Slice of Life

She was shivering. I wondered if she had a fever, because the fur coat was too heavy to be cold under. "I didn't do it."

"Not entirely, no. He'll live."

Her eyes were definitely looking a little feverish.

"It made me. But I don't remember doing it. You can't lock me up for it."

"Clara, it very much looks like you did it."

She was crying now, shaking like a leaf. I wanted to hug her, but the bloodstains weren't quite dry.

"Please," she said, rubbing childishly at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. "It was the knife."

"All by itself?"

"I don't know!" She pulled her knees up to her chest, beginning to sob.

"You need a minute?"

She nodded, eyes closed. The way she was rocking made me a little nervous.

"Okay. I'll be right back."

Outside, the knife sat on a folding table, still bloody. Engraved on the leather handle, in beautiful gold calligraphy, it read To Elsie. Love, Hugh.

Hugh Watson was at the hospital down the street, in critical condition. His ex-girlfriend, Elsie Pfeiffer, was nowhere to be found. According to Hugh's mother, she had moved out of the city in May, just after the breakup. Both were nineteen and had met in college.

"She was a strange girl," Hugh's mother told me conspiratorially. "Maybe she hired this one, like a hitman, or something. She was into all kinds of New Age stuff, so I wouldn't be surprised."

I ignored this. "So you have no idea where she is now?"

Mrs. Watson did not. "I never wanted to know. Never liked her. Real weird girl."

"Okay, Clara." I walked back in and shut the door gently. She looked up, eyes bloodshot. "Where'd you get the knife?"

She had bought the coat at a yard sale in April. She didn't remember anything about the house, or where it was. But the coat was beautiful, black fur that would work for gigs in the winter. It was also cheap. (The girl who sold it to me smiled and winked. She was cute. Blonde. I'm moving to Miami, the girl said. Don't need a fur coat in Miami. But take care of it, 'kay?)

She found the knife when September sent her shivering to the depths of her closet. It twisted in her hand, compass-like, always facing the same way. (I assumed it was a magnet thing, you know? Like maybe it was connected to another one, like those watches that you touch and your girlfriend's lights up in Australia?) She wondered about the inscription, then put the knife in her car's glove compartment. (Just in case, I guess. Self-defense, is what I was thinking.)

In December, she was driving to a gig in the suburbs (My quartet plays for all kinds of weird stuff. Some guy was doing a Christmas-themed proposal in the park.) when she heard the knife clicking in its compartment. When she opened it, the paper napkins, pads, and papers she kept in there were shredded from the knife's spinning. (I was mostly mad about the registration and all that. Do you think they'll mind?) She was running late. She put the knife on her dashboard and rushed into the park. (The girl said yes.)

When she turned out of the parking lot, the knife turned too, spinning slowly on the dashboard. She followed it through a suburban neighborhood. (I don't know. I didn't want to go home. I was curious. It seems like a really stupid idea now, yeah.) Driving down the idyllic, tree-lined subdivision aptly named Windy Oaks, she saw Hugh in a driveway, taking groceries out of his trunk. And then I blacked out.

"What do you mean, you blacked out?"

"I don't remember anything between that and the cop car."

"Had you been to Hugh's house before?"

"No! No, God, I'd never met him."

Hugh's neighbor, Mercedes, was getting her mail when she heard him scream. She saw what she described as "a teeny little woman. Probably a teenager" slashing at Hugh with a little knife.

"She was gripping him like a monkey," the old lady said, eyes wide. "Just cutting and cutting him, face, shoulders, neck, everywhere."

Hugh tried his best to fight her off. "It was like she was rabid, like an animal. She didn't say anything. She just came at me and I didn't know what to do, and then, well..." He pointed to the scars around his eyes. "Fight or flight response, right? I was trying to get away, she was hanging on..."

His eye twitched. "There wasn't much I could do."

Mercedes called the police, who Tasered Clara (Really? So that's why everything hurts. Perks of being a five-foot-three white girl, I guess.) and then arrested her. The usual guy was in court. I was sent in to interview her.

"I don't remember doing it," she whispered to me. Her hair hung around her face, matted with blood. "Am I going nuts?"

Hugh sat in my office a week later and confirmed two things. He had given that knife to Elsie, and he had never met Clara before.

"She was into that kind of thing. Just for decoration, or for cutting up plants, and whatever. It was a first anniversary gift, but we broke up like a month later."

His scars were red and still swollen. He had been lucky to save his eye. He did not want to speak to Clara. He did not want to see her. He wanted to get away from it all as quickly as possible.

Eventually, I let him go. He had nothing else to say.

The knife was certainly not turning now. It sat on its table, and I walked Clara outside to show her. It was just an ordinary knife, leather handle, gold inscription. To Elsie, from Hugh.

Clara ended up in psychiatric care, as I recommended in my report. We never found Elsie, in Miami or elsewhere.

Hugh and his mother moved away within three months. Neither wanted anything to do with the case.

I kept the knife. It was really very pretty. I use it as a letter opener.