I Was Here(95)

             But then he says, “Can I help you?” And the voice: soft, guarded, familiar.

             It takes me a second to find my own voice. “I’m looking for Bradford Smith.”

             I can see something—suspicion, strategy—pinging across his face. “What’s your business here?”

             What’s my business here? I had a story to tell him, a way to worm myself inside. But it vanishes from my head, and I can’t think of what to say except to blurt out the truth. He’s always had that effect on me, this person I’ve been lying to.

             “You’re my business.”

             He squints. “I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”

             My heart is thudding so hard and fast, I swear he must be able to see it through my blouse. “My name is Cody.” I pause. “But you probably know me better as Repeat.”

             He doesn’t answer.

             “Do I need to repeat myself?”

             “No,” he says calmly. “I understood. You oughtn’t be here.”

             He starts to close the door. And all I can think is: I invited you to help me die, and you’re shutting the door in my face. It fires up my anger. Good. I need it now.

             I wedge my foot in the doorway. “Oh, no, I should be here. Because I also know someone named Meg Garcia. You might know her as Firefly. Did you know her real name was Meg? That she had a best friend named Cody? A mother? A father? A brother?” The speech I rehearsed during the long drive is coming back to me.

             Now that I’ve shown my hand, I half expect him to slam the door on me, but instead he steps outside. One of the beer-drinking neighbors throws an empty beer bottle into a garbage can; it clanks and shatters. Bradford appraises his neighbors, lips pursed. He looks at me and opens the door behind him. “Perhaps you’d better come inside.”

             For half a second I think of Ben, the arsenal of guns, the buried bodies. But then I go in anyway.

             It is spartan, and neater than any of the houses I clean—after I clean them. My legs are shaking, and if I sit, he’ll see my knees knocking, but if I stand, they might buckle. I split the difference and lean against the plaid couch.

             “You knew her?” he asks.

             The look on his face is peculiar. It’s not sinister at all. It’s almost eager. And that’s when I realize that he doesn’t know the gory details—and he wants to. I don’t say anything. I refuse him that satisfaction.

             “So she did it,” he says. Of course he knows this now. My coming here gave it away. I gave him the satisfaction anyway.

             “Because of you. You killed her.”

             “How could I have killed her?” he asks. “I never met her. I didn’t even know her name until just now.”

             “Maybe you didn’t actually do it with your hands, but you did it. . . . You did it the cowardly way. What was it you said? ‘The opposite of bravery is not cowardice but conformity.’” I make air quote marks with my fingers. I have this part planned too. “I’d say the opposite of bravery is you!”

             I sound so brave myself when I say it. No sign of the chickenshit I truly am, about to collapse on my jelly legs.

             His mouth twists, like he just tasted something a little off. But then he composes himself again, and his smile is two clicks away from benevolent. I hear a high-pitched whine in my ear as sweat breaks out on parts of my body that don’t normally sweat.