Petrolic tang. Petrichor. You always get the words wrong. You spent three hours yesterday staring at that rusted gate on 4th. The one with the broken lock. Why were you really looking at it? You looked like you were waiting for a ghost or a cop.
It’s petrichor. It’s always petrichor. Why do you fixate on the smallest details? I wasn’t waiting. I was… assessing the structural integrity. The metal was flaking. It’s a safety hazard, Frank. The city should have fixed that lock months ago.
I stared at it because it was there. That’s not a crime, is it? I might have been tired. Maybe I was thinking about how that lock looked like it hadn’t been touched since the nineties. It doesn’t mean I was hiding anything. It just means I noticed something broken. You’re reading too much into a glance. It’s just rust. Let it go.
Structural integrity. Right. You were measuring the decay. Funny how you only notice broken things when you need a reason to stop. You don’t just glance, Lena. You dissect. That lock wasn’t the problem. You were waiting for it to give way. Or for someone to walk through. Who were you looking for?
I wasn’t looking for anyone. You’re inventing narratives because you’re bored. I was checking if the hinge was loose, sure. But that’s it.
Why do you always assume there’s a person behind the action? It’s pathetic, really. I was just… observing. Observing isn’t a crime. But if you think I’m staking out some ghost from my past, you’re losing your mind. I have work. I have a life. I don’t have time to play detective in my own neighborhood. Stop projecting your paranoia onto me. It’s exhausting.
Exhausting? You’re sweating through that shirt. It’s twenty degrees. Keep telling yourself it’s just observation. I saw the way you checked the rearview. You were making sure no one saw you. Or maybe you were hoping someone would. Your hands are shaking, Lena. Admit it. You’re not bored. You’re terrified. Of what, exactly?
It’s cold. That’s all. Drafty car, terrible insulation. You’re hallucinating things, Frank. Really. I’m not shaking; I’m just… adjusting my grip. On the wheel. Not the steering wheel, obviously. The door handle. To open it.
Terrified? Of what? The rust? The lock? You’re twisting everything into some conspiracy. I’m annoyed. That’s the feeling. Annoyed that you’re standing there analyzing my pulse rate instead of just driving. It’s unprofessional. And frankly, rude. I didn’t ask for your medical opinion. Stop looking at me like I’m a suspect. I’m a person. A tired person. Go home.
Go home. Right. Like I’m not sitting here. You’re nervous about the lock. The handle. Anything but the truth. You think I don’t see the way your eyes dart when I mention the nineties? That wasn’t rust, Lena. That was a warning. And you ignored it. Now we’re here.
I didn’t ignore anything. I looked away. Because I’m tired of this. You’re obsessed with the nineties. What does that even mean? I don’t know what happened in the nineties. I wasn’t even… I was working. At the warehouse. The one on Elm. You know that. Why are you twisting it?
It’s a lock. It’s rusty. So what? You’re acting like I found a body. I found a hinge. And I mentioned it because it’s falling apart. You’re the one bringing up ghosts. I’m just sitting here. Trying to breathe. You’re making it impossible to just sit. Stop talking about the nineties. It’s irrelevant. It’s all irrelevant.
Elm warehouse. Right. Where the heating broke in ’98. You worked nights. Alone. I remember the power logs. Flickering. You said it was fine then. You said you were fine. Why lie about the heat now? You’re sweating through that shirt, Lena. Stop lying to me.
It wasn’t a lie. The heater worked. Sort of. It kicked on sometimes. That’s not a lie, Frank. That’s… it’s a memory. A fuzzy one. Why are you digging into the power logs? Who has access to those? You’re stalking me. This is harassment.
I wasn’t lying about the heat. I was lying about… I wasn’t lying. I was cold. Everyone gets cold. That doesn’t mean I was waiting for someone. It means the building is old. And drafty. And you’re sweating because you’re angry. You’re the one who’s hot. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. Stop looking at my shirt. Look at me. No, don’t. Just… stop.
Power logs aren’t public. I wasn’t stalking. I was bored. The janitor talked. Said you left early that night. Rain was coming. You ran. I remember the smell. Not just rain. Burnt rubber. You didn’t just leave, Lena. You fled. Why?
Burnt rubber? What is that supposed to mean? I didn’t flee. I left. There’s a difference. The janitor talks too much. He’s a gossip, Frank. Always has been.
It wasn’t rubber. It was… tires. Skidding. Because the road was wet. And I was late. For what? For nothing. Just late. That’s it. You’re making it dramatic. It’s just a night. A rainy night. I drove home. I parked. I went inside.
