The Best American Mystery Stories 2014 Read Online Free PDF Page B

was driving so fast, or why he nearly tripped on the dangling seat belt as he hurried from the car.
    Or why he felt, when he saw her lying on the bed, flat on her stomach and head turned, smiling, that he’d burst in two if he didn’t have her. If he didn’t have her then and there, the bed moaning beneath them and she not making a sound but, the blinds pulled down, her white teeth shining, shining from her open mouth.
     
    It felt wrong but he wasn’t sure why. He knew her, but he didn’t. This was her, but a Lorie from long ago. Except different.
     
    The reporters called all the time. And there were two that never seemed to leave their block. They had been there right at the start, but then seemed to go away, to move on to other stories.
    They came back when the footage of Lorie coming out of Magnum Tattoo Parlor began appearing. Someone shot it with their cell phone.
    Lorie was wearing those red cowboy boots again, and red lipstick, and she walked right up to the camera.
    They ran photos of it in the newspaper, with the headline “A Mother’s Grief?”
     
    He looked at the tattoo.
    The words
Mirame quemar
written in script, wrapping itself around her hip.
    It covered just the spot where a stretch mark had been, the one she always covered with her fingers when she stood before him naked.
    He looked at the tattoo in the dark bedroom, a band of light coming from the hallway. She turned her hip, kept turning it, spinning her torso so he could feel it, all of it.
    “I needed it,” she said. “I needed something. Something to put my fingers on. To remind me of me. Do you like it?” she asked, her breath in his ear. The ink looked like it was moving.
    “I like it,” he said, putting his fingers there. Feeling a little sick. He did like it. He liked it very much.
     
    Late, late into that night, her voice shook him from a deep sleep.
    “I never knew she was coming and then she was here,” she was saying, her face pressed in her pillow. “And I never knew she was going and now she’s gone.”
    He looked at her, her eyes shut, dappled with old makeup.
    “But,” she said, her voice grittier, strained, “she was always doing whatever she wanted.”
    That’s what he thought she said. But she was sleeping, and didn’t make any sense at all.
     
    “You liked it until you thought about it,” she said. “Until you looked close at it and then you decided you didn’t want it anymore. Or didn’t want to be the guy who wants it.”
    He was wearing the new shirt she had bought for him the day before. It was a deep, deep purple and beautiful and he felt good in it, like the unit manager who all the women in the office talked about. They talked about his shoes and he always wondered where people got shoes like that.
    “No,” he said. “I love it. But it’s just . . . expensive.”
    That wasn’t it, though. It didn’t seem right buying things, buying anything, right now. But it was also how colorful the shirt was, the sheen on it. The bright hard beauty of it. A shirt for going out, for nightclubs, for dancing. For those things they did when they still did things: vodka and pounding music and frenzied sex in her car.
    The kind of drunken sex so messy and crazy that you were almost shy around each other after, driving home, screwed sober, feeling like you’d showed something very private and very bad.
    Once, years ago, she did something to him no one had ever done and he couldn’t look at her afterward at all. The next time he did something to her. For a while, it felt like it would never stop.
     
    “I think someone should tell you about your wife,” the e-mail said. That was the subject line. He didn’t recognize the address, a series of letters and digits, and there was no text in the body of the e-mail. There was only a photo of a girl dancing in a bright green halter top, the ties loose and dangling.
    It was Lorie, and he knew it must be an old picture. Weeks ago, the newspapers had gotten their hands