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Did she want me to comment on the poem? Offer suggestions for improving the meter or flow, the word choice or the metaphors? Maybe she simply wanted to scare me. Or, like the note left by the pool, the one scrawled on our front window, and the other notes that I still hadn’t shown to the others, was this a warning? Because all the notes had been scrawled in block printing, it was impossible to compare the writing in her notebook with the messages left for us. If she’d left all of them, maybe this was her last message before she killed me, wanting to tell me she knew everything we’d done.
My empty wineglass was still in my hand, but I was afraid to move. Did she have a knife, or a gun tucked inside the loose folds of her hoodie? The darkness felt absolute, as if the deck light had dimmed and a film of cloud had moved in front of the moon and filled the sky with vapor that muted the glittering presence of the stars.
It was clear from the poem that she was grieving a man she loved. A man who was dead. Her overwhelming grief might explain her overreaction to the death of the rabbits. It wasn’t just the end of their lives, it was the ultimate end for every one of us. The biggest outrage humanity faced—we aren’t immortal.
Also clear were her vengeful feelings toward the four of us. In her mind, we didn’t belong here.
Was it Todd? The man in her poem could be anyone, but the fact that she wrote about his life being extinguished in the beautiful new house that was meant for her, made me think it must be Todd. Surely there hadn’t been two men who lost their lives on this property.
“Why did you show me this?” I asked.
“So you would know.”
“Know what?”
“Everything.”
“I’m not sure how to interpret it, so I don’t know everything. Can you explain it?”
“Are you dense?”
“I don’t think so.” I laughed, but she didn’t join me. So much for reducing the tension, for discovering some hope that my fear was unwarranted. “Did your lover die?”
“He wasn’t just my lover. He was my partner, my soulmate. My fiancé.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You don’t have any compassion or empathy at all, do you?”
“I do. I said I was sorry—”
“You don’t sound sorry. You sound detached. You sound like you’re talking about the rabbits, not the man I loved with my entire being. You sound—”
“Okay. I get it. I’m sorry if I came across as insensitive. I’m truly sad about your loss. It must be awful.”
“That’s not good enough.”
A flicker of anger stirred inside me. I placed my glass on the deck and laced my fingers together, resting them on my belly to calm my breathing. She had no right to tell me my condolences weren’t good enough for her. I hardly knew her, and her soulmate was a stranger to me.
I wasn’t sure if she suspected one of us had killed Todd—or if she was referring to some other guy.
But if she had witnessed something, why hadn’t she tried to stop it? Why hadn’t she called the sheriff? Nothing she said—out loud or in her poetry—made sense to me. She was confusing and vague, refusing to state anything clearly.
“What do you want me to know?” I asked.
“I want you to know what I know.”
“What is that?”
“I know Todd was murdered. I know he was left in the swimming pool, tied up like a piece of meat. It was cruel and horrifying!” Her voice rose. “He was a kind and beautiful man, the only man who ever loved me. And someone didn’t want me to have him!”
“That’s awful.”
“You’re sitting there all smug and two-faced and telling me it was awful? You knew! And then stole his body. It’s despicable.” She was crying softly now.
“I didn’t—”
“You did! You saw him in the water and you dragged him out and left him there like an old shoe. And then you… or someone, took him away!” She smacked her notebook on the back of my hand. “I want him back!” she wailed. “I want him back where he belongs. In this house! With me!”