Why would I run? I have a job. I have a lease. I have a cat, for god’s sake. I don’t have reasons to flee. I have reasons to be annoyed. Stop inventing smells. Stop inventing motives. It’s just a memory. A bad one. Let it go. Please. Just let it go.
Cat. Right. You don’t have a cat. I saw the empty cage at the apartment. The dust around it. You never owned a cat, Lena. You bought the litter. You just never put the cat in it. Why the litter? Why hide that? You’re lying about the car. You’re lying about the cat. What are you hiding in the garage?
I don’t have a cat. I bought the litter for… for a friend. To store in the garage. To keep the mice away. It’s for plants. Mulch. That’s what it is. Clay-based. For the hydrangeas.
Why does that matter? Why are you in the garage? I never invited you. You’re trespassing, Frank. This is insane. I didn’t hide the litter. It’s in a bin. A clear bin. You can look. If you want.
But you won’t. Because you’re looking for something else. A body. A secret. A reason to call someone. I’m tired of this. I’m going to leave. I’m going to walk out that door. And you’re going to stay there, staring at a pile of dirt. Like a maniac. That’s who you are. Not me. Me? I’m just trying to keep the hydrangeas alive. It’s so hard for you to believe I’m that simple.
Hydrangeas. Right. Blue acid soil. You don’t even have hydrangeas. You have synthetic turf in the backyard. Fake green plastic. No dirt. No roots. Just a yard you can’t clean because you’re afraid of what’s underneath. Why the litter, Lena? If there’s no cat, and no plants… why the smell of ammonia? Why the bin you won’t let me see?
I don’t know what smell you’re talking about. It’s just old plastic. The bin is just storage. I use it for… winter gear. Gloves. Scarves. Things that smell like damp wool. It’s ammonia-adjacent, sure. Like any old gym bag.
You’re smelling things that aren’t there. Or you’re smelling your own desperation. There is nothing under the turf. It’s fake. It’s clean. It’s easy. Why do you hate easy? Why do you need dirt? Why do you need a crime scene in my backyard?
I won’t let you see the bin because it’s private. It’s my house. My garbage. My ridiculous, harmless clutter. You’re forcing me to be guilty by not letting me be boring. I’m boring, Frank! I’m just a person who buys plastic grass and stores old gloves. Stop trying to dig. It’s exhausting. It’s so damn exhausting.
Gloves? You never wore gloves. Hypothermia terrified you. You stayed inside. Tucked into sheets. The bin’s yellowing plastic. Condensation on the sides. It’s not wool, Lena. It’s not plants. It’s something warm. Something breathing in the dark. You didn’t buy the turf to hide dirt. You bought it to hide the fact that you can’t stop digging. Who died in that garage?
I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no one in the garage. No one died. You’re delusional.
It’s not breathing. It’s condensation. From the pipes. Old pipes. They sweat. It’s a plumbing issue. I’ve been meaning to call someone. But you’re always here. Interrupting. Accusing.
I didn’t dig. I planted. Flowers. Or I intended to. Then I gave up. That’s why the turf. It’s easier. It’s lazy. Is that a crime? Laziness? You’re twisting my laziness into murder. It’s offensive. And stupid.
There is no body. There never was. You’re projecting your own violence onto my fence. I’m going to call the police. Not because I’m scared of you. But because you’re trespassing. And smelling things that aren’t there. Go home, Frank. Please. Before I scream.
Plumbing doesn’t smell like copper. You’re lying about the pipes. You’re lying about the gloves. You’re lying about the flowers. I know you didn’t plant them. I saw the shovel. It’s buried under the turf. Wet. Fresh. You didn’t give up, Lena. You finished. And now you’re waiting for the rain to wash it away. Like it did before.
Copper? From pipes? That’s absurd. It’s rust. From the gate. From the lock. From everything you’re obsessed with. I didn’t bury a shovel. I left it. On the grass. Because I was done. For the day.
You saw a shovel? Where? I don’t remember. I don’t keep track of every tool. I’m not a gardener, Frank. I’m not a killer. I’m just… tired. Of this. Of you. Of the heat. Of the sweat.
If I finished something, it was this conversation. It’s over. You’re imagining rot in my yard because you can’t stand the silence. You need a crime. You need a body. But there’s only grass. Fake grass. And you. Standing there. Bleeding from your own paranoia.
Get out. Now. Before I call someone who actually cares.
