Chapter Twelve
Andi
Fuck! Her phone! How did I not think to look for a phone in Tia’s clothing? I barely looked at her, really. I saw the blood on her head and
felt for a pulse. I covered her up right away and haven’t looked at her or checked her pockets or anything since. I only saw
it lying on the concrete garage floor next to the freezer after we got home from the party—a phone I didn’t recognize—and
then I put it together. Shit. Fuck. It must have fallen out of her pocket when Carson hit the freezer. Tia had a phone. What
a stupid error.
I rested easy that she did not have a phone because the cops said that either it was off or the settings for service location and GPS were turned off, making it untraceable.
Most people would think that meant maybe she had an accident and her phone was destroyed when she fell off a cliff somewhere, or maybe she was murdered and the killer turned her phone off or destroyed it.
But if you’re me, you don’t think those things.
If you’re me, you assume the police would have had the place surrounded if her phone traced to my house.
I don’t know what I assumed about her phone. At first, I didn’t even consider it. Then when there was news about it not being
locatable, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had gotten lucky and really didn’t know what the hell happened to it besides maybe
it fell into the lake on her run or it died. But here it is. It’s on. There’s no security code to open it. This has to mean
that she is the one who disabled her GPS or it would be pinging and they’d find it—find me. Jesus. I have to get rid of it
immediately. I need to get rid of her, God help me.
When we arrived home from the party, I made popcorn. Carson and the kids turned on Survivor and are all on the couch at the moment. I ducked out. I had to get that padlock back on the freezer, but the fall broke it.
I thought maybe it was just forced open and it would still close, but it’s useless and I can’t lock it. The freezer is lying
on its side with bits of blue tarp sticking out the bottom, and for the love of God, I have to at least get it locked and
get rid of this phone. Then, tomorrow, I’ll find a space of time when everyone’s gone to safely move her.
I stare at the freezer in a stunned silence. I’m so absolutely fucked. I have to act right this second. I have to do something
right now or that’s it. I pop into the kitchen and grab my keys and breezily tell Carson we’re out of a few things for Chloe’s
lunch tomorrow, and when he says she just wants PB part of a couple at Barney’s Hardware, looking at a fall wreath in the storefront window; an elderly woman throwing
the pigeons sunflower seeds from her purse as she waits for a bus. What I wouldn’t give to be any of them right now—to be
anywhere else right now.
I pass the riverwalk area and the trees thicken, and after a few minutes, I decide this is as good a place as any. I pull
over to a parking space at a scenic overlook. There are only three spots and of course nobody is here in the dark and the
mist, so I step out of the car and clutch the phone in my hand. I brought Clorox wipes in my pocket to get rid of any fingerprints
on the phone before I drop it. All I have to do now is hurry.
I get myself to the rocky overlook and pull out a wipe.
My hands are trembling. As I’m trying to wipe the phone clean, I start to lose hold of it.
The mist and the alcohol cause it to slip from my grip, and as I fumble and catch it, to my horror, I realize I must have hit a button, because it’s calling the last number dialed.
Jesus Christ. Tia’s phone is calling Ray!
I click it off, hold my heart and almost scream from sheer shock.
Then I fling it. I panic and just fling it toward the river. I watch it hit a protruding rock below and snap and then . . .
blip. It drops into the river and washes away. I race to my car and speed away as fast as I can.
My mind reels as I drive, nervously thinking about our world of cameras and tire-track forensics and cell towers. There will
be evidence now that her phone pinged off this tower. Even if the tracking and service location are all off and untraceable,
I’m sure that changes once the phone is in use. Fuck!
I shakily pull into CVS, and I know I’m on camera and I think about all of the shows I’ve seen where the idiot criminal is
caught buying duct tape and bleach at a Walmart and I don’t know if buying a padlock looks bad. Will Carson notice the new
padlock and ask about it? Then I’d be screwed anyway. But what choice do I have? I buy some random items I scarcely even look
at—throwing KitKat bars and face scrub and Gatorade into my basket, casually looking for the aisle that would have padlocks.
I spot them next to office supplies. Just a small section with a few notebooks, tape, pens and tools.
I don’t know what makes me do it—perhaps I’m just overcome with adrenaline—but I purposefully drop the small plastic package the padlock is in onto the floor.
Then I reach down and, in a moment of insanity, think it’s a good idea to drop it inside my fuzzy UGG boot and walk out with it so they don’t have a paper trail of me purchasing it.
It’s not like it’s a shovel or zip ties, but I know I’m under suspicion and I can’t take any chances.
I feel sweat forming under my coat as I walk to self-checkout. I scan my items. A small line forms behind me. The machine
gives instructions and with each item it seems to unnecessarily shout at me. Put your CHEWY CAT TREATS in the bagging area.
Put your MAYBELLINE EYE CONCEALER in the bagging area, announcing to everyone around each item I purchased. Then, of course
I bought tampons in case Carson were to notice, which he won’t, but still. So the machine yells, please put your TAMPON PEARL
in the bagging area, and I see Mr. Whittiker from the PTA in the other checkout line, and I feel a prick of embarrassment
as if that matters one freaking iota right now, but still, I notice my face flush.
I feel the padlock inside my boot. I think for a second that maybe I should lean down and pick it up to scan, but I can’t
have PADLOCK screamed across the store. I just can’t. I insert my card, steadying my hands to do so, and then I take my plastic
bags of items, silently chiding myself for not remembering my reusable bags and wasting plastic. Again, a ridiculous thing
to be concerned about in this moment, but nothing is rational right now. Everything is louder and brighter than it should
be, and I have to get out of here.
I pluck my receipt from the feeder and hurry out the front automatic doors. I pick up the pace to my car, feeling the hard
plastic of the padlock package digging into my skin. I try not to look like I’m panicked, but then I hear a voice behind me.
“Ma’am?” It’s the clerk. She’s followed me out.
“Ma’am,” she says again, and I pretend not to hear.
I walk even faster, trying not to break out into a sprint, but she’s right behind me.
I think of getting arrested and going to jail and Carson finding the freezer unlocked, the body inside, while I’m being arraigned for theft .
. . and then they’ll find out what I’ve really done. Oh, my God. I start to run.
“Ma’am. Stop!”