It makes a sucking noise as I open it. Inside is a single, frozen fox. I exhale and snap some photos with my phone. A rat skitters by my ankles and I scream. Who has rats in their basement? Unless it’s one of Jim Steele’s projects that managed to escape from the icebox? I take a few deep breaths and look around. There’s also a Fleetwood Mac poster above the washer-dryer. I’ve never heard of them, but by the looks of the bubble letters used to spell their name, they’re probably some kind of satanic band. I take some pictures of that, too.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
basement+first floor=finished
I bound back up to ground level and do preliminary laps around the second and third floors—both of which are totally empty, just hardwood and sunshine—but then I go to the fourth floor, where there’s a bedroom. Or at least a king-size bed in the middle of a giant landing. Creepy. Does he sleep here, too? But then why isn’t there any furniture, just dead animals and cough drops? I mean, he’s lived in Friendship for like five years, and if he used to charge $725 an hour for his services, you’d think he could afford a couple rugs, or whatever. It’s all very suspicious. I take some more pictures.
I tug on the latex gloves I brought and roll back the covers, which smell like men’s deodorant. There’re no strands of hair or anything that I can see. But when I get down on my knees and peak underneath the bed frame, I notice a balled-up piece of fabric among the shadows and dust bunnies. I shake it out and realize it’s Ruth’s underpants. I know it belonged to her because this summer, she got really into wearing “days of the week” undies after seeing it in a movie or something. This is her Friday pair—bright yellow with Friday printed on the front in rainbow colors.
Friday was the day she died.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
found something, cover me
I’ve seen on crime shows that seminal fluid is supposed to be obvious—detectives on cable TV are always picking up underwear or stockings or something and saying, “Yep, look at that—we all know what that is. Send it to the lab!” I’m not exactly experienced with semen, and this underwear looks clean to me, but it’s still probably enough to place her here the day she was murdered.
“You’re going down you old furry-faced butthead,” I mutter, and slip the panties into one of the Ziploc bags I brought. Whether or not there’s any DNA is for science to decide.
That’s when my phone buzzes. It’s probably Davey wanting to know what I’ve found.
“Hello?”
“JS at twelve o’clock,” Davey whispers.
“We probably should have just come up with a code word, because I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Evacuate!”
“Oh!” I shove the phone and plastic bag into my backpack and barrel down the flights of stairs. I pitch myself through the first-floor bathroom’s window and land face-first in the bushes just as a car door slams. As I creep around the corner of the house, shaking leaves out of my hair, I lock eyes with Jim Steele, who’s in the process of locking up his bright-red BMW. Beyond him, a few blocks down, I can make out Davey’s binoculars, aimed at us from Rhonda’s passenger seat.
Jim Steele crosses his arms and stares at me. In an effort to intimidate him, I grab a makeup brush from my utility belt and begin rapidly dusting his car. “Just checking for fingerprints.” I squint at him. “I’ve, uh, already done the whole outside of the house, so.” At this point he’s probably very frightened and desperate to outwit me. I brace myself to be strangled in broad daylight, reassured by the fact that Davey is just down the road and trained to do worse.
Jim Steele shakes his head. “You’re such a loser.”
It takes me a second to register this. “Yeah?” I blurt. “At least I’m not the one who had an affair with a high school student.”
He shows me his teeth. “Yes, I can tell you probably don’t have very many relationships with your peers.” He turns away, humming to himself, and I wonder with a sinking feeling if Ruth told him I’m a virgin.
“For your information, that’s because I don’t want to!”
“If I find anything missing in the house, I’m phoning the sheriff,” he calls over his shoulder. I can’t help but smile; yeah right he’d have the guts to admit he was missing a dead girl’s underwear.
“Ha!” I shout. But then that sinking feeling returns—because now that I think of it, I still don’t have any actual evidence. Yeah, the underpants in my backpack say Friday, but even though Ruth was superstitious about her undies and always wore them on the right days, I have no actual proof that she was actually wearing the Fridays on a Friday. Also, who am I kidding? I don’t have access to a DNA crime lab, and it’s not like Staake’s going to put me in touch with one.
Still, what I’ve discovered is more than enough to keep Jim Steele high on my list of suspects, and hopefully going to NVCG tomorrow will help me figure out what I’m even looking for.
Davey honks at me from the car, and I run toward Rhonda.
Ruth here. It’s officially August 20. Happy birthday to me. Another year older, another year closer to death.
As of this week it’s been nine years since Kippy and I started being friends. Not that I, like, remember our anniversary. I just know that one of the first things I ever told her was that it would be my birthday in a few days, and she convinced me to have a party at the bowling alley, and so we had this really lame just-the-two-of-us birthday experience that we were dumb enough to think was awesome.
Even back then I felt a little funny having a younger friend. It’s gotten weirder as we’ve gotten older. I mean we’re in the same grade. But recently she’s started studying SAT vocab words, which is, like, kind of a slap in the face because I haven’t started doing that yet, and what is she trying to prove? The other day I was saying how everyone at school should stop calling me the Jewess. Even if it’s just because they think I’m pretty or whatever, it’s still anti-Semitic. But then Kippy’s all, “How bad of an epithet can it be if it makes you sound like royalty?” I was like, get off my nuts girl. Stop trying to rub it in my face just because I got held back a grade and meanwhile you’re some Type-A personality genius mother fucker.
Anyway just because it’s basically our anniversary doesn’t mean I’m gonna go making her some BFF card with horsies and flowers on it. If I absolutely had to do something like that, I’d probably tell her thanks, you know, for everything, because otherwise I’d probably be the only one in Friendship without a single friend. But come on. She’d hate it. Any self-respecting person would. It’s like, “Oh, friend, you fill my heart with smiles, let’s hold hands and dance.” Better just to write it down and get it out of my system.
Anyway Kippy and I are having a sleepover so I gtg. The girl’s all right—let’s be serious, I love her—I just wish she’d play it fast and loose instead of perfect all the time.
QUIVER
The story of me and Non-Violent Communication Group (NVCG) begins with me tackling a principal. In elementary school they had us do these stranger drills. The whole exercise was built upon the psychopath-enters-building-with-gun scenario, which had started happening around the country at the time. Basically the sound system would beep and the Friendship Elementary principal, Mr. Weiner, would say, “Code Stranger. I repeat: it’s a stranger.” And then our teacher would lock the door and draw the blinds and we’d hunker down under pillows in the reading nook and wait.