Bleeding? You’re pale. Like paper. The shovel wasn’t on the grass, Lena. It was in the trunk. You said you left it. You’re remembering wrong. Or lying again. I saw the mud on your tires yesterday. Red clay. The kind that sticks. The kind that doesn’t wash off with rain. You didn’t plant flowers. You planted silence. And it’s growing.
Red clay? That’s mud. From the construction site. On 4th. The new foundation. I drove past it. That’s all. I didn’t stop. I didn’t dig.
You’re making it stick. It’s just dirt. Ordinary, brown dirt. Not red. Not blood. You’re coloring it. Because you need it to be something else. Something worse.
I didn’t plant silence. I planted nothing. Nothing at all. The trunk is empty. Except for the spare tire. And the jack. And the… the blanket. From the nights. When I couldn’t sleep.
Why are you crying? No, you’re not crying. You’re sweating. Like me. We’re both sweating. Is that it? We’re both sweating because we’re both trapped in this. This house. This yard. This lie you’re telling yourself.
Get out. Please. Just go.
Sweating? It’s cold. You’re the one sweating. The blanket. Why is it in the trunk? You don’t have insomnia. You haven’t slept in weeks. Not since the fire. The one you called an accident. The one that smelled like burning hair, not just rubber. You didn’t drive past the construction site, Lena. You drove past the old house. You went back. You checked the foundation. Why?
Accident. Right. It was an accident. The wiring was old. The insulation was rotted. You can’t control fire, Frank. You can’t control anything.
The blanket isn’t for sleep. It’s for… comfort. When the smoke alarm trips. When the neighbors knock. I keep it in the car so I have something familiar. Something clean.
I didn’t go back to the old house. I didn’t check the foundation. I was driving. That’s all. I was driving home. The red clay was from the road. The construction site. I told you.
Why do you keep asking about the hair? It wasn’t hair. It was plastic. The wires. They melt. They smell like that. Like burning plastic. Not people.
You’re insane. You’re completely, utterly insane. Stop looking at me like that. Like I’m a monster. I’m just a person who lost a house. And you’re making it worse.
Plastic doesn’t scream. I heard it. From your car window. You stopped. Right where the old house stood. You didn’t drive away. You listened. That’s why the blanket is in the trunk. To muffle the sound next time. You didn’t lose a house, Lena. You buried it. And the smell? It’s not burning. It’s rotting. Under the turf.
Screaming? Plastic doesn’t scream. It pops. It crackles. You’re hearing things. Auditory hallucinations. Stress. You’re stressed.
I didn’t listen. I stopped because the light changed. Red light. I always stop at red lights. Even when no one is coming. Even when the street is empty. Habit.
The blanket is for warmth. In the winter. When the heater breaks. Which it does. Often. You’re twisting everything. Every sound. Every smell. Every shadow.
There is no rot. There is no house under the turf. There is just dirt. And plastic. And me. Sitting here. Listening to you. Choking on your own fiction.
If I buried something, it would be your sanity. But I didn’t. I just sat there. Waiting for you to leave. To stop talking. To let me breathe. You won’t let me breathe. You’re suffocating me. With words. With lies. With your need for a monster.
I’m not a monster. I’m just tired. So tired. Go away.
You stop at red lights? You crashed through one on Elm. The one with the broken signal. Three days ago. I saw the skid marks. Red clay. Under the chassis. You didn’t wait for the light. You ran it. And you hit something. Something soft. That’s why the trunk’s clean. That’s why you’re sweating. Because you know what’s under the tarp in the back. Don’t you?
I didn’t run the light. I slowed down. The signal was flickering. Unreliable. I made sure it was safe. I checked. Every time.
Skid marks? From the rain. The road was slick. I didn’t hit anything. Nothing soft. Nothing hard. Nothing.
You’re seeing things, Frank. You’re projecting your guilt onto my tires. Why are there skid marks? Ask yourself that. Maybe you’re the one driving erratically. Maybe you’re the one hitting things.
I don’t know what’s under a tarp. There is no tarp. There is no trunk. There is only this conversation. And your delusions.
Stop lying about the light. I have dashcam footage. I have witnesses. I have proof.
Wait. Did I mention the dashcam? No. I wouldn’t do that. I’d keep it secret. Wouldn’t I? I’d hide it. Just in case.
What are you looking at? My eyes? Don’t look there. Look at the road. Look at the truth. It’s right there. Blindingly obvious. Why can’t you see it?