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The letter came in a dark green envelope, with Jessica’s name on the back in black inked letters in loopy, cursive that was admittedly quite pretty. According to the housekeeper, there was a knock on the door, and when she opened it, the letter had just been there on the front stoop.
Jessica couldn’t help the confused “huh,” that came from her mouth as she looked at the letter, thrown by the randomness of it. Should she even open it or was that just inviting trouble? Curiosity getting the better of her, she sat down at the table with it, using a long, manicured fingernail to open the envelope. To her surprise, she found the stationery to be the same dark green as the envelope. Well, that was different. She scanned the neatly written script on the page before beginning to read.
You seem like a nice lady, so I think you should know what your husband is really doing at those puppy mills.
Wait, Martin? Puppy mills? What were they talking about? She pulled the letter away a few inches, as if that would bring clarity, when it hit her: They were talking about the kennels.
They had recruited Martin in the earlier years of their marriage, a few years before the first human pets went to market. She thought it happened at a charity event for the hospital. He had spent most of the night talking to two men in suits in the corner, leaving his wife to her own devices. A week later he got his first call from them. Never asked her opinion on it, even though he knew how disgusting she found the concept of a pet human. She doubted it even crossed his mind to ask.
She started reading again.
I understand why you might not believe me, but I used to work for Winsor before I knew what was really going on. I saw this myself. He’s killing them.
Jessica did a double take, reading sentence again, then shook her head. No. This had to be some sort of sick joke.
If a buyer is dissatisfied for some reason and returns a pet, they call him, and he comes and puts it down. Winsor uses a debreather, I think Remmington uses the same drug cocktails they use for executions, but I’m not sure. I wish I had something more to offer in the way of proof, but when I left, I was just trying to get out of there. But I can’t watch this anymore.
I can’t tell you what to do with this, or even what I would hope you would do with this. Just make sure he doesn’t hurt you, too.
That was where it ended. No signature, no sign up, just the word Sorry in that same loopy handwriting.
Jessica just stood there for a moment, shock and confusion making her brain short-circuit. She looked down at the letter and started to read it again. This had to be a sick joke.
She should throw it out. No, burn it. It was better that Martin didn’t see it. If he thought she believed it, she would never hear the end of it.
Finding the nearest fireplace, she lit it and once she had a cozy little flame going held the green parchment above it. She meant to throw it in, but instead she just froze, staring at it. She didn’t know why, but something inside her told her to keep it.
She shook her head, as if she could erase the words she read from her mind like an etch-a-sketch. Why would she need to keep it? Martain was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a murderer!
Just then she heard the first door open and heard Martian greeting the housekeeper. Panic shot through her. Whatever she was going to do, she was going to have to do it now. If he caught her with this, who knew what he would do?
Folding it up, she stuffed in the nearest drawer, just in time to hear a smooth honeyed voice asking, “And what’s my Jessie been up to this afternoon?”
While her back was still turned and he couldn’t see, she cringed. She hated that nickname. Still, she managed to plaster a smile on as she turned around. “Darling.” She leaned in and kissed him.
Three days later Jessica still couldn’t get the letter out of her head.
She would be just going about her business, and the venomous words would ring out in her head. Winsor uses a debreather, I think Remmington uses the drug cocktails they use for executions, but I’m not sure…
That was how she wound up hunched over her lap top, reading about the methods. Apparently a debreather was a modified piece of scuba equipment that suffocated the victim to death. A disturbing number of laypeople use them in assisted suicides. Even if they were doing what the letter asserted, they wouldn’t need an actual doctor, much less a surgeon! Why hire Martin when they could just have an attendant do it?
That was what she kept telling herself.
As for lethal injections, apparently the procedure used to be a three-drug protocol, but due to shortages of the needed drugs—surprise, surprise, drug companies misliked being associated with death—states had resorted to using anything from a lethal dose of anesthesia to bringing back the firing squad. But Jessica got a feeling that the letter had been referring to the three-drug protocol. And overdose of anesthesia wasn’t out of the question either.
