Page 20

Joe

After my class I drive a few miles out of my way and swing by my sister-in-law’s work.

I valet my SUV at the mall and walk a loop around the upper level of the center before taking a seat at one of the tables at the coffee shop across from the bakery.

Marci is behind the pastry counter, her red apron on, her smile big as she helps a customer with their selection.

Marci is, to the traditional observer, the most attractive sister of the three.

A pretty, polished garbage bag of a human.

My wife has never said a negative thing about her younger sister, but I can feel the hostility between them.

Marci tries, but Dinah is a brick wall covered with spikes, and I find the dynamic fascinating.

As a manager, Marci is sloppy. I watch as one of her employees leans against the wall, the girl’s attention on her cell phone, her thumbs busy as she types out something on the screen.

There’s an empty plate still sitting on one of the tables, a crumpled napkin beside it, and a Wet Floor sign that has been forgotten by a rack of merchandise.

I’ve asked Dinah about the emotional distance between her and Marci, and she says that they have never been close, but there is something else there.

Sibling rivalries and strife are common in large families.

But what is strange is that Dinah has stubbornly refused to discuss or acknowledge the origins of their estrangement.

She thinks she’s coy, that I don’t suspect anything, but it’s a stench that reeks from every interaction.

Every stiff hug.

Every carelessly chosen gift.

The lack of affection Dinah shows to Marci’s children.

I’ve been coy myself. I don’t ask too many questions, and I don’t push hard. I act oblivious, but this is a mystery I will find the answer to. It’s my favorite pastime, when I have time to think about it.

A man hovers by the edge of the counter, and Marci glances at him, then continues her conversation with a customer. I watch her closely, catching the widening of her smile, her stance suddenly straighter, her hands faster, the adjustment of her blouse and then her hair.

She likes him.

“May I help you?” A barista stops by my table, order pad in hand, and blocks my view.

“Americano,” I mutter. “Large.”

“Any cream or sugar?” she asks, shifting her weight onto one hip.

“No.” I pull my seat closer to the table and try to see around her.

“I’ll bring it out to you in a jiffy.”

When she finally moves, Marci is standing at the end of the counter, talking to the man. He is smiling, his arms across his chest in an attempt to make himself look important. She laughs, reaching over to touch his shoulder, then brushes her fingers through her hair again.

I’ve considered killing this woman. I believe it would make my wife happy, but the unsurety of that outcome is why I haven’t. It would be nice to detain Marci for a while and ask all the questions I want answers to.

I would enjoy opening up my sister-in-law’s mind. She would crack quickly. In less than an hour, I estimate, her guts would spill all over the table.

I stand and open my billfold, withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill and leaving it on the table to cover my order. I don’t need the coffee, or any more of Marci. It was interesting, her flirtation and possible affair—but that isn’t why I’ve come.

I needed a fix, a deposit into the hobby that is my wife. This is a long-term study, one I’m in no hurry to complete. After all, once you know everything there is to know about a person, they lose their purpose.

Which is why, this weekend, I’ll need to kill Melonie.