were a dead body.”
Caleb stops rifling around in his bag and looks up at me. “Dawn, it’s really starting to upset me that you keep talking about this. There’s no dead body because you’re still alive.”
“But—”
“There’s not going to be a dead body.Ever.”
