Face of Murder

Zoe wasn’t about to admit that normality was what she was afraid of, since it was so often completely alien to her. Nevertheless, she followed Shelley through the unlocked door, and entered a warm space that was instantly filled with the sounds of cooking emanating from the kitchen.

Zoe took a deep breath of the air, scenting herbs and vegetables against the rattling of pans and hum of an extractor fan above a steaming dish.

“I’m home,” Shelley shouted at the top of her voice, making Zoe flinch.

She turned to see her colleague taking off her shoes and putting them onto a rack of five other pairs, and reluctantly did the same. Other people’s customs at home—it was always strange to adapt to them. Zoe had two cats, and there seemed to be little point in sparing her carpets the touch of her shoes. They were already susceptible to loose fur, tracked mud, cat sick, and whatever small pieces of animal they had not quite finished eating after dragging them inside.

At least, when they could be bothered; Euler and Pythagoras were rather lazy in their middle age, seeming to prefer the tinned meats she brought them from the store.

“Mommy!”

A small whirlwind of pink rushed into the hall from another room and quickly collided with Shelley’s legs. The young girl—who, Zoe remembered, was named Amelia—was quick on her feet, despite the fact that she must have been only just comfortable with walking and running. She held her hands up in the air for balance, until she could grasp onto her mother’s calf for support.

“Hi, sweetie,” Shelley said, leaning down to lift her daughter into her arms. “This is Mommy’s friend, Zoe. Do you want to say hi?”

Amelia took one glance at Zoe and then hid, burying her head in her mother’s shoulder.

Zoe watched with a growing sense of horror. Of course, the child would sense that there was something wrong with her. Children were intuitive. At least, normal children were. They knew when there was something off about a person. They knew it without being able to explain why.

Maybe Zoe should just excuse herself, back out, and go home. Her own mother’s voice rang in her ears with that old familiar taunt: devil child.

“Don’t be silly, you’re not shy,” Shelley chided with a laugh, bouncing Amelia up and down on her hip. “Come on. Say hello to Zoe.”

Amelia turned back with a grin, her blonde hair brushing over her shoulders. “Hello!” she exclaimed, the word not quite fully formed, but distinguishable.

Zoe hesitated. What should she do? The girl looked happy enough, smiling and giggling. “… Hello, Amelia,” she managed.

“Daddy’s making dinner,” Amelia announced proudly.

“It smells good,” Zoe conceded.

Amelia, seemingly happy with the way the conversation had gone, laughed merrily and wiggled her feet. Shelley took this as a cue to put her down, and Amelia ran down the corridor toward the lights and sounds of the kitchen.

“You remembered,” Shelley said, beaming.

For a second Zoe had no idea what she was talking about, until it dawned on her. “Of course. It is easy enough to remember your daughter’s name.”

“Not everyone does.” Shelley squeezed Zoe’s shoulder briefly, then followed her daughter down to the room that was mostly hidden past the doorway. Zoe could see that it extended to the right, but that was all. “Come on. Come meet Harry.”

Harry was a new name, but Zoe assumed that it must refer to Shelley’s husband—that was, of course, if they did not have a pet of any kind. Who else could it be?

She trailed behind Shelley, noting the presence of three framed photographs on the wall that each showed some variation of the family members in black and white, and into the kitchen. It opened up as she had predicted, some twenty feet along the whole of the back of the house, with an open-plan dining room on the other side. There were six chairs around the table, despite there being only three people in the family unit.

At the stovetop, there was a man standing with his back to them. He was six feet tall, and his back and shoulders were broad. He turned as they came in, brandishing a spatula that was coated in some kind of white sauce.

“Hey!” He grinned, as Shelley stepped forward to plant a kiss on his mouth. “You must be the famous Zoe.”

Zoe watched their causal affection with growing jealousy. They were so comfortable, as if they barely even noticed the value of what they had. Zoe had never been close enough to anyone for those casual daily kisses that were as habitual as locking the door or brushing your hair. All of the relationships she had managed were short, and went nowhere. She had never so much as lived with another person since getting her first flat as a teen.

“Hello,” she said, automatically, nodding a greeting. “It is nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Harry said, turning back to his cooking while he talked over one shoulder. “I just love having guests over. I get to be a little more creative in the kitchen, you know?”