I didn’t hear her. I wasn’t even around her. I was upstairs, had the door closed. The walls are thick in this house. Nothing gets through.
And she wasn’t screaming. I would have heard screaming. But I was upstairs, and it was quiet. If I had heard something – anything – I’d have helped her.
I didn’t like her. But I didn’t want her dead.
They’re supposed to be done taking up the carpet this afternoon. Putting down new carpet. Shel, my daughter, says it’s gonna look like brand new, they found a match for what was down there already. She says I’m gonna come home and it’s gonna be like nothing was ever there. But.
I saw how much blood there was. I ain’t stupid.
Blood is persistent. It finds where to go. I’m sure it burrowed down in there, down into the wood, down further into the foundation. You can take up the carpet, you can haul it out to the landfill, you can lay down whatever you want, no matter that it looks the same, there’s still gonna be what’s underneath.
She’s gonna still be underneath.
I told Shel I might try to sell the place. But who’s gonna buy a place with her still in it?
When I came down and found her, yes, the door off the kitchen out into the yard was still open. I never leave it open. So it must have been her. Or whoever done the thing to her. I came down, and she’s in the middle of my living room, dug into, deep, looking like ground meat where her middle should be.
Looked like something trying to tear its way out.