Ana #2
“Try explaining that to the police,” I tell her. “I’m sure they’ll keep an open mind about your voodoo dolls.”
Noah makes an unhappy noise. I put my hand on his crown, rub his downy head. I think it comforts us both.
“You keep your mouth shut, Ana,” says April. “Those are the rules of The Cove. If you think I’ve done something wrong, you
bring it to Lisander. We don’t speak to outsiders.”
“Tell that to Regina Hayes. She is running off at the mouth about witches.”
“She knows nothing about The Cove,” says April.
“Enough to tell the police about it.”
“She’s not one of us,” says April. “She wanted to be, but Lisander denied her. She doesn’t have the lineage, hasn’t been taught
The Knowledge.”
I keep flashing on the image from martini night that Detective Bandeau showed us. I barely remember it, truly. Regina and
Amanda were there, clearly. But if I met either of them, they faded from my memory. Is it my fault that I don’t find most
people memorable?
Anyway, those groups get big; many cocktails are consumed. It was true what I said—that people bring friends and co-workers,
not necessarily connected to the group.
Iggy had just started the job I helped her get. She had a bunch of normie friends that I never bothered to know. I vaguely
remember Jessie, but only because Iggy brought her up when she warned me to stay away from Paul.
In my digging around last night, I made the connection. Jessie was the one who claimed that he drugged her, signed the NDA,
went to work for Esme.
Paul said Jessie was unstable, that she threw herself at him and he rejected her. Jessie was angry about it, looking for revenge.
How can you believe that, Ana? Women have to support women, Iggy said, incredulous when I stood up for Paul during the talk we had about him.
I should have listened to her. She was trying to protect me. But I didn’t listen to her because yeah, I was a little mad about Brock. And I was a little obsessed with Paul. And I’m an idiot.
But now I’m thinking—what about Jessie? If she was still holding a grudge, maybe I need to pay her a visit. From what I remember about her, she was meek and petite. Killing someone takes guts, determination. I just can’t see her womaning up to commit murder.
“Ana, are you even listening?” says April, startling me. “I said that Regina fancies herself a practicing Wiccan.”
“So maybe it was her,” I say, just tossing it out there. “She killed her brother, and is now bitter that she was rejected
by The Cove so she’s trying to destroy that, too, by telling the police about it.”
That makes more sense to me. Now, Regina is a woman I can see doing the deed. She’s filled with rage; it comes off her in
waves.
April considers, turning back to her dolls, tidying dresses and flattening yarn hair. “She was angry with the council. Very angry.”
“Okay,” I say.
This is really working for me. Regina kills Paul. Since she knew about The Cove, maybe she knew about Agnes’s garden, about
The Kitchen. Somehow she gained access to the recipes and the materials to end her brother. Then she started blaming me and
The Cove, getting revenge on the group that rejected her.
I posit this theory to April.
“But she wasn’t at the brunch,” says April, petting her Iggy doll. “And what reason would she have to harm Iggy?”
“Maybe the two things are not connected.”
She squints at me, like I’m not making any sense. But maybe that’s right. Two separate crimes not related.
“I don’t know,” I admit, wrapping my arms around squirmy Noah. He’s fussing with more enthusiasm now.
“The only person I can think of that would have reason to harm Amanda, Paul, and Iggy was you. Paul was a toxic narcissist. He cheated on you; you took your revenge on him and maybe his new girlfriend, too. Maybe somewhere along the line you realized that you’d made a mistake leaving Brock.
So, you got Iggy out of the picture. And now .
. .” She stops, coming closer to pet Noah on the head. “You’re moving into her place.”
“No,” I say, my voice just a rasp.
“And I think a lot of other people see it that way. Including the police. Including your own sister.”
The space is closing in on me. I’m starting to see how magnificently fucked I really am. I back up, knock over a box of tarot
cards, look down to see the Hanged Man. Oh that’s just great.
I keep moving, don’t bother to pick it up.
I expect April to follow, but she doesn’t, just stays rooted where she is in the dim light, becoming darker as I move away,
the light from the door casting her shadow large on the wall behind. Not a little mouse after all, it seems.
