Free Now That She's Gone by Gregg Olsen

S EVEN
    B renda Nevins hated the idea of cutting her hair. She loathed coloring, chopping, or changing her signature look more than anything she’d ever endured. More than being locked up in prison, which she considered to be the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She knew that she needed to alter her appearance, but at what cost? If she couldn’t be the person the world expected her to be, what was the point of anything she was about to do?
    She applied the black hair dye she’d found in the homeowner’s medicine cabinet. She looked at the glint of the scissors and the knife and shook her head. There were a million uses for sharp objects, but cutting her hair was not one of them. She put her wet, black hair up in a clip, turned on the shower, and surveyed the scene.
    It wasn’t the Four Seasons, but she had stayed in far worse places than the one that was her refuge at that moment. She let the water from the shower pour over her, sending some inky blackness down the drain. She lifted her head back and let the spray of the showerhead run over her teeth. She missed her Waterpik. The prison rule-makers considered the device that sent a needle-sharp stream of water a potential weapon. Brenda had hated rules. Sonicare toothbrushes were allowed for “dental use only” but half the women in her unit at the prison used them as vibrators.
    As the water caressed her body she ran her hands over her breasts and marveled that they felt so real, so unencumbered by scar tissue, as she’d read other women had supposedly endured. Her heart was beating slowly just then. She had that part of her personality that allowed her to compartmentalize her trauma and drama into separate spaces in which no part would touch the other. No overload. No crossed circuits. For how she lived her life, she needed more than anything to stay focused. Keep control. Aim high. Get what she wanted.
    Brenda was free at the moment and she intended to stay that way.
    She turned off the water, pulled back the shower curtain, which made a slightly melodic scraping noise, and stepped out. She reached for a towel and applied its softness to her face. So much better than those nearly crisp towels at the prison. Though it indeed wasn’t the Four Seasons, she thought the towels smelled just like spring.
    The mirror was fogged and she rubbed a washcloth over it.
    She looked good with black hair. Her skin didn’t fight with the change. It looked natural. She finger-combed it a little, considering one last time whether she should cut it or just leave it. Long hair was sexy. She was sexy right then.
    She needed to stay that way too.
    â€œI’ll be out in a minute, babe,” she called out.
    Brenda didn’t like to be rushed. Not when she was thinking about what to do next. She knew she had to think fast. Not move fast. Moving fast could get her caught. It was better to synthesize a plan that used her best attributes and left the excess baggage behind. Be nimble. Be ready.
    Be cunning.
    She tucked the towel around her body and wrapped another over her still damp hair. One last glance at herself in the mirror and she went toward the bed.
    â€œYou look scared,” Brenda said.
    No answer.
    â€œDon’t worry. It will all be over soon. I promise.”
    Janie Thomas didn’t say a word. She looked at Brenda with the kind of haunted eyes of a fox caught in a leg trap. Tears oozed from her eyes.
    Brenda produced a knife.
    Janie turned away. Her heart was racing and she was all but certain that this was the way she was going to die.
    â€œDon’t worry, babe,” she said. “I’m just going to cut a little hole in the tape so you can take a drink.”
    Brenda sat on the edge of the bed, admiring the sturdiness of the knots she’d made of the cut pillowcase—again the handiwork of the knife. She learned the skill of slicing and dicing with precision from Edna Hale, a woman imprisoned at the