Now was the time for her to leave, or at least to pick up the phone and call the police, but she continued to move deeper into the house. She would check the other rooms first. If Irene was not in any of them, if it was clear that she was in the den, then she would call the police.

Tritia walked down the hallway. She glanced into the bedroom. The pillows had been ripped open, feathers were everywhere, but there was no sign of her friend. She saw her own reflection in the cracked mirrored door of the busted armoire. She had not realized how truly frightened she was until she saw the anxious expression on her pale face.

She moved down the hall to the bathroom.

Where the tiled floor was covered with ripped brown packaging paper, untied string, opened boxes.

Where Irene was lying in the tub, wrists slit.

Tritia stared at her friend. She had obviously been here for some time. The skin on her body was white and waterlogged, her sightlessly staring eyes glazed over with dried cataracts. The blood had settled, separating from the lighter water, and the bottom portion of her body was hidden beneath a heavy red liquid blanket. Around her floated the individual pieces of her husband’s body. Arms. Legs. Hands. Head. The pieces were white and bloodless, pruned with water, and they bobbed in the bath, crowding for space.

Floating between Irene’s outstretched legs was a small severed, castrated penis.

Tritia wanted to look away but could not. Her gaze was fixed on the bloody bathtub.

She did not realize she was screaming until her throat began to hurt.

42

Doug made lunch, hot dogs, and as he spread mustard over the buns, he glanced worriedly out the window at Tritia. She was working in her garden, trying once again to get it into some semblance of order. He was concerned about her. After her initial shock at finding Irene’s body, she had quickly returned to normal. Two days later, she was her usual self. She was not disturbed, not frightened, not withdrawn, not anything. That wasn’t right, he knew. That wasn’t natural. He himself was still coming to grips with Hobie’s death, and he had not even seen his friend’s body. Tritia had discovered Irene in the tub, wrists slashed, surrounded by body parts, and she was acting as though nothing unusual had happened, as though nothing was wrong. He had not talked about it with her, had not brought up the subject of Irene at all for fear of disturbing her unnecessarily. He had assumed that when she was ready to discuss it, she would do so. But so far she had not been inclined to bring it up, which was definitely out of character for her.