The 22 Murders of Madison May Read online

Her train was pulling in as she approached Marcy Avenue station. She took the steps at a run, her bag bouncing, dodging a group of dudes coming down and taking all the space. She tapped her pass and sprinted to the platform, but the doors closed in front of her. A girl behind the glass looked at her with interest. “Gah,” Maddie said, as the train pulled away.

  While the platform emptied, she took out her phone and plugged in her earphones. She messaged Trent: On my way! ♥ Missed a train

  how did it go?

  A man paused near the exit. He was the last to leave. She glanced across the tracks, as if attracted by the billboards, to get a sense of him without making eye contact. He seemed fairly tall and thin. Longish hair. Possibly watching her. She adjusted her bag. She was made-up for the audition, wearing bright shoes and a snug sweater and a sprinkle of accessories that signaled she was super-friendly and accessible, which she didn’t want to do anymore. She put her phone to her ear like she was making a call and walked away. Then she stopped and looked at the screen, like What’s with this thing, no reception? In her peripheral vision, she saw the man by the exit, facing her.

  A couple entered the platform, a middle-aged man and woman, talking loudly about soup.

  She risked a direct glance at the man. A guy in a filthy khaki jacket, his cheeks hollowed out, his fingernails dark, and he wasn’t staring at her; he was gazing into space. So she had totally profiled him. Not very inclusive of her. Not very liberal. She returned to her phone. The platform filled over the next ten minutes, and when the train arrived, she was one of a half-dozen boarding the end train car. She circumnavigated an exploded hamburger and took a window seat.

  They’re going to let me know, she messaged Trent.

  He would be on the sofa in their shitty one-bedroom apartment, playing video games. The air-conditioning would be off, because he didn’t feel the heat. The sink would be full of dishes. They had been dating for twenty-two months, and occasionally she felt like they’d stopped trying. Well. That was generous. She felt like he had stopped trying. Somehow over time he had become more important and she less, until she was orbiting him like something trivial and supplementary.

  She said: ?

  The train stopped at Myrtle Avenue. A handful of people disembarked. Just before the doors closed, the homeless man stumbled into the car.

  She looked at her phone. The man gripped a pole. The train set off. He swayed. When she looked up, he was staring at her.

  He must have boarded with her at Marcy Avenue. Working the train cars, she assumed, begging for change. She lowered her head, letting her hair fall forward, focusing on her phone.

  Want me to order?

  Pepperoni ok?

  She could imagine Trent’s eyes sliding to his phone. A quick tap and then his attention back to the exploding bodies on the TV. He was a good guy. He was tall. He worked out. He earned money, actual money, the kind that could pay the rent, which she, pulling five or six shifts a week at a coffee shop between classes at NYU, absolutely did not. She could forgive his perfunctory emojis, couldn’t she? At least until she was pulling her own weight, financially speaking.

  Ain’t no one got time for a fixer-upper, a friend from NYU, Zar, had said once, not specifically about Trent, but boyfriends in general. Maddie had thought about that often since. She was a fixer, though. When she started a thing, she hated to leave it.

  The homeless man collapsed into a seat. Not beside Maddie, thankfully. But facing her. Eight or ten people remained: There was a guy in front of her, facing away, with strong-looking shoulders, his head bent, scrolling his phone. A father and a young girl by the doors. Two older women to her right, talking over the top of each other. But at Central, the father and daughter stepped out, and then at Myrtle-Wyckoff, the two older women rose and moved to the doors. “I love your hair,” one of the women said to Maddie.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said.

  “Mine was just the same shade of red, when I was younger,” the woman said.

  “Oh, it was not,” said the other woman, and swatted her with her hand.

  The train moved off. It was quiet and Maddie felt self-conscious because of the hair comment. The only other remaining guy commenced a phone call, telling someone he was ten minutes away but she could eat without him. When Maddie glanced at the homeless man, he was staring straight at her.

  The train shook. Two more stops, a short walk to her apartment along a route she knew well, key in the lock, and she was home.

  Maybe she should have taken a taxi. The train was usually fine, but occasionally not, especially not this late, after seven. Once, also late, she’d been stuck beside a man who slid a hand into his pants pocket and began slowly but determinedly to masturbate. She only realized when his breathing quickened and then it was over before she could move. At the next stop, he’d left without looking at her, like she hadn’t even mattered much, like she was a prop.

  She was fine. To give herself something to do, she messaged Trent.

  Almost there.

  The train slowed. The guy in front of her told his phone, “Okay. Love you. See you soon,” and stood. Maddie felt a flash of panic: She was about to be left with the staring homeless man. The train stopped. The doors opened. The guy with the phone stepped out. The homeless man leaned forward as if he was about to get off, too—no, she realized, more like he was switching seats, shifting closer to her, maybe, or right beside her, just the two of them, alone in the train car.

  She hoisted her bag and walked off the train. In the cool air and bright sodium lights, she felt immediately better. She followed a trickle of people onto the street.

  Walking from Seneca. Got off at the wrong station.

  Want me to pick you up?

