When I say the room is not well-lit, I mean that it is difficult to see the dimensions of it. It’s at once endless and confining, a clever trick of the light that proves it is, in another sense of the word, well-lit. Air circulates, blown and pulled through air vents I can’t see. My cardigan is thin, and I do my best to stop shivering. Calculated discomfort, all with the aim of making me talk. They know what they’re doing, I admit to myself with grudging respect. I’ve seen the in and outside of interrogation rooms often enough to spot what makes a good one. It’s been ages since I sat behind this kind of steel table, and when once this situation would have filled me with anticipation of a good fight to come, I feel very little at all. I’m tired, I suspect. I haven’t been in touch with my more material feelings in so long, or maybe I’ve been tired for long enough that it doesn’t register as a new experience anymore. It’d be wrong to say the fight has gone out of me. It’s still there, curled around my ribcage, ready to jump-start my heart at the first sign of danger, but it’s resting now. I just wish they’d let me rest. They’ve had me sitting at this table for three hours, staring at the glass wall across from me that hides other stares. I can’t feel my legs, and my wrists ache. There’s a glass of water placed just out of my reach. Assholes. I glare at the water like I can shame it into coming closer. It does not work.
            It’s actually a relief when a man bursts through the door. I don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching when the metal slams against metal, and from his face, I could tell he was expecting me to. He hides his disappointment poorly—a bad look on an already bad face.
            “Well, Mrs. Butcher,” he says.
            “Baker,” I correct him. He ignores me. I know their little name for me. They think they’re so clever.
            “I’m Detective Striker,” he says, voice dripping with false kindness like I’m a senile old fool who will believe this fakery. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
            I snort, but say nothing else. He studies my silence for a few moments then carefully maneuvers himself into the seat across from me. I hate this narrative already—whether he sees me as a hardened criminal or a harmless old woman, it’s clear he thinks I have no agency over my position. He asks a question—stupid, predictable—and I deflect. Pleasant voice, non-committal answer. Not-quite-confirmation, sorry I don’t recall, it’s been so long and my memory isn’t what it used to be. This is a dance I know down to my bones, and I’ve been practicing these steps longer than he’s been alive. He changes tactics, hoping to startle me with descriptions of prisons and promises of plea deals. As if I’m a young woman with her whole life in front of her instead of who I am: weary, wary, and old.
            “You’re right. Prison sounds horrible. But, to be fair, so does retirement. Prison walls or nursing homes, it makes no difference to me. I can die just as slowly in each. You have nothing to offer me.”
            He pretends to get a phone call, throwing out a weak excuse and leaving me with the promise that I’ll have plenty of time to consider his offer in the meantime. They move me to a cell, a sneak-preview of the rest of my life. Somehow, it’s even colder than the interrogation room and the thin blanket they provide me feels more like a funeral shroud.
            Thirty years of avoiding capture took a lot of finesse, long nights of planning, and a lifetime of paranoia. And yet, here I am. I should have never let that little boy back inside my shop.

