Here She Lies

for the maroon car and the man inside it, who I could now see had short brown hair and a double chin — and really, I thought, what would be the difference if we brought him coffee? Stationed in his car, on this lonely road where everyone knew there had been a murder, he stuck out like a sore thumb), and I immediately saw the appeal: the rolling hills, the woven greens, the candy-sweet air. I breathed deeply, and again.
    On the road almost directly in front of the house was a white outline of Zara’s body. I was shocked to see this because I hadn’t noticed it last night, though they must have drawn it while she was still lying there. I had been aware of the unnatural angles of her limbs, the deep bloody slice in her throat and the presence of all the people, but not this painted-on caricature of the last action of a woman’s life. Here she lies. The yellow police tape surrounding the crime scene (I hated that phrase for her, for us) had drooped on one side and detached on another. The disengaged end floated up on a breeze and then settled back onto the ground. That morning a local reporter had been poking around (we had declined to come out of the house to be interviewed; we were still too upset) and I wondered if he had detached the yellow tape to get a closer look at the ground. I wondered how much the reporter knew about what had happened last night, how much anyone knew. I wondered what would become of Zara’s body.
    “Listen, Bobby—”
    Before I could say it — I’m not going home with you — he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I would never try to stop you from doing what you need to do.”
    He had jumped halfway through the discussion, but he was right: there was no point repeating the same talk, talk, talk that had gotten us nowhere these past weeks.
    “It’s not what I need.”
    “I know how much you hate living in Lexington.”
    So true.
    “And the prison isn’t for you.”
    Correct.
    “And now you’ve got this new job lined up for yourself in Manhattan. You’ve been wanting to live in the city.”
    Yes. Yes. “But, Bobby, it isn’t about all that. I wouldn’t break up our family for any of that.”
    “Wait, Annie. Please hear me out.”
    “Credit card bills don’t lie.” The familiar chorus of my recent song.
    “No, they don’t. I don’t understand it either—”
    “And love letters, Bobby!”
    “It’s my turn to talk.”
    He was right. By now I had hogged most of the talk for myself and it was his turn to contribute something substantial.
    “I’m going to walk the path you walked to get here,” he said, “so I can see exactly what you mean.”
    “Good. Finally.”
    “I guess I didn’t realize how serious this was until yesterday, when you left.”
    That floored me. I had been very specific, very clear. I had even given him a file of collated bills and printouts, evidence to examine.
    “You mean you haven’t looked through the file?” I asked.
    “Of course I did. I even called the credit card companies and entered disputes for those charges. But now I’m going to go over them again, differently, and really think about what you’ve been saying. Because I did not make those charges, Annie. I’ve told you a million times.”
    “What about the e-mails? All those personal details?”
    He sighed. I felt the familiar clamp of frustration. Here we were again.
    “I didn’t write them and I didn’t receive them. I never even saw them until you pointed them out to me.”
    “That’s ridiculous.”
    “I do not use the computer.” He hammered out each word. True, he didn’t use computers much, he wasn’t any good at them; but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how. “I’m going to take a much closer look at everything, okay?”
    “It’s all on the desk at home,” I said. “And in the computer.” Good. When he saw what I saw the way I saw it, we would be on the same page and could finally begin the same conversation.
    “Okay,” he said.
    We walked slowly, away from Zara’s outline, towardthe side of the house where lawn had been carved into a thick edge of woods. His fingers brushed mine and then tentatively, almost shyly, he took my hand and I let him.
    “Annie, I have to go back today. It’ll give us some time. And if I miss any more work — well, you know how happy it would make Kent if he could fire me right before my pension matures.”
    One year. Bobby had only one year left before he could retire. And it was true: our boss, Kent, was a