Of course, that was if the kennels were doing it at all.
They couldn’t just kill them. They may have found a way to reduce human beings to the status of a lap dog, but they were still human beings! They couldn’t just kill them in cold blood! They wouldn’t!
Would they?
“Mrs. Whitley?”
Jessica looked up to see the new maid, a waify young woman with pulled back dark hair, was staring there, looking concerned, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, um…” Jessica began, trying to search her mind, which was hard when everything in her head felt like static.
“Rosa,” The young woman said, looking down.
“Thank you, Rosa, I’m fine,” Jessica said, “I’ll just be a few more moments.”
As the young girl walked away, Jessica turned her attention back to the laptop, typing in another name. If this person really did work for the kennel, surely there had to be some record of them.
There was frustratingly little information on who worked at the kennels. She couldn’t even find any evidence Martin worked there.
“Jessica?”
Martian called out her name, his syrupy voice pulling her from her thoughts, “You alright down there?”
They were at separate ends of the dining room table, an unintentional visual that could be an equally unintentional metaphor for their marriage at this point.
“Fine.” Jessica lied. She took a sip of wine before saying, “Darling, I was hoping to ask you something?”
“Of course, dear.” Martin replied, his voice all honey and oil.
“What…do you when you go there?” Jessica asked, “The kennels, I mean? What exactly is it that you do for them?”
Martin looked annoyed for a minute, but plastered over it, saying, “Jessica, we’ve been over this. I know you don’t like it, but…”
Then why do you do it?! The question screamed out in Jessica’s mind. He knew how she felt about human pets, and he took the job anyway! He didn’t even ask her how she would feel about it! And why?! It wasn’t like he didn’t have a job already! It wasn’t like they were desperate for money! Stuffing her anger down, she said, “I’m not asking you to stop. I want to know what you do there. Isn’t that what people do? Ask about their spouse’s work?”
“I can assure you dear, it’ll bore you to tears.” Martain brushed it off with a wave of his hand, “Really, it’s just, treating sick pets. Strep throat, food poisoning, the most exciting thing that ever happened was broken pinky.”
“But with no set hours?” Jessica questioned.
“Emergencies don’t happen on schedule.” Martian responded, sugary sweet, picking up his knife, “And besides, you know how the one percent can be. Quite demanding.” He narrowed his eyes with a pointed glance at her as he cut into the chicken on his plate. and Jessica immediately knew he had a specific one percenter in mind.
Suddenly she felt a splitting pain in her temples. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t feel so good all of a sudden.” She said, standing up.
“Oh, honey,” Martain said, getting up, ever the good husband, “Let me help.”
“No, I’m fine.” Jessica insisted, backing away.
Martin froze. “Jessie…”
“I’m fine. “Jessica insisted, earning her a look. But he let her leave.
This time.
It hadn’t always been this way.
When they were dating, he made her feel very safe and very much loved. Like she hadn’t felt before. All the men before hadn’t hidden their imagined entitlement to her body after wining and dining her. Then he swooped in, all tenderness, the warmth she never received from her own family. Maybe she had been primed to fall head over heels in love with the lie that was Martian Whitely.
The lie didn’t lift completely after they married. It started out small. A back-handed comment here. Invalidation there. And that stupid nickname they both knew she hated! Then he started embarrassing her in public when he didn’t get his way. Then he started picking fights. The odd terrifying rage, but those weren’t that often. All with just enough sweetness, enough moments of that tenderness to string her along. To keep her holding out just a bit of hope that they could be like they were before.
That was the cruelest injury of them all.
And now it had come to this. Lying on her bed with her eyes closed, desperately trying to keep out the light, trying to block out her enemy’s painfully heavy footfalls as he went down to the basement. She could almost swear he did on purpose.
