Listen for the Lie

by Amy Tintera

A podcaster has decided to ruin my life, so I’m buying a chicken.

Every evening, when Jerry Howell walks out of his office, he leaves absolutely no evidence that he was ever there. He probably missed his calling as a serial killer.

The security guard leans closer to me with a grin. One of his front teeth overlaps the other. “So, did you do it? Did you kill her?” I sigh. “I don’t know.” “Seriously? That’s the truth?” The elevator door opens again with a ding. I step out and look at him over my shoulder. “The truth doesn’t matter.”

I don’t want to think about murder, but I can’t seem to stop it. I don’t do it with everyone, but I’ve imagined killing a whole lot of people. It started not long after Savvy died. Everyone said I was a murderer, and I couldn’t say for sure that I wasn’t, so I started thinking of all the different ways I could have killed her. I thought that if I went through enough options, I might actually land on something that sparked a memory.

I really wish the police had found the murder weapon. It would have spared me a lot of imaginary killings.

Dad opens it before I can knock. His smile is wide, friendly. Dad’s so good at that Texas thing where you act polite to people’s face and then talk shit behind their back.

He shuts the door behind me. His dark hair is grayer than last time I saw him. Dad’s eyes are deeply set, giving him a soulful appearance that is always more pronounced when he looks at me. There’s disappointment in every line of his face. “How was your flight?” His gaze is on my suitcase.

The lamp on the table next to the sofa isn’t new. We’ve had it for as long as I can remember. It’s a long cylinder, solid ceramic, and heavy. But not too heavy. I could lift it, and swing it, and bash it right into his head. Maybe the lamp wouldn’t even break. It’s quite sturdy. Mom would appreciate that. She must like that lamp, considering how long she’s had it. She would not appreciate the mess, though. Blood would spurt out of his mouth and splatter across the walls. Maybe on the sofa too, and it does not look like the kind of sofa that’s easy to get blood out of. Not that I know which sofas are easy to get blood out of.

You know how you can look at people sometimes and tell they’re not all there? Man, when she looked at me, she didn’t see shit. The lights were on but nobody was home. She looked like a ghost in a goddamn horror movie.

“Come here and give me a hug. I know I look dreadful, but don’t worry, I’m fine.” She does not look dreadful. She does look older, though. Maybe that was what she meant by dreadful. My mom, like her mom, is blessed with smooth, beautiful skin that has always made her look a good ten years younger than she really is. Now, at fifty-five, she’s starting to actually look like she’s in her fifties.

It’s a genuine question, one that requires my response. Mom asks me constantly, in a million different ways, whether I murdered Savvy. Maybe she thinks that if she asks enough, I’ll eventually let it slip that I did indeed bash my friend’s brains in. I have to admire her persistence. “No, I don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” I lie.

Now, I sit at the table across from my parents. They’re both on the other side, united against me. Or maybe they always sit there. It’s weird, but perhaps they don’t want to look at each other.

The very large bottle of vodka is still on the counter. I imagine smashing it into Mom’s head. A soft voice whispers in my ear, “Let’s kill—” “Has he ever tried to contact you?” Grandma asks. “Let’s kill—” Not now. I shake my head, and the voice, away.

Nina: And Lucy and Savvy … they had one of those intense, obsession-like friendships, you know? Ben: I don’t. Nina: I guess it’s mostly women who do it. But sometimes you meet a girl who is just, like, your soulmate. Not in a romantic way, but in a friend way. Which can almost be more intense. You could tell that Savvy and Lucy were in one of those intense friend-soulmate relationships.

I pile the food into my cart, grab several bags of candy (sugar is my main weakness, unless you count my inability to stop murdering people in my head), and make my way to the very long checkout lines.

I turn to see two women staring at me. One glares when our eyes meet. She’s standing next to a rack of scissors, and I imagine ripping the plastic off and jamming it into her throat. “If you slice it like this there’s so much blood, let’s kill—” Shit. The voice is back. Shit. I’d hoped that by pretending it wasn’t happening, the voice would fade away again. It had been so quiet since I left Plumpton. “Let’s kill—”

And a dark-haired man by himself in a booth by the window, staring at me. I recognize him right away. Ben Owens. Smug podcaster. He lifts one hand. He’s waving at me. I almost laugh.

And then, I imagine getting back in my car and ramming it into the side of the diner. Straight through the window. Ben’s body sprawled out on my hood. “Hitting him with your car is bo-ring,” the voice whispers in my ear. “Put your hands around his neck until you can feel the life drain out of him. That’d be fun, right? He probably deserves it. They always deserve it. Let’s kill—” Shut up, I tell the voice calmly.

“Which one?” “Oh, I don’t know. I never read them. Who has the patience for reading anymore?”

“Who do you think cheated on her husband with that Colin boy?” Peggy whispers loudly, and then cackles. I’ve only listened to half of today’s episode, but I’ve always thought that Colin is too dumb and lazy to kill anyone. I decide not to share that, since I’m the only other suspect at this point. “I’m riveted. Can’t wait to find out if I did it.”

Me and the other ladies … I probably shouldn’t say this, but, oh well. We all used to joke about Lucy being Matt’s first wife. We always knew a second would be coming.