—

            I am not a warm woman. I can’t afford to be with my profession and even if I could, motherhood never did appeal to me. Still, there was something about the little squirt that was difficult to scoff at. His eyes shone too brightly, his forehead scrunched up too delicately.
            He was in my store again. He tried to blend in, but a six-year-old did not easily melt into the background of statues and paintings that are twice his size. I came out from the back once the security cameras caught his presence.
            “You know you can’t be here,” I reminded him, wiping my hands on my apron. His eyes tracked the rusty stains left behind. I didn’t bother to pretend that it was paint. He’d paid his dues already.
            “I didn’t tell her I was sorry,” he said. His voice trembled, with tears instead of fear as it used to. It wasn’t a good sign that he was no longer terrified of me—fear keeps people careful. I really shouldn’t have indulged him this long. Against my better judgment, I said, “Be quick. If Mr. Baker sees you, you’ll be joining her in my cold room.”
            It was an empty threat, but he believed it full-heartedly. His previous brush with Mr. Baker was traumatic enough to strike caution into him again. He nodded, a smile melting away the mask of grief he wore, returning him to his true age. He dashed past me, scrambling around the counter to get through the door at the back. This was his third visit to his mother, and the maze of rooms no longer confused him. I watched him go with something horrifyingly close to fondness. It’s not that I cared for him, exactly, but there was a two-month hold on his mother’s body to keep the police from sniffing around, and if I had to kill the kid too, it would be a bitch to finish the job correctly. Besides, he brought a little life to what was essentially a house of dead people. I was sure I’d seen him around the neighborhood. He had the eyes and the last name of a man who I collaborated with before. There were few children around this part of town, and for good reason. There was no other way he could know what my modest art gallery really fronted for. I wasn’t a mother, but I did have strong feelings about this; if you wanted to waste your life tending to children, at least keep them out of the black market district.
            I shook off thoughts about the kid, getting back to the logistics of my latest piece—he was nowhere near the two-month mark, but he was a special case, so I didn’t feel bad about the rush job. It’s not like anyone would miss him anyway. I certainly wouldn’t. Mr. Baker was scattered in pieces around the cold room, and I spared a thought for the kid, hoping he wasn’t a fainter. I wasn’t usually that messy in my butchery, but getting rid of the bastard had become a bit of a passion project. I was using this project to take a break from the kid’s mom, who was proving to be a tough case. The kid was no help when I asked him what to do with her, three weeks ago. He had looked at me like I was insane for asking. Horrified, he’d said, “Why are you asking me?”
            “She’s your mother,” I had explained, as patiently as I could. “You killed her, so you should be the one to decide how she disappears.”
            The kid, who until that moment had been remarkably brave about seeking the help of a body disposal business, dissolved into tears.
            “I didn’t mean to,” he blubbered. I sighed. My knees creaked and popped as I knelt down to his level, my hands placed in my lap, open and inviting. Safe. He recoiled from the handkerchief I offered him with a stifled gasp. Honestly, of all the things he’d seen here, the handkerchief should have been the least of it. At least all the blood on it was dry.
            I tucked it away again, wrapping it around the icepick deep in my apron pocket and tried something else.
            “I know,” I soothed, putting on the voice I used in my daily life, the one to assure police officers I was just a kindly old lady, not worth their time or energy. Oh, I looked like someone they’d been investigating? How unfortunate! Oh, really how terrible, I hope you catch her soon, officer. I’d hate for this neighborhood to be unsafe. That same voice worked well enough for calming children, and with it, I managed to get the story of him. It really wasn’t uncommon, as far these things went: a backyard pool, a playful push, an unfortunate fall. A head wound and silence and one little boy, too weak and scared to pull her out. No witnesses, no help, no chance for survival. The main difference in this story was the aftermath: seeking help from the worst of society rather than risking punishment. I didn’t tell him that no judge in their right mind would lock away a little kid. Money was money, no matter the source, and the kid’s mom had a waterlogged wallet in her pocket when I went to go pick her up. My art wasn’t bringing in much income anymore and I needed this job.
            That should have been the end of it—a collection, a payment, and goodbye. But a few weeks later I found him in my cold room, silently clutching at his mom’s stiff hand like it was a favorite teddy bear. Not ideal, obviously, but if he could manage to sneak in undetected, he deserved a chance to say goodbye. I turned one blind eye to it, and then another a week later when he came again—Mr. Baker had more of a problem with it, but that wasn’t my problem anymore. Three times was a pattern, but it would be more trouble than it was worth to keep him away.
            I told myself this and almost sounded convincing.
            This time, he was only in the cold room for a few moments. I didn’t blame him. Between it and the crematory, the smell was truly horrendous and it started sticking to a person if they lingered too long. That reminded me that I needed to buy more perfume soon. My latest cases had been particularly rank.
            “Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” he said in a tremulous, wobbly voice. I nodded to him once and tilted my head towards the door. A guest should never overstay his welcome. Instead of leaving, he trotted over to me and threw his thin arms around my legs—the only part of me he could reasonably reach. I startled, not expecting it, and my hand scrambled for a knife hidden under the countertop. He let go before it got to that, and I almost felt bad.
            “Thank you,” he said again.
            “I don’t want to see you again,” I told him. “I’ll take care of her soon. Let me do my job.”
            “Where is she going?”
            “I haven’t decided yet,” I admitted. “The river, probably. She’ll be in pieces and doused in concrete. No evidence to tie back to either of us.”
            He hugged my legs once more. This time I was braced for it, and only rolled my eyes a little at the watery stains his face left behind. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully as it swung shut behind him. I watched him go, trying to decide what was so strange about that interaction. I decided it was nothing after all until later that day when the police tackled me in the street on my way to the store.