In the parking lot, I keep looking back at the store as I strap Noah in, expecting her or maybe Bree and Camille, Lisander’s
enforcers, to come running out after me. The baby is fully squalling now, turning red with angry hunger.
I climb in the car, and drive quickly; Iggy and Brock’s place is not far. But with the kid screaming and my heart pounding,
the drive seems like an eternity.
My mind is reeling—those images of Paul in his grave, the voodoo doll, Detective Bandeau and our bathroom assignation, my
reflection in the cracked mirror over the porcelain sink, April’s weird eyes, the last time I saw Paul, how ugly it was. Reflexively,
I rub at my arm. It doesn’t hurt anymore; the big purple fingerprint bruises have faded to a very faint ugly yellow brown.
I turn onto Iggy’s street and am comforted by the normie nature of it. It’s peaceful, houses neat and tidy.
The afternoon is growing ever dimmer as I take Noah from the car and bring him inside, looking around me for anyone who might
be watching. A neighbor. The police. Someone from The Cove. But there’s no one, just some kids playing tag in the yard across
the street.
Inside, I mix the formula since the breast milk is all gone now, and warm the bottle with the kid still wailing. Finally, when I take him upstairs, sit, and give him his meal, he quiets and starts sucking immediately.
I sit in the rocker in his nursery, pushing us back and forth. I can’t slow the beating of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I say to a smiling image of Iggy in a frame by the rocker. It’s a photo of her, Brock, and baby Noah on the day
he came into the world. She was so happy that day. I remember not understanding her joy, only that her love was directed at
Noah and Brock, and not me. Ana doesn’t like it when other people find happiness. That’s not true. Is it?
“I’m sorry I’ve been a shitty friend.”
I rise and put Noah in his crib. He’s already sound asleep. I dim the lights and leave him peaceful, breathing deep.
My phone pings. We seriously need to talk. You can’t keep ignoring me.
He’s been texting me since the station. But I haven’t answered.
I have a loose theory, I thumb back.
I’m listening.
Can I trust him? Probably not. Definitely not. Once again, I leave him hanging.
Down in the kitchen, I get on Iggy’s laptop, start casting about for new information on Paul and the investigation.
But the news items are just repeats of what I already know, except now they’re calling it murder. Headline: Local Entrepreneur and Philanthropist Murdered. Not: Local Abuser of Women, Cheater, and All-Around Asshole Got What He Deserved.
Victor said that they didn’t have anything, no leads, no real suspects, and it looks like he was right.
My Regina theory makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?
I enter her name in the search bar but there’s nothing, just some features on her art, which admittedly is impressive, her gallery, her thriving online business.
There is an image of her dressed in gauzy black, eyes thickly lined, some Halloween bonfire rave she threw after a show opening.
It takes more than dancing around in the woods all dressed in black to call yourself a witch.
Anyway, I wonder how long it will be before Regina goes to the media with her theories. And what that will mean for me and
all of us. There’s a vein throbbing in my throat, a roil in my stomach.
My thoughts turn again to the (annoyingly hot) detective, and I enter his name now into the search bar. In spite of our previous
hookups, I don’t know much about him. I know he stares you right in the eye, that he’s physically strong, that he doesn’t
hesitate to take what he wants, but in a weirdly respectful way.
It’s interesting how he presents squeaky clean in his life as a cop. But there’s a shadow. There’s always a shadow.
Decorated officer. John Jay College graduate. Master’s in criminal psychology. Youngest detective in Little Valley. Volunteers
his time at the local youth center where he teaches boxing to troubled teens.
I click, click, click through articles.
Oh, interesting. He learned to box at the same place, a troubled teen himself. His mother died when he was young. His father
was in and out of jail. Raised by his aunt?
Okay, wow, we have lots in common. This place taught me to channel my anger in a constructive way, in a confined space, he told a Little Valley Beacon reporter.
It taught me to control and manage my darkest impulses. I try to teach what I learned here now.
My darkest impulses. Huh.
