A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

conversation—spoken in some other language that I don’t speak—
goes on. I don’t know what they’re saying.
I climb the stairs and move down the hall for the bedroom. It’s dark
in the hall; the light from the windows doesn’t reach here. I lock the
bedroom door, and then slide a chair in front of it for good measure.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t ever shower with workers in the house, but I
can’t bear to go another second without. In the bathroom, I undress.
I hear the workers in our house. I hear their tools and their noise,
rehabbing the second bath down the hall. With the other bathroom
inoperative, this is the only one in use for now. It’s the one in Bea’s
and my bedroom, which means that when we’re not home, the men
are in here, doing their business. It’s no longer just mine and Bea’s
because they leave the toilet seat up, our own towels tilted and wet.
I stand in the shower, letting hot water wash away the memory of
Dr. Feingold’s hands. I lather the soap onto a loofah and scour my
body with it. I pile on shampoo and scrub at my scalp, though he
didn’t touch my scalp, but as far as I’m concerned, his hands have
been everywhere.
By the time I come out of the bathroom and dress, the men are
packing up their things and leaving. I watch through the slats in the
blinds as they load their belongings into their trucks and drive slowly
away.
The earth outside is sopping wet. The puddles are profuse, not
even puddles anymore but now flooding. The sky is darkening,
though I don’t know if it’s due to the weather or because night will be
here soon. It’s hard to say anymore. I can’t remember the last time
we saw the sun. That alone would be depressing enough, but with
what’s happened with Shelby, with Meredith and Delilah, things are
dire.
Bea and Wyatt are just back from their walk. I watch them out the
window as they arrive home, coming up the path and to the front
door. The door closes and Bea’s voice calls for me up the stairs.
“Be right down,” I call as I run a comb through my wet hair. Back in
the bathroom, I towel dry the ends of it and throw it into a messy
bun. I gather the towels to wash, heading downstairs, watching
where I step because our home is covered in rosin paper and plastic
sheeting, and sometimes nails or debris get dropped. We have to