His smile grows—he likes that. “Do what I tell you and everything will be fine.” The rapist says it like he’s being magnanimous. As though he holds my fate in his stinky, disgusting, about to be fucking dead hands.

  “Okay.” I nod, the blade of his knife presses against the skin of my throat as I do.

  He looks up and down the path, the branches on his hat shaking when his head turns. “I saw another jogger,” I say. “He will be along any minute, you should just leave me alone.”

  The rapist’s eyes leap back to mine and his lip raises in a growl. I try to look terrified. We need to go somewhere more private. I can’t kill him right here. There will be blood all over the path—it’s supposed to start raining, but best to keep murder off the public trails.

  He’s got somewhere he can take me, somewhere more private. He’s got some hideout. This park is hundreds of acres. He probably has some lean-to deep in the woods where he eats tuna out of cans and smokes cigarettes. That’s where I want him to take me. Maybe I won’t even need the shovel. I’ll just burn him in his hovel. A good fire does wonders for physical evidence.

  The nice thing about a grave in the woods, though—especially in a park this wild—is that if I cover it just right, no one will ever find it. When you have fire, you have smoke…that could draw people…burial is probably better. Shit, I forgot to look scared again.

  The rapist leans down and presses his lips to mine, trying to force his foul tongue into my mouth. It slithers against my lips and then thrusts, almost breaking through. He pulls back and I gag, coughing to the side. He backhands me; his strike stings but doesn’t hurt—just fuels my fire. Closing my eyes, my head hanging to the side, I pretend to whimper.

  The rapist slides down to sit on my thighs and starts to cut off my shirt. He’s left my arms totally free. I guess he expects that strike to cow me. His hands are shaking as he tries to work the knife through the high tech moisture-wicking T-shirt. The branches on his hat bob.

  His beady eyes dart up to my gaze and he sees me looking. The rapist freezes. His mouth is slightly open because he’s breathing through it. He’s big but not muscled. Clearly stupid, because his plan appears to be to rape me here on the path. After cutting off my shirt with his hunting knife that he straight up sucks at using. Try the serrated edge, dumb ass.

  I sigh. I’m just going to have to kill him here. Unless…

  No matter what, I’ve got to get that knife before he destroys my shirt entirely. I turn to the side as if I’m trying to wriggle free…but I’m not. I twist suddenly back, using the motion of my body as extra leverage and strike hard and fast—the base of my palm coming up into his nose.

  The rapist reels back, blood exploding. It spatters my already ruined shirt and hits my bare arms, neck, and face. He drops the knife—what a fucking amateur—and falls over cradling his face and crying.

  I snatch the knife off the path and kick him the rest of the way off me. Blood is spurting from between his fingers, and he is wailing like I just broke his nose and he didn’t deserve it. The next thirty minutes are going to be a shocking course in reality for this dumb motherfucker.

  I stand up and knock off his hat. He stirs, looking up at me, seeming to realize I’m still there.

  “Oh, you thought I’d just run away.” I shake my head. “Nope. I’m going to kill you.”

  Those beady eyes widen. I fist his hair and pull. “But first we are going to take a walk.” Rapist stumbles to his feet, following the pain, the leaves on his jacket trembling with his movements.

  Spotting the faint trail he used, I drag him into the brush. The rapist is taller than me so has to bend to follow the pull of his hair. At some point he will start to fight back. I need to get him as far from the path as I can before my words penetrate enough for him to overcome the pain of his broken nose and his survival instincts kick in.

  He may even have another knife on him. A thrill runs up my spine. This could get challenging.

  We get fifty feet into the woods, then sixty. Seventy. And he is still just weeping, snotting, and following me down the barely-there trail. The trees tower above us; the autumn brush pulls at our clothing with its half-bare branches. The blood spatters on me dry and start to itch.

  Up ahead a rock formation comes into view. The rapist’s path leads toward it. I’m not surprised to find a crevice in the rocks—a cave. “This where you’ve been living?” I ask, staring into the murky darkness. Clouds have moved in, the predicted rainstorm gathering, darkening the sky.

