Whatever Happened to Kelly Kilcher?

Part 8: Bruises

A week passes since my meeting with Brian Shumway. I decide to visit Jean Fable again. I want her to tell me what she knows. I want her to tell me what her husband did to Kelly. She obviously knows more than she initially let on.

Nathan refuses to join me. He’s not happy that I’m going back to Hartley. He doesn’t understand why I won’t let this go. He says he understands, but I know he doesn’t. Not really. “Every time you leave, you come back a little less the man I know,” he said as I packed my bag. I don’t even know what that means. Who I was in 1994, who I wanted to be, and who I am now are three different people. I don’t know which is the true me, but the person I wish I’d been in1994 has the strongest hold on me right now.

“We don’t know for sure what was wrapped in that sheet,” I him. “Kelly might still be out there somewhere. I have to be sure.”

Maybe I’m delusional, but everything I’ve learned so far is circumstantial. The green light reflected in the basement could be anything. And who knows what was wrapped in that sheet. It could have been an animal, a family pet, or even some incriminating documents. I’m not ready to believe that Kelly is dead. I’m not ready to face the fact that turning down her invitation to California changed the course of both our lives.

#

The first words I ever said to Nathan were, “Are you deaf?”

We’d met online, messaged each other for a few days, and then decided to meet for coffee. As he walked into the cafe, the light made it look like he was wearing a cochlear implant. He wasn’t. We laughed about it, and it set the stage for the jokey interplay that laced our conversation throughout the afternoon. The easy banter of two people who’d known each other all their lives. It was a rare connection that doesn’t come around every day and we both knew it was special. By the end of the date, Nathan had no problem telling me that I was eating my ice cream cone all wrong.

“Don’t tell me you’re a fucking know-it-all,” I laughed.

“I just read an article about it,” he told me. “Licking is considered more discreet.”

“Where’d you find this article?” I asked as I took another bite off the top of my cone.

“On the internet. Something like, ‘You’ve Been Eating Ice Cream Wrong Your Entire Life’.”

“Who writes that shit? I think licking is suggestive.”

Nathan smiled. “Only if there’s eye contact.”

“I’m not a fan of random internet people telling me everything I do is wrong. Life is hard enough.”

“Agreed,” Nathan said, taking a massive lick of his mint chocolate chip as he looked directly into my eyes.

 The next day he sent a link to an article titled, ‘You’ve Been Tying Your Shoes Wrong Your Entire Life’ and texted this is why you walk like that. I laughed out loud in the middle of Aldi. Trading stupid clickbait articles became our inside joke.

#

Before going to Jean’s house, I stop at Prose & Pints for a drink. Scrolling through my phone as I wait for my drink, a Vox article titled “You’ve Been Eating Celery All Wrong” makes me laugh so I send it to Nathan. He texts back that the only proper way to eat celery is in a Bloody Mary.

I take a seat at the same table we all used to gather around after work. The faint smell of Kelly’s CK One wraps around me and I can’t help reminiscing about the last time she was here with us. It was a week or two before she left for California. She played “Pour Some Sugar on Me” on the jukebox for the millionth time and tried to convince us that it’s not a dirty song.

“It’s filthy,” Geoffrey insisted. “And played out.”

“Well, I love it,” Kelly insisted. “I don’t care if it’s played out. And it’s not filthy. The guy just wants some sugar. It’s an expression. Except he doesn’t want just a little. He wants a lot. He wants you to pour it all over him. It’s sweet.”

“Sticky sweet,” Josh said, smiling.

Daphne stifled a laugh.

“It’s borderline offensive,” Sheila scoffed. “What exactly do you think the peaches are?”

“And what is the cream?” Geoffrey giggled, pressing his thigh against mine.

“The cream is metaphorical,” Kelly said. “Obviously.”

“Metaphorical for what?” Josh pushed her.

Kelly gazed pensively into the distance. “Hope,” she said at last. “Or joy. Or maybe Cool Whip. Who’s to say?”

We all started laughing.

Kelly just smiled.

It wasn’t until later, after the others had left, that I realized what she’d done. She’d deflected. She didn’t want to admit that we’d hurt her feelings, so she used jokes as armor.

“Why do you always play that song? You know they’re just gonna tease you.”

