---

I have a working washer and dryer, but because of what I might have done, I go to the laundromat.

Each time I come to the laundromat, I have five loads to wash. I start with whites, colors, towels, and sheets. They are the simplest. I wash the contaminated clothes last—twice through the washer: highest heat, pre-rinse, heavy soil. After putting that load in along with the laundry bag, I wash my hands in the attached bathroom with the soap I’ve brought. I scrub up to my elbows as if prepping for surgery. On a sketch of the laundromat I’ve drawn in a small spiral-bound notebook, I mark the washer I use for them with an X. It’s the seventh washer I’ve marked that way. The dryers I don’t mark. The clothes are decontaminated by then. There are only five unmarked washers. In five weeks, I need to look for a new laundromat. 

The laundromat takes time, and the cost adds up, but I don’t mind coming here. I almost enjoy it. I sometimes wonder if my whole life is contaminated, after what I might have done, but in the laundromat I don’t feel that way. If sanitation were a god, the laundromat would be its temple. Surrounded by sudsy vortexes and disinfecting heat, I feel better, physically and mentally. My vision sharpens, my headache fades away, my stomach calms, and I even feel stronger. It’s only at the laundromat that I dare to weigh the possibility that I haven’t done it more heavily than the possibility that I have. Here, in these wonderful, fleeting moments, I entertain the thought that I’m paranoid. That the notes, the smell, and my memories weren’t so much in the way of evidence. 

Only by daring to enter that contaminated place can I know for sure, so this is all I have in the way of comfort. If I don’t open my utility closet, the landlady might be alive, and I might not be a murderer. If I open the utility closet, I might find the landlady dead, which would make me a murderer for certain. I am Schrödinger’s murderer. 

Meanwhile, my cat, unlike Schrödinger’s, is definitely alive. His sniffing underneath the door remains my strongest piece of evidence for what I might have done. I had never seen Otto sniff under that door, or any door, in the eight years I’d known him up to then. That afternoon—the day it might have happened—he did it three times. 

Of the events of that afternoon that led me to believe I might be a murderer, Otto’s three sniffs were the hardest to take. 

It started when I woke on my couch. I was drenched in sweat. My heart raced. I smelled strange, like a cornered animal. My vision was blurred. I was never one to take naps, but it seemed like I had been asleep a long time. 

My first thought was that I was ill, but as my disorientation cleared, I recalled the landlady was scheduled to visit around lunchtime for an annual inspection. She said she was simply visiting to make sure all was in order. She would check the utilities in case they needed maintenance, replace any expired detectors, and note any damage to the unit. 

I didn’t expect much to come of it. My complaints about the nonfunctional gas stove had gone unaddressed since I had moved in. Eventually I gave up my pleas and settled for a cheap electric burner and a thrifted toaster oven. These days, I’m lucky if my shower water is even lukewarm, but given that the water heater is in the contaminated space alongside the washer and dryer, I certainly won’t be asking for any repairs. 

At first I wondered if she had forgotten the time, but then I saw the signs the landlady had been there. The smoke detectors were new—replacements for the old, yellowed detectors that had been there before, and whose buttons I held down every three days to turn off the low-battery alarms. If she had replaced the detectors, she must have been here for at least a little while. 

Next I found the two notes on the fridge. The first said, “Sleep well, June,” and the second said, “bad problem needs fixing,” in strange, uneven script. It might have been my handwriting, or maybe not. June was the landlady’s name. I sat at the dining table and pondered them for a while. What might they mean? 

Otto was rubbing forcefully against my shins, so I got up to feed him. His bowl was at the end of the hallway, past the utility closet. As I passed the closet, a sudden, unexplained surge of panic rose up, like the emotions that remained from a dream you had forgotten. My skin broke out in gooseflesh. There was something I needed to remember but couldn’t. 

Otto rubbed against my calves, and I looked down at my feet. Between them was a clump of wiry gray hair, exactly like June’s. A little more than you would expect to fall out naturally. Of the many memories I have spun to fill the blank space of that afternoon, the hair conjured the only image I’m sure is real. I remembered finding June crouched by my gas water heater, looking terrified. Then Otto took his first deep sniff of the crack underneath the door. 

I’ve always been prone to paranoia. I’ve been diagnosed and later undiagnosed with OCD. I have to be careful not to allow myself to ruminate, but that afternoon felt different. I had a compulsive need to fill in the gaps of my memory, like there was something very important I needed to recall. 