  The rapist doesn’t answer, just keeps crying the same pathetic sound he’s been making since we started this march. I release his hair and step back, the knife ready but low. If he has another weapon, this is the moment to use it…but he just stands in his ridiculous camouflage gear blubbering like the school bully just stole his lunch money.

  But this isn’t school, and there are no bullies here. Just a rapist and the woman who is going to end him.

  I’d guess I’m about a thirty-minute jog to my car. A quick glance at my watch, which Rapist does not take advantage of, tells me that James is probably waking up around now. Peter will give him breakfast, but if I don’t get back in two hours or so my boobs will explode with milk. “On your knees,” I tell Rapist.

  He looks up at me. I’m not holding him in any way. He could run for it. I’m just standing here, his weapon in my hand, spearing him with my gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  And he does look it. With blood covering the bottom half of his face and tears in his eyes. But I don’t give a flying fuck about Rapist or his emotional state. I’ve got two hours to end him, bury his body, and get back to feed my baby. This train needs to get rolling.

  “On your knees,” I say again.

  He turns and runs. Thank God. I might have felt kind of bad if he’d given me no fight at all. Rapist sprints toward the cave—probably to grab another weapon. I don’t need the one I’ve got—that’s how good I am.

  I drop the knife and follow, lengthening my stride and leaping onto his back. He stumbles, falling to his knees, screaming—the sound shrill and terrified.

  Birds squawk in a nearby tree and take off en masse. Yeah, Rapist, not cool. Someone could have heard that. I get my feet under me and, with Rapist on his knees, the height difference between us is perfect. Make your hand thin. I hear my trainer’s, Merl’s, voice in my head as I flatten my right palm and press the thumb against the side of Rapist’s neck. Lightning fast I slide it around his throat, bringing the front of my body close to his back.

  My right forearm presses against his windpipe and I grip my left bicep, locking it in place. He struggles, but he’s already lost. My left hand comes behind his head and Rapist is in a choke hold. He scratches at my arm, tearing at the skin with his filthy nails.

  I take in a slow, deep breath as he struggles. It won’t be long. He tries to punch at my body behind him, but that whole slim-and-not-that-tall thing really works to my advantage in this position. He can’t get any force behind the blows. Rapist tries to punch my face, but the same issues plague him. I’m too tiny. He’s too big. And my choke hold is too strong. Die, motherfucker. Die.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rapist falls forward and I hold on. He tries to roll, so that I’ll be under him, but I brace myself, keeping him prone. He thrashes, desperation making his movements wild. He uses up all the oxygen in his lungs. The fight leaches out of him. Rapist pisses himself—it smells like the Port Authority bathrooms. I gag at the stench but hold on.

  The clearing gets quiet. He’s out, but the pulse in his neck still pounds, his body hasn’t given up even if consciousness has fled. Rapist is in that dark place—the one where there is nothing. And he’s going to fucking stay there. I wait, the beat of his heart slows…fades. One moment a weak sensation against my forearm and the next…nothing.

  Life can linger or flee. I’ve seen cancer eat people from the inside. Watched lives lost in the instantaneous flash of a gun muzzle. The human body is at once tough and vulnerable. A perfect metaphor for existence, really. You never know what the fuck is going to happen or when you’re going to die. The only certainty we get is that, at some point, we will end. Not exactly comforting…

  I release him, my arms aching. Pressing off his back, I rise to stand, shaking out my hands. The long-sleeved shirt tied around my waist, loosened in the struggle, slips to the ground. I snatch it up before his piss gets on it.

  My hair is sloppy. I pull the band free and regather it. I’ve got work to do. First, I want to check out his cave. Maybe he has a shovel. That would make life easier for me.

  The crevice isn’t deep—just enough space for a bed roll and two garbage bags. I don’t touch them; they’re not large enough to hold the kind of shovel I need, and I’m not interested in his pathetic possessions. The narrow space reeks of cigarettes and body odor. I pull out my phone; the lock screen is a shot of my “family,” a selfie of the three of us. We did it because it’s what people do, but every time I pull out my phone and see our smiling faces, my own lips twitch in response. I unlock the phone and use the flashlight to brighten the back corner.