“It’s my favorite song,” she said. She went on to tell me that she never felt like she really belonged at home, with her family. Her parents were religious and very strict. Her brothers and sisters abided by the rules and adopted their parents’ faith without question. Kelly never could. One night, she snuck out the house to attend a school dance—that’s where she heard “Pour Some Sugar on Me” for the very first time. It was her first taste of life outside the house she grew up, and it was proof that a bigger, brighter life was possible. By the time the chorus hit, she could feel in her soul the person she was truly meant to be.

“I play it to reminds me to believe in myself,” she said. And with a twinkle in her eye she added, “It makes me feel like everything will be okay… even when it can’t.”

Jean’s porch is more slanted than before and it leans disconcertingly against the house. The garage was heavily damaged by all the rain last week. The roof has partially collapsed, a wall has caved in, and the door is hanging ajar. Something inside catches my eye, so I walk over to take a peek. The door creaks loudly before giving way, its hinge coming loose from the frame as I push it open. My heart instantly breaks.

It’s Kelly’s blue Nissan Sentra.

I run my hand along the roofline, every rust spot a reminder of the years that have passed us by. I open the door and gaze inside. Def Leppard is still in the cassette deck. A duffel bag sits in the back seat. I want to climb in and ride shotgun again, windows down, Kelly blasting Hysteria like it’s the summer of ’94. Like we both still have a chance. But I know that this will be considered evidence—part of the crime scene—so I slowly step away.

I back out of the garage and close the door the best I can with its broken hinge. When I turn around, Jean Fable is standing on her porch glaring at me, her face expressionless. The sun shows no mercy to her translucent skin, and her thin gray hair sits on top of her head like tumbleweed. I move towards her without saying a word. At the porch, I take hold of her gnarled hand and walk her inside. She’s unstable—her rheumatoid arthritis must be acting up—and she immediately slumps into the wheelchair that’s waiting in her living room. “Goddamn weather,” she mumbles.  

The room has sunk another couple inches since I was last here, and the darkness has thickened. Cracks in the walls are wider, taking on ominous shades of rouge and indigo, like festering wounds. The window remains open, allowing a puddle of rainwater to form on the floor, its metallic scent mingling with the stench of decay. I don’t think anybody comes around to help her. Ever. I place Jean near the coffee table and drape a blanket over her legs. As I ease myself onto the davenport, its wetness seeps into my clothes and sends a shiver down my spine.

“You know where the wine is,” Jean barks, her face cracking as she speaks.

“I’m good, thanks.” I am not going into that basement without Nathan.

Jean stares at me with icy black eyes until I get up and head to the kitchen, praying there’s a bottle upstairs. The floorboards creak and moan with every step. The height difference between the living room and dining room is nearly six inches now. Half a foot. I’m careful not to trip. Thankfully, a bottle of wine sits on the top shelf of the refrigerator. It’s a twist top, which makes me chuckle. “Boone’s Farm, Jean?”

Nothing says spill your guts like Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. I set a glass in the cuppy holder of her wheelchair and fill it just under halfway. She gives me a dirty look and knocks back the entire glass with one swig. I give her another splash and tell her to pace herself. Then I take a sip of my own. The sweet strawberry rush is sickening, but it’s just what I need. I finish my glass and pour another as I look around. The crack over the fireplace is hot and angry.

“Tell me what Don did,” I finally say.

“He cheated on me.” Jean flicks her eyes downward, through the floor, to the basement. “And if she thinks she was the first, she’s a damn fool.” She spews out the words like Kelly is in the house with us. “He was supposed to come home every weekend. It was only a three-hour drive.” Jean taps her finger against the empty glass in her cuppy holder. I ignore her.

“Keep going.”

“So I followed him. For months. I’d sit in the hotel parking lot and watch him come and go. He liked them young. And slutty. Made my skin crawl.” Jean’s hands tremble in her lap.

I refill our glasses. I already have a buzz.

“I couldn’t give him children. And we didn’t have a prenup.”

“So?”

“So I had nothing,” she says flatly.

“You could have left with half,” I tell her, irritated. I finish my glass and pour myself another, finishing the bottle.

“I didn’t want half.” Jean scoffs, downing her wine and staring at the empty bottle. “I wanted him.”