It was this line of thinking that formed the final, horrifying theory, which I haven’t been able to shake since. I wondered if I had killed the landlady. How, I don’t know, but ever since then I’ve thought I might be a murderer.

After thinking it over for a while at my dining table, I made a pact with myself. I decided I wouldn’t turn myself in. There was no one else I could trust to care for Otto. I would never open the utility closet, knowing I couldn’t face what I’d done. Finally, to prevent further damage in case I had done it—and might do it again—I would deadbolt my door so no one else could enter my house. 

If I had killed June, there was no changing it. If I hadn’t killed June, well, we lived in the same walk-up, so I was sure to see her soon and put my mind to rest. 

Six weeks have passed since that day, and I’ve never smelled what seemed like rotting flesh, but I also haven’t seen June. Only occasionally, to my horror, have I noticed the faintest unpleasant scent wafting from the closet. 

So I continue to use the deadbolt, I keep the utility closet shut, and I keep to myself—God forbid I do this to another person. Over time I’ve layered on other rituals to ensure I stay alert, so as not to lose time again. 

Before I leave the house, I check the thermostat once. Then the stove. I take the time to find Otto, pick him up, and confirm he is healthy and unharmed. To make sure I have everything I need, I look in my purse before I open the front door, and again when I close it behind me. I lock the doorknob and the deadbolt, and check them once. I count the steps as I walk down them. I use a separate hamper for the clothes that smell unusual to me or that have passed by the utility closet too many times. 

Now, I’m leaving the laundromat with my five bags of clothes and my purse, which holds my wallet, soap, notebook, and pen. I’ve flipped through every page of the notebook to check for unexpected messages. I’ve checked my purse twice to confirm I have my belongings. I play the same album on the way to the laundromat and the way back, a remaster of the 1998 Complete Piano Music of Ravel, which I find soothing. 

As I leave the parking lot, the music is interrupted by a too-loud ring over the car speakers. It’s June’s wife, Marsha. I answer, though my hands are shaking as I hit the button. 

“I’m stopping by your house to take a look at the water heater. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case you were home. Didn’t want to scare you,” she says. 

I am silent for a while until she says, “Hello? You’re breaking up.”

I hang up on her in a panic.

I don’t know what I’ll do when I arrive, but I hope to get there early enough to keep her from opening the closet door. If I get there before she opens it, I can at least try to beg, plead, bargain, or pay. Whatever it takes. Thankfully, the drive is short.

Even though I’m in a hurry, I have to stick to my rituals. I put the car in park. I place my keys in the right pocket of the jacket I always wear. I check the contents of my purse again. I grab all five laundry bags, slinging three over my left shoulder and two over my right. I go up the stairs, counting hastily.

Balancing the bags carefully, I unlock the door and close it behind me. I hang my purse on a hook by the door. I set the laundry bags on my couch for folding later. I place my keys in the farthest kitchen drawer from the door. Only then do I dare look down the hallway to check for Marsha. At first I don’t see her; I only notice the utility door is open. Letting my eyes travel down the door, I see Marsha’s hair spread over the floor. Her eyes are open, and her lips are parted softly. I can only assume she saw June and, in her old age, suffered a heart attack.

The image fades in and out of clarity. My vision is worse than ever, and my headache pounds. Then I do what I was afraid I had done—what I was afraid might have made me a murderer. I go over to Marsha’s body, stoop beside her, and, through a series of shoves with my hands and feet, manage to push her into the closet. I am sure to keep my eyes clamped shut. Then I close the door, and as soon as the latch clicks, I feel my muscles giving out. Otto shows up and gives the door another sniff, then lies in front of it.

I turn and crawl back down the hallway until my hand hits Marsha’s phone, which must have slid across the floor when she collapsed. The screen lights up. On it is a message from June—a picture of her standing with her family in front of Seoul Tower. She must have left for a trip after inspecting the apartment. Near the phone is a white disc with a couple of buttons and a sort of vent. Through the blur, I just manage to make out the words on the label. It’s a new carbon monoxide detector. The old one must have expired.

A small red plastic tab sticks out from the side, like the activation tabs on battery-operated toys. With the last of my strength, I pull the tab. I collapse to the ground, looking at the ceiling. Above me is the new smoke detector. Beside that is an empty mounting bracket for a carbon monoxide detector. It had been empty since June’s visit; I hadn’t noticed. 

As my vision darkens, the alarm begins to blare.