He’s wearing his dark hair much shorter these days. I wonder whether he’s starting to lose it. The petty part of me hopes so.

He glances back at it, and then at me. “Since you’re here, do you want to come in?” I give him a truly baffled look. “I don’t think your wife would appreciate that.” “We’re getting divorced. She moved back to Houston.” I try not to smile. I swear to god, I try not to be the asshole that I am, but I utterly fail.

“Come in,” he says. “Have a drink.” He’s got that glint in his eye, the one that means he’s already debating whether to have sex in his bed or on the kitchen table. He loved having sex on the kitchen table.

In fact, it’s not that people who have suffered a brain injury forget what happens, it’s that their brain stopped making memories at all. The memory doesn’t exist.

I slide onto the red plastic, noting that Matt has a margarita in front of him and has ordered one for me as well. I’m not a huge fan of day drinking, or of salt on the rim of my glass, and he knew both of these things at one point. I’m not sure he cared back then either.

He lets out a long sigh and takes another drink of his margarita. I’m still getting used to his shorter hair. It’s cropped so short I can see his scalp. Something about it makes him seem hostile. His scalp is angry.

“The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years. It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion. To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her. “Let’s kill—”

She stood across from me on the other side of the bar, leaning her forearms against the counter. She was in a tank top that showed her tattoos—flowers on one arm, and Harley Quinn on the other. She had a thing for supervillains. No one ever mentions that. Maybe they think it’s not important.

A guy once said to her, “You look like the fun kind of mess.” Rude, but not wrong. I, on the other hand, was a mess and not even a little bit fun.

“I should have controlled my temper,” I said softly. I should have just cried. Taken the hits and crawled away to show my scars. I should have been a better victim. The truth doesn’t matter if you fight back. “I have an idea.” Savvy leaned closer to me. She met my eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her gaze steely and serious. “Let’s kill your husband.”

And then Savvy’s standing next to Nina, grinning with her smudged eyeliner, dark blond hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. I freeze. She’s a horrible, perfect hallucination. Everything I’ve been shoving into the deep recesses of my mind for five years come back to life to haunt me.

“Let’s kill him before he kills you,” Savvy says in my ear. “Didn’t I tell you how good I am at that? I can make a man wish he never laid eyes on me, much less hands.”

I spot flowers in a small pink vase in front of a tree and I stop. Yellow roses. Savvy’s favorite.

There’s no evidence of where Savvy was found, of course—it’s been too long—but I remember now. The police showed me photos of the body, half-covered in dirt, her dress ripped in several places. I stared at the torn strap of her dress, hanging on by a thread. I knew how that happened. I knew, but I couldn’t remember.

“Do you agree with her about Matt?” I look at him in surprise. “What about Matt?” “Have you finished episode five?” “No, I only got about halfway before I had to meet you.” “Oh.” He’s watching Grandma and her suitor. She laughs at something he says. “You should finish episode five.” “Why? What’d she say?” He takes a long sip of his drink. “She thinks Matt killed her.”

In the end, life is just sweatpants and children who resent you and all your choices. But no one wants to hear that.

“Men say shit,” Mom says, and I reel back in surprise at the curse. We’re a bad influence on her. “They talk and talk and sometimes it’s horrible, but that’s the way they are. It doesn’t mean anything.” “Of course it means something,” Grandma says.

I can feel that this is a bad idea by the way I glance over at my closet to see which dress I should wear. I’m relieved that I have an hour, so I have time to do my hair and put on makeup. There’s danger here, and I should say no. No, Ben, I’ll see you for the interview. Text me then. That’s what I should send. Sure, see you in an hour, is what I actually send.

Savvy appears next to me, both feet up on the dash, blue toenail polish chipped. She flashes me a grin. “Want to know a secret?” I nod. “I killed a dude and I’m not sorry. He fucking deserved it.”

I text Ben the next morning as I get in my car. I turn the key in the ignition, the warm air blasting in my face as the car starts. I’m going to Matt’s. If I turn up dead, do a podcast about my murder.

Julia: He was really— No, I was going to say he was charming, but that’s not the right word. He’s not charming, exactly. He’s comfortable.

“Why are you always here?” I ask. “I’m not always here.” “You’re not fucking me and my grandma, are you? That would really bum me out.”

I take the glass from him. It’s heavy. It wouldn’t kill him if I smashed it against his head, but it’d hurt like hell.

“Lucy.” Ben leans forward, peering at me. “What are you thinking about, when you do that?” I snap. “I’m thinking about killing you,” I say.

He finally meets my gaze, his face still flushed. I lean forward. When I speak, my lips brush against his. “Maybe I’ll kill you later tonight.” He smiles.

She looks so beautiful in that pink dress. The thin straps show off all her tattoos, and it swishes around her knees as she walks. I’d forgotten what that dress looks like when it isn’t covered in blood and dirt. The crime scene photos flash through my mind. Pink dress twisted around her legs, caked in grime. And then it’s not the crime scene, it’s right in front of me. I’m staring down at her. But, no, that can’t be right, because it’s daylight. I never saw Savvy dead in the daylight. I don’t think.

“I don’t need you to tell me everything.” She holds my gaze, her dark eyes serious. “I don’t need you to lay out every single secret and detail of your existence for me to judge. I know you.”