  She was slightly annoyed that he believed her. She wasn’t the kind of person who got off at the wrong station by accident. That was something she would never do. She resolved not to accept his offer. She was out, she was walking; she could do things by herself.

  No thanks. Home soon.

  She reached the crossing. The guy from the train who’d told his girlfriend that she should eat without him was waiting there. His hair was long enough to blow in his face. Maddie glanced behind her in time to see the homeless man shamble out of the station toward her.

  The light turned green. She crossed in a kind of panic. When she reached the curb, she was caught on trying to figure out which route involved the least shadow and isolation, and the guy from the train noticed and said, “Are you okay?” He followed her gaze to the homeless guy, who was now running, he was literally running, to make the crossing, and added: “I’m going this way, if you want to walk with me.”

  He was pointing in the correct direction. “Yes,” Maddie said, “Thanks.” He nodded and they fell into step.

  “Warm night,” he said.

  She glanced back. The homeless man was at the corner, looking agitated. “Yes,” she said, remembering to respond. She looked at the guy and laughed. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” He smiled, revealing dimples. He had nice eyebrows. He walked without crowding her, leaving her room. “I’m headed to Woodward and Cornelia, but I can walk you somewhere else, if you want.”

  “Woodward is great, thank you.”

  He nodded. “I’m Clay,” he said.

  “Maddie.” Then, for conversation: “Are you meeting your girlfriend?” He looked surprised. “I was sitting behind you on the train.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I’m headed home.”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “That’s cool.” He smiled again. He was kind of endearing, in a goofy way. She had a crazy thought: She had been traveling home from a failed audition, thinking about her dying relationship, and got off one station early, and met the love of her life.

  “Have you been together long?” she said, asking bold questions.

  “Not really
.”

  Interesting. “What’s her name?”

  “You’re going to laugh.”

  She smiled. “Why?”

  “It’s Madison.”

  She did laugh. “There are a lot of us around.”

  “There sure are,” he said, and laughed, too. “You’re right about that.”

  She glanced back. The homeless guy was nowhere to be seen. She had overblown the whole thing. But it was all good. It had happened for a reason.

  He said, “How’s your day been?”

  A polite question: not super-personal, like hers had been. “I spent most of it waiting around at an audition.”

  “Like for a movie?”

  “A TV commercial.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That’s still pretty cool.”

  “I don’t think I got it.”

  “That’s still impressive,” Clay said. “It takes guts to put yourself out there even though you might get rejected.”

  “It goes with the territory.”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. I hate getting rejected. I can’t stand it.”

  “You get used to it.”

  He was lost in thought for a moment. “Maybe,” he said. “What’s the commercial for?”

  “I don’t want to tell you. It’s stupid.”

  “I promise I won’t laugh.”

  “Hair loss.”

  “You’re advertising hair loss?”

  “A spray,” Maddie said, “which cures hair loss. Or covers it up. I don’t know. I’m the adoring girlfriend. Only I’m not, because I didn’t get the part.”

  “It’s probably for the best,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “You’re probably right.” She could see her street now. The next block was mostly brownstone walk-ups, and she began to think how to play it so that Clay wouldn’t disappear from her life forever. She was performing at Narrows in a few weeks; could she offer him tickets? He might not be her fated love, but he seemed friendly and thoughtful, which wasn’t easy to find.

  “You’ll get a better job. One you deserve. I’m sure of it.” He said this with so much conviction, she kind of believed it herself. Clay pointed to a car, a blue Accord parked beneath a streetlight. “Hey, this is my car. I need to grab something, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” she said, although she didn’t quite understand that: why he was catching trains, then walking, then collecting things from his car.

  “It’s for my girlfriend.” He popped the trunk. “She might not even need it. But, you know.” He rolled his eyes. She smiled, even though she didn’t know, actually. He withdrew a silver case. It was large, like something she might expect a tradesperson to carry. A toolbox. Which didn’t really fit with the idea she’d built of this guy in her head.

  “Anyway,” she said, taking a step away from him. She didn’t like the case. “My street is right there. Thanks so much for the walk.” Forget the tickets. Forget this guy.

  “No problem. You don’t want me to come with you all the way?”

  “No, I won’t hold you up.”

  He was silent. Her phone dinged. She glanced at the screen.

  Hi Maddie, this is Damien from FTR Campaigns. Can you return tomorrow at 6am sharp for production? Pay is standard scale, $800/day plus o/t if required etc.

  She gave a squeak of joy. “Oh my God, I got it!”

  Clay reached the sidewalk. “The part?”

  “Yes!” She began to walk, her fingers working the phone. She had so many people to message.

  Got it got it got it!!!!!

  “The hair-loss girlfriend?” Clay sounded disapproving, for some reason. “Didn’t you say it was stupid?”

  “It’s so stupid.”

  “But you’re going to do it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.” She found Zar, with whom Maddie had invested in a bottle of sixty-dollar champagne, to be opened in the event that one of them booked a commercial job. Got that bottle ready???

  Trent: Are you serious?