  No shovel. I’m going to have to run back to the car.

  Rapist does have two plastic gallons of spring water, though, one unopened. The adrenaline of the fight made me ignore my thirst, but as I rip off the cap, I’m desperate for water. Usually, I carry a bottle with me when I run but I didn’t want to be weighed down today.

  Once I drink my fill, I wash the blood off my arms, neck, and face. The scratches on my forearms are not that bad, but I’ll need to put some disinfectant on them. Using my phone’s camera, I make sure that I’m clean enough to be seen on the trails. A droplet of water hits the screen. Good. The rain will keep people away.

  I check the time. I’m cutting it close. There is extra milk at home for James, so it’s not like he will starve. But my breasts are already filling, pressing against my sports bra. Soon, they will burn and ache with milk.

  Slipping my phone back into my leggings’ thigh pocket, I find the knife I dropped and put it next to the body. I’ll bury it along with him. Rapist’s hair covers most of his face but his tongue sticks out, not quite touching the dirt. Will animals get to him before I return? Is it worth dragging his body into the cave or will that just be a waste of time?

  I’ll leave him, I need to get moving. If I’m lucky, nothing big will find him before I return.

  I start jogging, following the thin, almost invisible trail toward the official path. The steady pace sets my mind into the grooves of running. I let my body do what it does, allowing it to set the pace—fast enough that it burns but not so much that it hurts.

  After James was born, it took three months to start running again, to be comfortable with jostling my insides this much. But now I’m better than I ever was—no, not faster or stronger. But more stable. I could never just set a pace and stick to it. I needed intensity, the sprint and recovery. Now, an hour or two of just running at a medium pace leaves me peaceful and calm.

  The rain starts out as a mist, but by the time I reach the car it’s coming down hard. My shirt is soaked through and plastered to my body and I’m blinking to keep the water out of my eyes. My SUV is the only vehicle in the lot and I climb into the front seat. I’ve got a towel in there I use for Blue and I wipe at myself, smelling his doggie scent.

  After taking some long drags from my water bottle, I sit back against the seat and close my eyes for a moment, feeling the hardness in my breasts. I need to get some of this milk out. Reaching around into the back seat, I yank the emergency baby bag I always keep there into the front with me. It has a change of clothing for James, diapers, rash cream, a first aid kit, and my hand pump.

  It looks like a funny little silicon vase with a wide mouth. Rain patters against the car as I squeeze the bottom and place the large opening over my breast, where it begins to suction the milk out. Looking through the windshield out into the forest is like watching a painting in motion—the blurring of the rain and the dancing of the trees an artist’s rendering of reality.

  I empty both breasts as best I can with the little pump and then pour the milk out into the parking lot. I don’t have any way to save it—and there is a part of me, small yet not silent, that thinks there might be some bad mojo in feeding my son the milk I made while killing a man. I’m not usually superstitious, but I’m really trying not to fuck up this motherhood thing.

  Getting caught for murder would definitely be a fuckup, though. So I need to get back to work. I slather the scratches on my forearm with disinfectant cream and put on a baseball cap with the logo of some local sports team Peter is into…or at least is pretending to be into. The man is a die-hard Eagles fan. When I first met him, he was wearing an Eagles sweatshirt, and I suspect the hardest part of pretending to be John Johnson for him may be denying his love for his hometown team. Not that I’ve asked what’s hard about this for him…which I guess makes me a bad fake wife.

  I’ve never been wifey material—real or fake—and I don’t think that’s going to change. Motherhood and wifedom are not the same. I can be a good mom and a shitty fake wife. Peter is my employee. I am paying him, and I’m a good boss. My checks don’t bounce and I don’t micromanage—I’m pretty sure that means I’m killing it.

  The ball cap protects my eyes, as I step back into the rain, but the contrast of the protective car with the cold downpour sends a shiver over my body. I need to get moving again. Opening the back, I pull out the new shovel. It’s a beast. Steel with a spring-assist handle, this baby is going to get the job done.