—

My thoughts chase each other around like a pantomime of the cat-and-mouse game that led to me sitting in this cell in the first place. They land eventually on the kid’s mom. With Mr. Baker currently in my crematory, roasting away to the ash he deserves to be, there’ll be no one left to finish her job. A freezer room can only do so much to stop nature from doing its job. The smell will attract alley cats, maybe, or more police. My cold room is exceptionally well-hidden, even within the maze of my house, so no worries that they’ll find it on their own. Unless, I remind myself, the little bastard betrayed more than my route to the grocery store when he slipped that tracker in my pocket. I don’t know how he managed that one and I’m not interested in finding out. Whether the kid was in on a long-con or Striker got lucky running into him, I’m still just as stuck here.
            If the police find her body, she’ll trade one freezer for another. Investigations drag on and she’s key evidence. As she is a rotting corpse, she won’t know the difference, but I will. I force my thoughts away from her and they continue to betray me, circling up and poking at Striker’s offer to cut a deal. It’s not about freedom, this yearning. I’ve had my taste of freedom, these many years as a successful business owner, and it’s not about morality—god knows I didn’t have any of that even as a young woman. It’s not even about the kid. Any warm-fuzzies I might have had for him went up in smoke when he landed me in here. It’s about his mother, I think.
            Striker comes back, all smiles and hospitality and sleaze, leaning pseudo-causally against the door of my cell.
            “Well?” he asks. “Have you decided to cooperate?”
            “It’s cold in here,” I say conversationally. “Like a freezer. I’m dying, you know.”
            He doesn’t buy it. “You’re in perfect health, Mrs. Baker. A little cold won’t kill you.”
            “Sitting here has taken a baker’s dozen off my life, so I don’t have many left. You mentioned a deal?”
            He narrows his eyes, smelling a trap where there is none. “What kind of deal?”
            “All the information I have, and a guilty plea at my trial. No fight, no tricks, no grand escape. Just an old woman growing older, staring at cement walls until I end up in a room colder than this one.”
            “And what’s in it for you?”
            I primly fold my hands. Suddenly, I have poise. Suddenly, I have agency. Suddenly, I have a plan. “You’re not going to like this.

—

            I’m right: he doesn’t like it. He tells me this loudly and repeatedly as I go about my work. There’s no time to dismantle the body or cure cement for sinking. As Striker tells me for the fourth time that he could lose his job for allowing me liberty, I decide to cremate her. I sweep my late husband’s ashes into the litter box, taking extra care to get every disgusting speck of his remains out of my crematory.
            To placate Striker, I say, “I’ve cleaned up some of the worst messes in this city. I’ve hid high-profile bodies for high-profile people—politicians, activists, leaders.” For good measure, I send a meaningful glance at his badge. “Some of Baltimore’s finest.”
            I pause again to smooth some stray hairs off the woman’s face. She looks highly uncomfortable. When I put her in here, she was still sopping wet, and the cold has not been forgiving. The frosty strands snap under my hands. I look back at Striker and continue, “I have a long list of names too cowardly to do their own dirty work and they’re all going to belong to you. All you have to do in return is let me take care of this nameless, unimportant woman. Single mom, you know? Alcoholic. Ex-husband used our services before. Her only kid was already headed to foster care. She would have disappeared one way or another.”
            He folds his arms, silent as a brick wall and just as dense. I try once more. “You’ll be the hero here. Change my story and I’ll change yours.”             He stops looking uncertain just long enough to look greedy—another bad look on him. “I’m not uninterested,” he says.
            I set down the woman’s body to crack my neck and loosen my shoulders. “Once she’s done cooking, arrest me again. You caught me in the act. You found my personal notebook, you figured out the code. It’s a simple shift cipher with hide as the key. You were the one to discover the—” I do a quick mental count – “Eighty-two bodies and thirty-nine criminals I have records for.”
            “We already brought you to the station.”
            I shrug. “So? I didn’t give you anything. Legally, you would have had to let me go in a few hours. So, let’s say you did; then you found another piece of evidence or followed a hunch and you followed me back here. I left the door open, so it’s not breaking and entering. By the time you got here, the lady was ashes. Nothing you could do.”
            I don’t give him a chance to re-think it. She’s in the kiln before he can argue another idiotic point, the banked fire coaxed back to life before he can finish finding downsides to my proposal. The dry heat of the fire is finally enough to drive that damn chill from my bones, and I hope it does the same for her. It’s kinder than the watery tomb I had planned for her and far better than submitting her to the slow-moving horror of the legal system.
            Striker’s slimy voice rambles on about all the other favors I’ll owe him for this, but all I can focus on is her. I gave up my chance at a plea bargain for this—a woman I don’t know who died in a stupid way and whose stupid son made the wrong choice of confidant. My last moments as a free woman will be spent watching another one go up in smoke. I have yet to decide if it’s worth it, but I do know I want to save at least one woman from the horror of sitting, alone, in a very cold room. At least one of us deserves to be warm.

---

Author:

Kit Stallmann is a junior English Education major. They hope to teach middle school and pass on their love of creative writing to their students.

Artist:

Elvis Castro is a senior Biology and Chemistry double major who will be attending the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine this coming fall. His interest in the arts covers a large range of areas from creating Hip-Hop/Rap music to portrait painting.

Riley Custer is a junior year Biology and Studio Art student from Gilbert, Arizona. Her favorite mediums are linoleum block printing, charcoal, and photography. When not in the studio, you can find her outside or watching Parks and Recreation with her cat, Newt.