  Zar: No way!!!!!! Who / what / howwwww?????

  “Why?” Clay said.

  She didn’t answer. Her phone was blowing up. She was walking fast, excited to get home. Clay kept pace with her, carrying the case. “Um, because that’s how you get started. You have to do the dumb ones.”

  “I don’t think you should,” Clay said. “You shouldn’t do the dumb ones.”

  She laughed. “Well . . .” She trailed off, because messages were still coming in, demanding answers.

  Hair-loss girlfriend, which one was that??

  OMG that’s so so so amazing I am literally THROWING UP with jealousy

  “I think you’re better than that,” Clay said.

  She glanced at him. “That’s kind.” The comment was unsettling, though. She tried to turn it into a joke. “But you haven’t seen me act.”

  “Actually, I have.”

  “When was that?” She tried to keep her voice light. She didn’t recognize Clay. She had no recollection of ever seeing him before. He had seemed kind and decent, but these last two minutes, there were red flags everywhere.

  “In a movie.”

  “I haven’t done a movie. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  He shrugged, smiling.

  She wanted to get away from him now. The corner was fifty feet away. But there was no one around, she realized. She was on a residential street and it was just her and him. “Where are you meeting your girlfriend?”

  “Actually,” he said, drawing the word out, so that it felt vaguely condescending. Aaaact-u-ally. “I’ve already met her.”

  She tried to make sense of this. “I don’t understand.”

  “Hold this,” he said, and handed her the case.

  She squawked a protest. She was holding her phone and almost dropped it, then almost dropped the case. She was off-balance and he grappled with the case, trying to help her, but her feet kept going backward, and she was backing into a driveway, she realized; no, no, she was being backed into a narrow driveway. He was pushing her. She couldn’t stop retreating without dropping the case on her feet. She let it go anyway. He pushed his body against hers, jamming her against the brick wall. She inhaled, and he thrust his forearm into her mouth.

  “A TV hair-loss commercial?” Clay said. He sounded angry but she didn’t know why. “Really?”

  She choked. His body was smothering her, too close for a kick or knee to the groin. When she scratched at his face, he grabbed her wrist like he’d known what she would do. She couldn’t breathe with his forearm in her mouth and she bit down as hard as she could, but he barely grimaced. His flesh was hard and cracked, like scar tissue.

  On the street, a figure appeared, hitched toward them, and stopped.

  “Later,” Clay said, sounding angry.

  “I followed you,” said the figure.

  “Wait around the corner.”

  It was the homeless man. Maddie gave a muffled whine.

  The homeless man said uncertainly, “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” said Clay. “Go around the corner, if you want your money.”

  She could barely breathe, but she called to the homeless man with her eyes. Please, she said. Please help me.

  He turned away. She put everything she had into screaming into Clay’s forearm. It was a poor, strangled sound, but enough; the homeless man’s shoulders hitched. He turned and came toward them, walking stiffly, as if his legs were stilts. “Leave her alone,” he told Clay, his voice shaking.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Clay muttered, his breath hot on her face.

  He stepped back. As soon as the pressure of his body lifted, she tried to move. His hand came up and shoved her head hard into the brickwork.

  She was on the ground. She felt
very sick. Her eyes weren’t working properly. There were people fighting. She began to crawl, but her arms and legs weren’t working properly, either.

  One of the people fell to the ground. The other stood over him. Maddie continued to crawl. She reached a silver case, which she recognized. The case was open, like a flower, with unfolding trays. The top tray was empty. The tray beneath it held a gleaming knife. Beside it lay a lock of hair tied with green ribbon: auburn hair, glinting gold and brown, like her own. And there was a brooch, an ivory sparrow, which she was absolutely, one hundred percent sure was at home in her drawer.

  The person on the ground stopped moving. The other man came toward her. There was something in his hand, which looked like it belonged in the case.

  “No,” she said. Her voice was thick and slurred.

  “Yes,” he said, and bent over her.

  6

  The waiting room of NewYork–Presbyterian Brooklyn was full of heat and bleeding children. At one point, a tiny Slavic woman rose unsteadily from her seat and began to totter toward the restroom. Felicity opened her mouth to say to Gavin, I think she needs help, and the woman fell to the ground. By the time they had made sure she was okay—no staff in sight, so Felicity took her to the restroom and stood outside the stall until she was done—their seats were occupied by two teenagers, one of whom was pregnant and huffing like a steam train.

  Eventually Felicity and Gavin were admitted to a small room with three stools, an untidy desk, and a poster advertising skin treatments. They sat quietly, holding hands. On Gavin’s lap rested the metal egg in the plastic tub, which they had brought just in case. Those were Gavin’s words: just in case. The rest of that sentence, she assumed, was: it’s made of chemicals that cause you to hallucinate cats.

  A short woman in blue scrubs entered. There was a spray of dark freckles across her nose. According to her nametag, she was Charu Kapadia. “Felicity Staples?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat on the remaining stool and prodded a keyboard. “What brings you here today, Felicity?”

  “I’m having trouble remembering things.”