  It’s awkward to run with the shovel at first. In hindsight, I should have brought some kind of strap so I could keep it on my back. And it turns out the handle I so admired is cumbersome. The whole thing slows me down and pisses me off. By the time I get back to Rapist, I’m annoyed and tired.

  And I still have a deep fucking hole to dig.

  At least no animals got to the corpse in my absence. He’s right where I left him, wetter but not torn apart. The rain probably helped me out on that front. But as I start to dig, the dirt turning to mud on me as I go, it’s hard to be grateful.

  I find a rhythm, though, and hardly notice when the rain stops. It’s not until the sun blares down on my back so hot that I have to take off the long-sleeve shirt again that I realize how much time has passed. I’m standing in a four-foot-deep hole about six feet long and three feet wide. I drink more water.

  Pulling out my phone, I learn it’s been almost two hours since I started digging. And I’m suddenly ravenously hungry. I’ve got to bury this motherfucker first, though.

  Is Peter worrying about me? Guilt tightens my gut for a moment. I left my SIM card at home, turned off all my wifi and location services—so that my phone couldn’t be placed back here at any time. I also left behind the necklace we both wear. A gold pendant made of three Js. One for each of us. It has a tracking device and radio inside so that we can always reach each other. Unless I leave it on my nightstand…accidentally on purpose.

  Peter designed it and had it made by a company known for their discretion. “Three Js?” I asked.

  “It’s the kind of thing normal people do,” he told me with a smile. “Wear the initials of their loved ones around their neck. Especially a family where all our names start with the same letter.”

  “What about Buddy?” I asked immediately, because…he’s my loved one even if we didn’t give him a J name.

  That was when Peter turned the design sideways and I saw that the bottom of the last two Js touched the stem of the one in front of them, making a B. Peter thinks of everything…he is an excellent fake husband.

  I need to finish up and get home. I miss my baby anyway.

  I dug the hole right next to Rapist’s body, tossing the dirt onto the opposite side. So all I have to do now is roll him into it. My arm muscles shake as I heft his body over, tipping him into the grave. He lands on his back, the sound repulsive to some deep human part of me.

  Rapist’s face is purple and swollen, his eyes open and bulging. I wipe off the knife I took from him and toss it in. Picking up my trusty shovel, I put the first load of dirt on his face. I don’t need him watching me while I grab his stuff from the cave and drop it on top of his body.

  It takes a lot less time to fill in the grave than it did to dig it. When I’m done, I pat it down and stand back. It looks like a fresh grave. There is absolutely no mistaking it for anything else.

  A wind rushes through, picking up wet leaves and littering them across the small clearing. Some settle on the grave, making it look just slightly less fresh.

  The chances of someone wandering back here are slim. But I do take the time to scatter more leaves on the turned earth. I don’t think anyone is going to come looking for him. And if they find him…well, Jennifer Johnson doesn’t exist, so it’s not like she can get caught.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The sign welcoming me to Hidden Bush is beige, white, and gray. Just like all the homes. They are the three approved colors of the development. There is a consistency about it that I get—reminds me of my new jogging practice. And the kinds of people who tend to mock suburban conformity have nothing but praise for those lovely old Vermont towns where all the houses are white with green shutters.

  I never could have envisioned living in a place like this. But that’s what makes it the perfect hiding spot. Even if anyone suspected I was alive, they’d search the wilds of Costa Rica, or the chaos of India. Not the mundanity of Hidden Bush.

  I also like that all the streets are named after animals. Our house is number 66 Wolf Run Road—if that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is. Not that I believe in signs. There is no larger force controlling my destiny.

  I am my own master. The lives I’ve taken; that blood stays on my hands. No higher power pulled me to strangle the life out of Rapist this morning, and no invisible hand guides me home safely right now. I never set out to create an international vigilante organization to deliver rough justice to those who exploit and degrade vulnerable people, but I inadvertently provided the model and embraced the result.

 

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