Lady Killer

The left side was plainly male, an orderly lineup of shaving cream, deodorant, aftershave, and a clean silvery razor. Nothing remarkable, so she opened the other side. It was Trish’s, and it had a push dispenser of Cetaphil moisturizer, foil tubes of Bobbie Brown masques, and jars of La Mer and Lancôme creams that lined the ski

Mary picked them up and examined them. Sunday was the last pill missing. Monday’s pill hadn’t been taken yet. Today was Tuesday. So, assuming that Trish took her pill at night, when the rest of the world did, that meant she hadn’t taken her pill last night before bed. She must’ve thought she’d be right back.

Mary felt a chill. She surveyed the clutter with new eyes, then saw, next to the soap, a pair of women’s wire-rimmed glasses. That meant Trish wore her contacts last night. Again, she must’ve expected to be right back, if not the same night, the next day. So wherever they’d gone, it had to be in the city or driving distance from it, to return the same night.

Still Mary was no closer to knowing where Trish was, and it would be nice to find a suitcase or two. She returned to the bedroom, where she noticed something she hadn’t before. Two night tables flanked the bed; again, the one on the left held a Sports Illustrated magazine, a black electric clock, a small lamp, and an ashtray. On the other side of the bed, the top of the night table was clear, with an electric clock and an empty ring stand. Evidently, Trish’s. But no ashtray.

Odd. Trish smoked, so there should be an ashtray next to the bed.

Mary went over to his night table, then pulled the drawer open. She half-expected to find an arsenal, but no. The drawer was almost empty, save for some pens, a pack of Hall’s cough drops, and some receipts. She went through the receipts, looking for anything unusual, but they were for clothes, shoes, and undershirts, from JoS. A. Bank, Nordstrom, and Target. She closed the drawer and walked around the bed to Trish’s night table. The surface was characteristically neat, but dull-looking in the lamplight. She ran a finger over the surface and checked her fingerpad. It was dusty. And again, no ashtray.

Mary pulled open the drawer, and it contained a few Cosmopolitan and People magazines. She checked their dates. December; months ago. She followed her hunch, left the room, and went down the hall to the other room and turned on the light. It was a spare room with a desk. An overhead fixture illuminated a single bed, neatly made, flush against a light-blue wall, across from a wooden desk with an older Dell laptop. Trish’s computer. Mary went over and moved the mouse. The screen came to life, the screen saver yet another photo of the couple. She clicked on AOL, which signed on automatically, and watched the e-mail load for the screen name TRex193.

Mary skimmed the list of incoming e-mail, the usual spam about penis enlargers, stock tips, and pleas for money from Ethiopian royalty. Seven e-mails piled in from Giulia, Missy, and Yolanda, and Mary clicked on one, which read: T, WHERE ARE YOU? I’M OUTTA MY MIND! She clicked on a few of the others, also from the Mean Girls. She closed the e-mail, logged on to the Internet history, and sca

Mary’s heart sank, and she turned away. Next to the desk was another louvered closet, and she slid the door aside. Black Tumi suitcases sat piled one on top of the other. So they hadn’t gone on a trip. She searched the closet for the guns, just to make sure, but found nothing. She turned around, preoccupied.

Next to the bed sat a white night table with an electric clock, a pump bottle of Jergens hand cream-and an ashtray. She walked over to the night table and opened the drawer. People magazine from last week. She stepped back and almost tripped on the black cord of a cell phone charger, then put two and two together:

Trish had to have been sleeping in here. It made sense, together with the fact that she was miserable. The birth-control pills were a loose end, but Mary didn’t need to go there. They had separate bedrooms, or at least fights frequent enough for Trish to sleep in here. Mary closed the drawer. No gun, no diary. Trish could have the gun with her, but where was the diary? Then a thought struck her.

She still had one place left to search.

Outside, Mary chirped Trish’s Miata unlocked, using the keys from the jewelry box. She opened the door and climbed inside. The car matched the house, with its gleamy white enamel paint and beige interior, and it was equally clean. She shut the door and opened the tan console between the seats. Nothing but a cell phone charger, E-ZPass statements, and an open pack of Trident. She closed the console lid and popped open the glove box. The lid hung open, revealing a multicolored stack of folded maps.

Mary blinked, surprised. There had to be at least ten maps squeezed in there, which was nine more than most people from the neighborhood had, and ten more than most women, especially from the neighborhood. She herself had one map of Pe

Mary reached for it and opened it up. The first page read, Patricia Maria Gambone, and it was written in ballpoint in perfect Palmer method, with detached capital letters. She opened the book near the front and read the page:

I know he’ll just love it and I can’t wait to see his face when he opens it! I never thought I’d be this happy in my life!

The diary! In a car? Mary considered it, and it made sense. Trish couldn’t leave her diary in the house, where it could be found. Her car would be the second-best place, both secure and private. She flipped ahead, sca

It was a horrifying photo of Trish, and it looked as if it had been taken in the bathroom. A hideous red bruise, just begi

She skipped to the most recent entry, praying it could provide a clue about where Trish had been taken. She turned to the last page, and her cheeks flushed hot: I went to see Mary but she didn’t do anything. Now I don’t know what to do. If you’re reading this now, whoever you are, I’m already dead. But at least this can prove he did it.

“Hey, Mare, yo!” somebody shouted, and Mary slapped the diary closed with the photos inside and looked through the windshield.

“MARE!” It was Giulia, hollering from down the street, because South Philly was a neighborhood without volume controls.

Mary waved to Giulia through the windshield, shoved the diary in her purse, and slipped the maps back in the glove box. She gave the car one last look around, got out, and chirped it locked, while the Mean Girls clack-clacked down the sidewalk like a tiny black locomotive, puffing smoke.