I keep scrolling. I’m about to give up when finally, I see something that brings me up short.
A picture of Detective Bandeau with Paul at the youth center.
Paul has his arm around Timothy, is holding his signature big check, donating money.
Paul loved those pictures of himself handing out money.
It’s a huge tax break and I’m a hero for a couple grand.
He was not a person who ever considered an anonymous donation.
Had to have the ribbon, the big scissors, the big check, the
wide smile, and the press coverage.
And there’s our Detective Bandeau, taking the money from Paul.
It’s an older article, from before I met Paul, before he got fired for being a disgusting lech and a psychological abuser.
I met him after he had “done his work,” and was a “better man.”
Still, they knew each other.
Another thing the detective failed to mention.
I thumb out a message, attach the article. You knew Paul?
The little dots pulse.
Then, I wouldn’t say I knew him, exactly. We were acquainted.
You never mentioned that.
I don’t have to tell you things. That’s not how it works.
Do you really think I killed him?
I think maybe you could have if you wanted to.
You don’t know me.
I’m starting to.
A noise from the hallway sends an electric shock through my system. The detective forgotten, I grab a knife from the block
on the kitchen counter. A woman must always be ready to defend herself, psychologically and physically.
I move quietly toward the direction of the sound. The afternoon is fading fast, house dim without the lights on.
I listen. Nothing. Stepping into the hallway, I see that the front door is ajar.
“Brock?”
The house is silent. I walk the downstairs rooms, peering into the living room, the powder room. They’re empty.
But when I return to the kitchen, I’m not alone.
Lisander is sitting, arms folded, at the table. Her lackeys Bree and Camille stand behind her, dressed almost identically
in black—jeans and bomber jackets, heavy boots.
Bree’s face is blank, but Camille glances at me worriedly. This cannot be good.
“Ana,” says Lisander, cool, easy. It’s weird how much she looks like Agnes.
I feel trapped. My heart is an animal in a cage, thumping for release. I’m about to make a run for it, glance at the key fob
on the counter, toward the door. But that’s when I see that April has come up behind me. She smiles. Those weird eyes are
on me.
“Put down the knife and have a seat. We need to talk,” says Lisander.
My mind reels. What are my options?
I can’t get to the baby and get out of the house. They’ll never hurt Noah, right? So, I’m not worried about that.
I’ll never get to the key fob and to the car before April, Bree, and Camille get to me. I’m not worried about Lisander. She’ll
just sit there and let the others do her bidding. These days she can barely walk, needs a cane she refuses to use.
“Ana, honey,” says Lisander into the tense silence. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Stupid is in the eye of the beholder.
I move toward April, and whatever she sees on my face causes her eyes to widen.
She takes a step back, lifts her palms. I’ve put the kitchen knife down as I’ve been instructed to do.
But now my hand closes on the smaller one in my pocket.
I pop out the blade and point it at her in one deft, practiced movement.
It’s not the first time I’ve pulled it. Or used it.
“You wouldn’t,” she says, voice wobbling.
“Ana,” says Lisander, sounding worried. “We just want to talk. You’re overreacting.”
That’s another thing I’m tired of hearing. When people don’t like the way you’re responding to their behavior, all of a sudden you’re overreacting?
I’m on April quickly, pulling her so close that I can smell the scent of the bookstore, sage and sandalwood. Holding her bony
body tight, looking at my own reflection in those stupidly big glasses, I drive the blade into her side right buttocks, what
there is of it.
She issues a roar of angry pain, falls to the ground taking me with her. Camille and Bree are on the move, shouting. I extract
the blade from April’s flesh, our eyes locking—pure hatred from April, another yowl of pain.
Then I’m up and running. No major arteries in your ass, for your information. I could have easily stabbed her in the heart,
or the stomach, throat, or the kidney. But I didn’t.
And Agnes thought I didn’t have any self-control.
The cold air hits me like a wall as I burst through the front door.
I bolt, sprinting up the street and then ducking into the trees past the houses.
Camille and Bree shout behind me.
They’re younger, faster. And I can hear them gaining.