Page 14 of Murder

I wipe my right forearm across my mouth and grab onto the partial wall between the toilet and the countertop. My throat and eyes ache. I squint and blink, then step over to one of the sinks to wash my hands and face.

No shirt, I notice as I blink into the mirror. I must have torn it off while I was dreaming. Sometimes I do that, thinking that there’s blood on me.

I look from the shower to the bedroom door. I dry my hands and face with a towel I find under the countertop, then I brush my teeth. Then, with one last look at the shower, I walk into the bedroom.

My gaze rolls over the bed and side tables. Nothing broken. That’s good. The first time I fell asleep at this place, right after I came in from trying out one of the bows I found in the gun cabinet, I shattered a porcelain lamp on one of the nightstands.

I look down to the floor beside the bed. All the covers are in a ball, including the blanket I was lying on. I don’t see my pillow at all. I look from the pallet to the bathroom door, trying to remember getting up.

I can’t. I never can.

I go to the dresser and pull open the top drawer. It’s the only one with any contents. The Haywoods left some clothes in their closet, but nothing in the dressers. I pull out a soft, thick, camo button-up my brother’s fiancé bought me. If it weren’t for her—a sweet, Georgia girl named Cleo, who insisted I needed some camo for my civvie wardrobe—I wouldn’t have anything to wear. All my shit is still in the apartment in Fort Bragg—a place I still pay rent for. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back in it.

A glance at one of the windows shows me it’s still mostly dark outside, but the sky has a tinge of color to it.

I peel my sweat-soaked boxer-briefs off, replacing them with clean ones despite the lack of shower, then tug on some dark pants and socks.

Only then do I let myself walk over to the window closest to the bathroom and sit slowly in the armchair I’ve dragged up to it.

I note two Red Bull cans on the floor against the baseboard. I don’t remember leaving them, but that’s not too surprising these days. I crunch them both and set them on the nightstand, in the blank space where the lamp sat. Then I lift my scope and bring it to my left eye.

Habit.

I tilt it down toward the trees and blink, trying to see the limbs and tree trunks, the pine needles, and the green rectangle my right eye sees so clearly, plain sight. My left eye sees nothing—a sheet of brown only a little lighter than the black I’d see if the eye was shut.

My fingers tighten on the scope. Dizziness peels through my head. I breathe. I move the scope to my right eye and peer down through the trees at her green roof. I can see half-squares of light through two of the windows, which are the size of Saltine crackers from the third story of this house.

My pulse quickens at the sight. I haven’t looked at my phone—knowing the time makes it pass more slowly—but with my pedigree, it’s almost impossible not to gauge the time from the sky. I’d put it at about 4:45. Maybe 5 a.m.

This is early for her.

I watch the patches of light bleeding through her windows. I watch the home’s front door until it opens. I watch her until the trees and morning fog engulf her. Then I rest my head against the window pane.

FIVE

GWENNA

In the dream, I’m in the bag room: this enormous room of Birkin bags, hundreds of $80,000 bags on shelves from floor to ceiling.

Unlike real life, I dream of being there alone - my body thin and taut, my hipbones sharp under my sheath dress, my coppery hair straight, chopped short to my chin. I’ve spent my hours with the hair and makeup team, and I’m aware, despite the absence of a mirror, that I look better than I have in all my life. Gone the pudgy little red-haired girl with big front teeth. Gone the awkward girl who curved her shoulders in and wished for winter all year ’round so she could cover up her moon white limbs.

I look like a bombshell, and I know it. It feels fucking good.

So now I need to choose a bag: my takeaway from the job, my gift for gracing Hermes with my face. I stand there, looking up at all the endless shelves, and giggle at the thought. I’m a model. How ridiculous - and how amazing.

Up, up, up the shelves rise. All around me. The shelves twist and separate until they’re more like giant stacks of cards. I still see the bags, the Birkin bags in all the colors.

“Pick a bag,” my own voice says.

I see the green, the color I DID pick, but I don’t reach for it. There are so many other colors. Whites, purples, browns and blacks. I could choose any bag, any bag of all these, and I don’t know which one to pick. I’m standing there, my legs cold in the chilly air blowing from the air vents done in bamboo like the smooth, slick floor. My dress flutters against my thighs. I smell the fresh, delicious scent of oiled, crocodile-skin bags.

I can see the snow. Not see it…sense it. I can feel the snow, the cold, cold snow. I choose a white bag and it disappears as soon as I start pulling it toward me.

I whirl around. What’s going on here? Am I dreaming?

I go for a purple bag with shaking fingers. Get it now and GO. Time is running out!

I grab the bag and hug it to my chest and then it’s gone. Black, brown, green: I grab them all and feel them slip away like ghosts. I try grabbing the green one two more times, aware that it’s the right bag, it’s the one I really chose. But I can’t hold onto it.

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