Sometimes she wished he would just hit her already. She knew he wanted to. Maybe then she could bring herself to finally do something.
Her chance to act came a few days later. He got a call from Remmington that they needed him to come in.
She stood just outside of the living room doorway, listening for the door to shut. She counted back from five. That should give him enough time to leave. No need to tail him, she knew the address. She just needed to make sure she wasn’t seen.
It was disturbingly easy to sneak through the kennel’s service entrance. Finding her way through it was another matter entirely. The whole place seemed to be endless white halls.
As she was walking through the halls, trying to avoid being seen, she heard her.
“Please just let me talk to them!”
Jessica peaked her head out, watching two men in white dragging a girl who couldn’t be more then nineteen, a sheen of sweat over her pale white skin, her dark hair falling around her as she struggled against them. Her face was utterly petrified.
“I can make them change their minds,” The girl franticly pleaded, “They don’t want this, really, please just let me talk to them!”
“Oh, shut up!” One of the men groaned, pulling her along as she tried to stand in one place.
“Please don’t do this!” The girl sobbed, desperately trying to get free from their hold, “I’m sorry! Please I—I don’t want to die!”
“Can we get a muzzle for her please?!” The other man shouted.
Jessica watched in silence, too shocked to even process what she was seeing, let alone act, as a leather device was handed to one of the men, who wrapped it around the poor girl’s face, muffling her pleas. She still tried to fight, clawing and dragging her feet, terrified tears flowing down her face. It was a fight she lost, being shoved into a backroom.
Finally gathering the courage to leave her hiding place, she peaked through the window as the men strapped the poor girl down to the table. By the counter there was a familiar figure with his back turned to everyone. He turned and Jessica could clearly see it was Martin. Sucking in her breath, she watched as Martin picked up and vail and a syringe sticking the needle in and filling it with a clear liquid.
She couldn’t clearly read the label from where she was, but she didn’t need to. It all fell into place. She knew what he was going to do.
“NO!” Jessica burst through the door, all base instinct, running for the struggling girl. She grabbed at the nearest restraint and worked at the buckle, her fingers fumbling. She had to get this girl out of here. She had to get her far away from here…
Before she could get any further, she felt hands around her wrists, pulling her away as a voice said, “Security!”
“No!” Jessica shouted again, fighting against the orderlies, clawing one of them, “No! Let go of me! You can’t do this…”
“How did you even get here?”
“You know this crazy lady?” One of the orderlies asked.
“Yes, she’s my wife,” Martain replied begrudgingly.
“Martin,” Jessica began, looking directly at him, her voice pleading, “Martian, please, please don’t do this. Look at her, she’s—she’s just a girl, she’s —”
That was when she heard the doors bursts open again a booming voice said, “What’s going on here?!”
“I’m so sorry, my wife just got upset,” Martain began, “She’s not normally like this, I don’t know what’s gotten into her—”
“What’s gotten into me, you’re the ones who has a girl strapped down to a table,” Jessica gasped, “Please, please, don’t do this, don’t kill—”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Please, get her out of here, I’ll handle it later.”
Suddenly Jessica’s arms screamed in pain as they were pulled around her back, then she felt cold still clinched around them tightly squeezing and causing her yelp in pain. “No!” She writhed as rough hands pulled her away, dragging her down the hall, “Please, just listen! Don’t do this! Martin!”
But her please fell on deaf ears, met with a slowly shutting door as she was pulled down the hall, someone screaming. Then she realized it was her.
Jessica didn’t know how long she sat in security’s office, still cuffed. She couldn’t even process to be scared for own safety at that point. It seemed like the whole world was tilting around her, her heartbeat in her ears, her entire being cold. At least until the door opened, revealing the security guard who was drug her away, looking annoyed. He walked towards her at a steady pace.
“Am I next?” Jessica asked, her voice hollow, a voice she barely recognized. They killed that poor girl, what was there to stop them from killing her?