“What happened the night Kelly died?”

“Don came back alone—late, drunk. As he stumbled towards the hotel entrance, a woman crossed the lot heading towards the restaurant. When he saw her, he froze, like he’d seen a ghost. And I knew.” Jean’s voice tightens. “A woman knows. He called out her name.” Jean’s eyes flit toward the basement. “They started yelling at each other in the parking lot—in a way that only people who’ve been intimate do. It made me sick. She swore she didn’t come back for him. Don didn’t believe her. He accused her of wanting more money, of being a gold digger. That I believed. She looked the part—and she was making a scene. Don convinced her to go up to his room.”

As Jean talks, I try to remember where I would have been that summer night in 1994. Probably at home sleeping. Or maybe down the street at Prose & Pints, hanging out with everyone after work—all of us completely unaware that Kelly was back in town and about to be murdered by the man she loved.

Jean suddenly tries to lift herself out of the wheelchair, bracing against the armrests and pushing up. Her body trembles with effort. When she’s almost upright, her knees buckle and she dives sideways into the wingback chair. Her head twists against the back. Her eyes flutter. She looks like an old marionette, discarded in the corner of a prop closet.

“Jean!” I exclaim, helping her sit upright. “What do you need?”

“The bathroom,” she mumbles, defeated.

“Can’t you wheel yourself there?”

“Obviously not,” she sighs, nodding towards a massive ridge in the floor. “My handyman didn’t come.”

I turn to look. On account of the living room sinking, there’s a ridge between the living room and the hallway leading to the bathroom. Pieces of floor have given way to daylight coming up from the basement. I don’t know what she thinks her handyman can do. This house should be condemned.

I take Jean’s hand and help her down the hallway, one grueling step at a time. If I wasn’t here, I don’t know what she’d do, and I can’t help but wonder what she’ll ask of me when we get to the bathroom. I don’t see myself cleaning her up.

Thankfully, she pushes me away and closes the door behind her.

I wander down the hallway, peeking into the bedrooms. I’m quite unsteady myself and my mind is a foggy haze. Sweet strawberry wine churns in my stomach, making me queasy. My heart pounds erratically as I step into the master bedroom. It’s dark and musty like a mausoleum. The blinds are coated with dust, like they haven’t been opened in ages. Water stains bloom on the walls like bruises. One is a deformed butterfly, another a cathedral. The worst is a woman screaming, head tilted back, mouth open wide. It looks like Kelly. Or is my drunk imagination playing games with me? The wind whips around the house in a low, familiar tune… poouuurr sooome su-gar on meee in the eerie cadence of a children’s choir. Poouuurr sooome su-gar on meeeee. The sound emanates from beneath the floorboards and from inside the walls, giving me the sensation that every decision I’ve ever made was the wrong one. Not quite a feeling, but a sensation. Like bugs picking at my skin. This house is trying to get inside of me.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens. I wait for Jean to call me. “I’m fine,” she finally snaps. “I can get back on my own. Make yourself useful and get more wine.”

“You’re out,” I tell her.

“Check the hall closet.”

In the kitchen, I find two more bottles of Strawberry Hill tucked away in the pantry. Since they’re warm, I open the freezer for ice but there is none. The freezer is empty, as is the refrigerator. All that’s left are a couple lemon yogurts and half a carton of chocolate milk. I fill our glasses with warm strawberry wine and take a healthy gulp straight from the bottle. When I look up, Kelly’s reflection is staring back at me in the glass of the fireplace. She looks like she always did. Perfect hair and makeup, done up to the nines. She smiles at me kindly, the way she did when she said Geoffrey would make a great first boyfriend. I wish I’d listened to her. I wish more than anything I could go back, that I hadn’t wasted twenty-five years in denial of a denial. Maybe I’d have met Nathan sooner. We could have had more years of our lives to spend together.

Soon, I hear Jean laboring down the hallway, scraping her feet along the floor. When she appears, she’s on her hands and knees, heaving like an animal. I try to help her into the wheelchair, but she refuses my help and stays on the floor.

“So Don and Kelly went up to his room?” I ask, prompting her to continue.

“They did,” she wheezes. “But I got there first.”

© Scott Thomas Henry, 2026. All rights reserved.