Ellen Holder
It was two a.m. and Jenny couldn’t sleep. She felt edgy and restless. A brisk walk was what she needed––something to stretch her muscles and relax her mind. She dressed quickly in loose clothing and sneakers.
The community was gated and well-lit. She felt safe. Stepping into the night air, she breathed deeply. A soft breeze carried the scent of cut grass and jasmine. All was silent, except for a dog yipping in the distance. The summer heat had lifted as nighttime descended.
The sudden scent of wood smoke seemed out of place. Who in their right mind would have a fireplace burning in July––in Florida? Maybe someone was barbecuing. No, not at this hour. The smell was more like wood . . . and garbage.
She glanced around, scanning the darkness. Higher up the hill, smoke rose from a lone chimney. It was the home of her best friend, Caroline. Someone she hadn’t heard from in a week or more.
A tingle of dread crept up her spine. Caroline had no children and few friends. Her husband was possessive and controlling. He complained when she went shopping with Jenny, even when she talked on her phone. The last few times she’d tried phoning Caroline, her calls went to voicemail. And she began to wonder why this obsessive man, who ranted over every power bill, would have a fireplace burning in hot weather.
She wanted to rush up the street and pound on the door, demanding to see her friend. Instead, she pulled out her cell phone and sent a text: I’m out for a late-night stroll. Just noticed smoke from your chimney. What’s up?
Moments later her phone dinged: We’re burning some old papers. Shredder broken.
Jenny felt relieved. Then it hit her. Anyone could read the text and reply, as if they were Caroline.
The smell of wood smoke became sickening. She raced up the hill and rang her friend’s doorbell. Her heart thudded as she waited for Bob to open the door. Instead, Caroline appeared, wearing a smile Jenny had never seen. “Jenny! What are you doing here? I can’t ask you in; the house is a wreck.”
“I hope I didn’t wake Bob,” Jenny whispered.
“Bob left me this morning!” Caroline’s eyes gleamed with a strange light. “I’m free . . . But I’m so busy right now. Call me tomorrow.” With that, she shut the door in Jenny’s face.
Jenny turned slowly and started down the steps. She paused at the sidewalk and turned back to stare at the closed door. Caroline was not herself. She seemed preoccupied and abrupt. With Bob gone, Caroline should have pulled her best friend into the house, eager to share more of her news. And her text had read: We’re burning some old papers. Who did “we” refer to? Was someone else in the house with her?
Jenny slipped quietly around the side of the house to a window near the fireplace. The blinds were closed, but not completely. She leaned close to peer through the slats, then drew in a sudden breath. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Bob’s head was turned toward her, but his eyes were closed. What was left of him lay in pieces on a plastic shower curtain amid stacks of newspapers. She watched her friend calmly toss a severed hand into the flames. Bile rose in Jenny’s throat, and she skittered away to vomit in the darkness.
Jenny trudged through the night as if in a trance. Home seemed miles away, but she just wanted to get there, take a shower, and forget this night had ever happened.
The sweet smell of flowers and wet grass escaped her notice. Her nose was filled with the one scent she wished she could ignore. The smell of heartache, misery, and pain. The smell of trouble.