“Don’t be so dramatic, lady,” The security guard said, pulling her up and removing the handcuffs. “We’re not filing charges, but I’m going to have to escort you out of the building.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Jessica asked numbly, rubbing her wrists.
“Look, it’s just a pet,” The security guard said, “No reason to get so upset. It’s not like it’s even yours.”
When they made it out of the building. Martin was standing by the car, having the gall to look concerned. “I can take her from here. Tell the head I owe him.”
“I think he already knows,” The security guard said, handing Jessica off like she was some rebellious teenager who got taken home by the cops.
She finally came out of her stupor when Martin touched her arm, making some comment about how rough they were. Feeling like she might puke, she whirled away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Jessica—” Martin began, stammering, as if he was the one who had the right to act hurt.
“No!” Jessia cut him off, “You…that poor little girl…how could you?!”
“Jessica, listen to me,” Martin began, trying to grab her by the arms, only for her to turn away, “I know they look human, but they’re just animals…”
Jessica stepped away. “She was begging for her life…”
“Give it a few years and artificial intelligence will be begging not to be uninstalled,” Martin brushed it off.
Jessica gapped. She wasn’t going to stand here listening to his excuses. She turned to ran when he opened the car door, grabbing her arm. “Get off of me!”
The mask slipped for a moment, Martin’s face contorting into an angry scowl, his hands rising, before he seemed to remember where he was, slipping the disguise back into place. “I have some paperwork to fill out, but I promise, we’ll talk this out when I get home, okay?”
How can he be acting like this? Like it was a simple misunderstanding they could hash out in five minutes? Her body was locked in place as he shut the door, saying something to her driver, then the car started to move.
By the time they reached home, Jessica knew what she had to do. She couldn’t let him get away with it. She knew he would still go home. She had to beat him there. She had to get to that letter.
And then she had to get it to the right people.
If someone had told Gil Arroyo there was possibly even more paperwork as a lieutenant than a detective, he might not have taken the exam.
It was his first day leading major crimes. So far it had fairly uneventful, at least until he heard someone crying. Wailing really.
Acting on instinct, he leaped up, running to his office doorway just as someone was saying, “Ma’am, I know it may be hard, but you need calm down if we’re going to get anywhere…”
When he arrived on the scene he saw a uniformed officer in front of woman with long dark hair, her face red with tears, on the edge of hyperventilating, gesticulating wildly with a green envelope in her hand.
“I can take it from here, MacAvoy,” Gil volunteered, stepping in between them. That was when he saw the red marks on her wrists, as if she had been in too-tight restraints. They looked fresh. Like maybe hours old. Her sleeves went to her elbows, so he could also see the red welts on her lower arms. He thought he could even make out a thumb on one of them. No wonder the poor woman was in hysterics. He might be too in her place. “Can you breathe for me, ma’am?” He demonstrated, breathing slowly, in and out. “Like that?”
The woman copied, taking shaky breaths in and out.
“Alright,” Gil said once she seemed clam enough to proceed, “What’s your name ma’am?”
“Jessica Whit-whit—” The woman, Jessica apparently, seemed like she was about to vomit, as if the name itself made her sick.
“Alright, why don’t we just set down here,” Gil coaxed, guiding her to nearly chair, they sat down he asked, “Do you need medical attention?”
“No,” Jessica responded, shaking her head, “No, I need to report a murder.” She looked like she was about to start crying again before adding, “Maybe more than one.”
“Alright, well, you came to right place for that,” Gil soothed, keeping his composure, “Now, why don’t you start at the beginning?”
Jessica held out the green envelope. “It started about a week ago, when I got this…”
And so, Jessica told Gil her whole story. Of her husband’s job with the kennels that bred human “pets”. Of the letter claiming he was essentially the kennel’s executioner. Of following him to see if it was true.
Of finding out it was true.
