The good news is, water heaters haven’t changed in the last fifteen years.
The bad news is, I’m about to kill Simon.
I can do it. I can follow these instructions and pump our home full of deadly gas. In this airtight room, I will be protected. I could kill him and wait for rescue.
I scoot forward on my butt, toward the toolbox, and pick up the wrench.
I can do this.
I will do this.
I set down the manuscript and lean forward, toward the first hot water heater.
CHARLOTTE
Charlotte opens the manila folder, pulling out the printout and sliding it gently across the polished wood table. It is a front-page piece, four years old. In the photo, Janice Ross stares directly into the camera, despair radiating from the image. Above her picture, the title in big thick font: “IT WAS MY FAULT.”
The woman’s eyes are the only thing that moves. They dart to the page, to the photo, to Charlotte’s face, then back to the page. A bit of tongue peeks from her lips, then disappears. “That’s an old article.”
“Not that old,” Charlotte replies. “Do you still remember the day it happened?”
Her stare returns to Charlotte and she shakes her head minutely, a scornful sigh wheezing through her clenched mouth. “Of course I do. But like I told you before, I can’t—”
“I’m not asking about Helena or Simon.” Charlotte digs a fingernail into the eraser of her pencil and wills her voice to soften. “I’m just asking about you. About what happened that day.”
“Why? You want to make me feel guilty?” Her arms cross over her thin chest, and there is a sharpening of the features, a straightening of the back. Suddenly, she looks more like the woman of three weeks ago, the one who had stood in her office’s doorway and politely refused every one of Charlotte’s questions. Of course, those questions had all been about Simon and his behavior with Bethany. She had been barking up the wrong tree with a woman who had all but thrown the Psychiatrist’s Code of Ethics at her.
“I just want to understand the facts.” She carefully sets the pencil down, next to her notepad. “Can you walk me through the day?”
“There isn’t much to tell.” Janice Ross’s eyes drop to the article and she picks it up, her fingers tracing over the edges of the page. “I haven’t thought about that day in a long time. I mean—” she corrects herself. “I haven’t relived it in a long time.” She glances up at Charlotte. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes.” She nods, and her fingers itch for the pencil, for the recorder that sits in her bag. But reaching for either, right now, might scare the woman away, might stop the story she seems so reluctant to tell. “Please.” Maybe this will be the break that she needs. Maybe something in Janice’s story will give her some closure.
A long sigh tumbles out, the sort that carries more than just breath. Janice Ross wets her lips and then, her eyes returning to the photo, she speaks.
“Sometimes, as a parent, you just know when you are needed. That’s how it was that day. I was driving home and something just told me to stop by Helena’s. It was as clear as if God had pulled my steering wheel to the right.” She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug. “So I did. I swung by and came in. I made some excuse up about borrowing something—I can’t remember what—but I was really just checking on things. And Helena—” she stops herself and there is a moment of inner conflict, some secret that she wars over. “Helena was there,” she finally continues. “With Bethany.”
“Was everything alright?” Charlotte thinks of the police photos, the autopsy report, the diagram of the home and the path that the gas had taken.
“Everything was fine.” She gives a helpless laugh, her shoulders lifting. “I felt crazy, leaving the house. Bethany was fine, Helena was relatively fine…” Relatively fine. An odd choice of words. Charlotte mentally bookmarks the phrase.
“But you took Bethany with you.” She risks a look at her notepad, where the timeline of events was summarized. “What time was that?”
“Yes. I took Bethany with me.” She blinks, and her eyes glisten. “It—ah.” She wipes at her eyes and a line of moisture smears across her cheek. “I guess it was a little before four.”
Charlotte waits for more.
“Bethany was such a happy child. She was in the back, in her car seat. I remember her talking about her day, about a frog that they had found in the backyard. She wanted to keep him, but Helena had told her no.” She reaches out, to the edge of the round table, and pulls a napkin free from its holder. She swallows, and her voice is stronger when she continues. “The traffic was terrible and it took me twenty minutes just to get back to my part of town. We were passing the north plaza when Bethany asked for ice cream. There was a fudge shop there, in the shopping center, and it had a few flavors. I had taken Bethany there before. I guess she looked out the window and saw the sign.” She looks to the side, out the large dining room window, the light highlighting the tight lines of her throat. “I shouldn’t have stopped. But I did. I stopped, and I went around to her side of the car. I opened the door…” her face crumples, her hand trembling around the napkin. “That was when I noticed her shoes.”
“Her shoes?” Charlotte leans forward.
“She had been barefoot when I picked her up. Still in her pajamas, despite the time of day.” Janice straightens, and carefully spreads the napkin, folding it in half and then dabbing at the wet underside of each eye. “Helena had passed me her shoes before we left, but I hadn’t looked at them. I hadn’t realized,” she pauses, her lips pressed together for a moment. “I hadn’t realized that they were mis-matched. Both Converses—Bethany loved pink Converses—but they were both for the left foot.” She spreads her hands. “So I went back.” She looks up at Charlotte with a hopeless expression of defeat.
“I went ....” She almost chokes on the words. “Back.”
I feel a misguided sense of accomplishment when finished, the hiss of gas rerouted from its safe route and into our home’s air vents. It was almost alarming how simple it was, how innocent I could engineer the look of the damage. I sit back on my heels and sniff the air, unable to smell anything new. It is a futile act, given the odorless nature of carbon monoxide. Simon will never know the cause of his death. He won’t even know he’s dying. He will lie down and drift off to sleep. The end.
It’s too kind for him.
Still, it’s hard for me. My hands tremble when I tighten the final nut. At one point in the process, I cried. Even now, I can feel the swell of emotions pushing at the back of my throat. For all that is broken in him, he gave me my daughter. Even if he did threaten to take her away. He is still half of her whole. She has his eyes, his smirk. By doing this, I am killing her father. When she finds out, will she hate me for it? Will she forgive me for it?
I slide back on the floor until my back hits the metal face of a file cabinet. Has the gas already reached the upstairs? How long will it take to fill the house? How long will it take to kill him? In my novel, it took fifteen minutes to fill the three-bedroom apartment. Our house is bigger, but so are these water heaters, both set on the maximum output. Fifteen minutes seems a reasonable estimate.
I reach back and rub my head, my scalp still sore from Simon’s grip. My gaze travels over the floor before me, the concrete dotted with my instruments. I carefully move to my feet, dipping down to grab the screwdriver, box cutters, and wrench. Evidence. I open the lid to the washing machine and uncap the bleach, pouring the solution over the items, snagging a paper towel from the shelf above the appliances and wiping down each item. I return them to the toolbox, and shut the lid, pushing the paper towel down into the trash. It seems silly to destroy the evidence, yet feels cleansing, as if I am clearing the sin off my heart.
I always thought I’d make a great criminal. I’m very clean, very organized, and—apparently—able to take decisive action. My fingers tremble when I pick up the manuscript, and I almost drop it. Maybe I’m not so stone cold. I carefully align the pages and re-clip the gem clip onto the top, my hand resting on the cover page for a moment of reverence. It was one of my firsts, created on a cheap Dell desktop in the corner of my bedroom, illegal music downloading in the background, the Napster logo blinking from my status bar. Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails had dominated that year of my life. When I’d finally finished it, I’d felt invincible.