Chapter Sixteen
Maci
I realized I was humming only when Bernice cleared her throat behind me. The tune drifted through the kitchen while I let warm water run over my hands for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
Soap foamed between my fingers. I scrubbed my palms, then my wrists, and finally under my nails.
Through the kitchen window, the flower arrangements on Camille's front porch were the only hint that something had happened.
"You’re going to wash the skin right off your hands," Bernice said with a small laugh.
I glanced down at the sink.
"I guess I got carried away."
"You’ve been standing there, lost in thought."
"I have?"
She nodded and went to the coffee pot.
"I know grief makes people do strange things, but baby, those hands are clean."
I took a towel and dried my hands.
"I've just been thinking."
"Ain't nothing wrong with that."
Bernice caught me looking out the window. Across the street, there was another bouquet left behind.
"This whole thing breaks my heart. It happened so fast."
"It sure did."
She shook her head slowly, looking sad.
"Yesterday she was fighting for her life. Today she's planning a funeral."
"And answering questions from detectives."
Bernice frowned.
"They need to leave that woman alone."
"They're just doing their jobs."
"Maybe so."
She sipped her coffee slowly.
"But questioning her before she can even bury her husband?"
She made a clicking sound with her tongue.
"That ain't right."
I leaned my elbows on the counter.
"They found her phone and said she fit the description from the bar."
Bernice turned to face me.
"You believe any of it?"
I paused to think.
"I believe somebody wants the police and others to."
She looked at me for a moment, then nodded.
"Well, whoever did this is evil."
Even after she left, that word stayed with me in the kitchen.
By late morning, I knew I needed to get out of the house for a while.
"I'll stop by the market today," I called toward the laundry room.
"Ain’t that my job?" Bernice asked.
"I’m just grabbing a few things for a new recipe."
I picked up my purse and keys and stepped onto the porch. I was almost at the end of the walkway when I noticed something move.
Camille was moving slowly through her backyard.
She didn’t walk with her usual confidence. I looked at my car, then back at Camille. The market could wait, so I crossed the street.
"Camille?"
She turned around slowly. There were dark circles under her eyes. She gave a tired smile, but it faded just as quickly.
"Maci."
"I was on my way to the store," I said, holding up my keys. "But then I saw you."
She nodded once.
"I just needed some air."
I stepped into the backyard to be with her.
"I don't think I've slept more than an hour," Camille said at last.
"I'm so sorry."
She laughed softly.
"It doesn't even feel real."
"It probably won't for a while. Grief is strange. It doesn't really make you laugh, though."
She wrapped her arms around herself.
"From the reporters and these detectives. I’m about to lose my mind."
She looked toward the front of the house.
"My phone won't stop ringing."
She swallowed hard.
"Yesterday I got hit with one nightmare," she said, her voice cracking. "And woke up in another."
I didn't interrupt.
"I've always tried to do right by people."
She stared out across the yard.
"I've spent my whole life helping women."
She shook her head.
"I don't understand how everything turned upside down so fast."
I smiled to myself.
"You sure about that?"
She looked at me.
"What?"
"I mean," I gave a quiet laugh and waved my hand to brush it off. "We've all done things in our younger days we'd rather leave back there."
She stared at me longer than usual.
"I guess."
"I know I have."
Her shoulders relaxed a little. She let out a quiet chuckle.
"I suppose everybody has a story they'd rather not tell."
"I suppose they do."
The breeze changed direction. Camille's expression became hard to read.
"I just wish people remembered the good before assuming the worst."
"They usually don't. By then, the damage is done."
She nodded.
"I guess you’re right."
◆◆◆
That night, I curled up in the reading chair by the bedroom window with my journal in my lap.
No date.
I keep telling myself I'm imagining it.
That exhaustion is making me suspicious.
But every time I look into Camille's eyes.
I hear the questions I keep trying to silence.
I thought he would be the man to make me happy. I really did.
Instead, I learned that happiness can have a shadow right next to it, pretending it belongs.
I saw things I wasn't meant to see.
Late nights. Quiet calls. A woman who knew too much about him to be a stranger.
And still I stayed. Still I hoped.
I even told myself I was being paranoid.
I wasn't.
There are cameras always recording everything.
Maybe I'm wrong.
I really hope I'm wrong, because something feels off.
Loving someone doesn't always stop them from destroying you.
I read the last sentence twice. A chill ran up my spine.