When she finished, Gil leaned back, rubbing his face, planning what he needed to do next. “And you’d be willing to testify to this in court?”
“Yes!” Jessica exclaimed, leaping in her seat a little. A look of fear crossed her face and Gil thought he was about to lose her a moment before she asked, “Am I…am I allowed to do that? Isn’t there… a law that spouses can’t testify against each other…”
“Spousal privilege can be waived,” Gil assured her, “For the time being I’d like to put you in protective custody. Right now, this letter and your testimony are the only proof we have that a crime was even committed, and our prime suspect has a house key.” If what she had told him was true, he wasn’t sure this ‘doctor’ would have any qualms about uxoricide.
Jessica’s face went through a range of expressions before finally saying, “Alright.”
Gil felt relief rush through him, then he caught sight of the ugly rings of red around her wrists again. Maybe they could charge the kennel with false imprisonment while they were at it. “And you really should have your wrists look at.”
She had too much time to think.
After insisting her injuries were treated document, the oh so very nice policeman at the station took her statement and made the arrangements for protective custody. After that as detectives were making calls about warrants, she was spirited away to a hole-in-the -wall motel with two police outside the door. As she sat on the edge of the creaky bed, rubbing her sore wrist, she had too much time to think.
Too much time to go over through her entire life with Martin, trying to find some sign, some indicator of what he truly was. Too much time to worry that the flimsy lock on the door wasn’t enough to keep him out if he came for her, even with the police standing guard.
Taking off her heels, she stood up, removing the lamp and clock from the in-table and pushing it with all her might until it was in front of the door, right against it. She whirled around, looking for anything else she could use to barricade the door. Not even bothering to remove the TV, she pushed the small pressed wood stand over in front of the bedside table. Once that was done, she walked back over to the bed, sitting down on the edge.
She didn’t sleep that night. At all.
When Gil came in looking like he had gotten just about as much sleep as she had, Jessica knew something bad was coming.
“What do you mean you can’t charge him with anything?” Jessica demanded, pacing the floor in front of Gil, who unknowingly sat in the same spot she had the night before as he gave her the terrible news.
“The DA says it’s not illegal to, ‘put down’ a human pet,” Gil began then, then presumably seeing the way Jessica looked at him added, “His words, not mine. Since they’re not legally considered human, from in the eyes of the law it’s no different than euthanizing a dog.” He rubbed put his face in his hands.
For a few moments Jessica couldn’t think, her brain all static. Before she knew what was happening, she let out a ragged scream, grabbing the first thing she could get her hands on—the bedside table lamp—and was about to throw it when Gil lept to his feet, grabbing it from her hands. “Mrs. Whitley, I understand you’re going to through a lot, but I need you too—”
“Don’t—” Jessica shouted, pulling back, “Don’t call me by that monster’s name.”
“You’re right,” Gil said immediately, putting his hands out, as if to placate her, “I’m sorry.”
That was when it hit Jessica what she had just done. “I’m sorry about the lamp.” He had already been so kind; she hated the possibility she could have got him into trouble by destroying motel property.
“I’m more worried about you right now,” Gil said, guiding her back over to the bed, “Let’s just…take a minute, then discuss next steps.”
“What next steps are there?” Jessica responded, “You just said there’s no case.”
“No, but from the way you were just talking I’m assuming divorce proceedings are in the near future,” Gil said, his voice firm, but a little unsure.
That was when it hit her: She was still bound to a murderer in legal matrimony. She certainly couldn’t call it holy matrimony anymore.
She thought she was going to vomit for a moment. “I need to call my lawyer,” Jessica said, going for her phone, “There’s going to be paperwork, and …”
“First you have to get him out of your house,” Gil said, “Or find you somewhere safe. Now, we’ve done about we’re authorized to do, but I’d like to escort you to get those affairs in order.”
Jessica paused for a moment, feeling a flicker of relief for just a moment. “Thank you.”