“Fucking Nolan,” she said, and came through the door, following me down the stairs. She was brushing rain from her coat, spatters of it striking the back of my head.
“You two have a fight?” I asked as we entered our flat.
She looked at me, wiping tears off her cheeks with the palms of her hand. “He has a girlfriend back at TCU. A serious girlfriend.”
“Shit,” I said. “How’d you find out?”
Addison told me how she’d gone onto his computer and read his e-mails, and how he confessed to everything, telling her that he’d been meaning to tell her about Linda, but at first he thought that they—Addison and him—were just having a fling, and now he didn’t know. I half-listened, opening a bottle of wine and pouring Addison a glass, but my mind was frantically trying to figure out what to do when Eric returned. Should I abandon the whole plan, telling Eric that I was pretty sure the chicken korma had cashews in it, or should I allow it to play out, with Addison as a witness? In some ways, having Addison here might be better. She would back up my story—that a drunk Eric mistakenly ate Indian food that had cashews in it, and that we couldn’t immediately find his EpiPen. But there were also so many ways that it could go wrong with Addison here. She could call for an ambulance that might get here in time. She could notice that Eric’s EpiPen was not where he thought it was. And if Eric asked about the chicken korma—whether or not it had nuts in it, then I couldn’t lie in front of her. And, most important, it wasn’t fair to Addison to let her watch Eric die from anaphylactic shock. I decided it was off.
“Wait. Where’s Eric? Didn’t his plane make it here?” Addison asked, her head swiveling around our small flat as though he were here and she had somehow missed him.
“You know that pub challenge at the Bottle and Glass?”
“The ten-pint thing?”
I told her about Eric insisting he could do it, and I told her how I got hungry and sick of waiting for him, and just took off.
“I guess neither of us is having a good night with our men.”
“Well, I’ll live,” I said. “You’re the one who got screwed over. What are you going to do about it?”
Before Addison could answer, the door buzzed again. “That’s Eric,” I said. “Prepare yourself. He’s going to be smashed.”
“Lily, I’ll just leave. I totally forgot he was coming in tonight.” Addison stood, snatching her purse from the kitchen table.
“Not a chance. You stay here.”
I climbed the stairs again, bracing myself for a drunk Eric, but when I opened the door it wasn’t Eric standing there, but Nolan, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Ah, the bigamist,” I said, and he gave me a confused look.
“Is she here?” Nolan was tall and skinny with bright red ears. His close-cropped hair was an almost-white blond and he wore a puka necklace tight around his neck.
“She’s here,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean she wants to see you. You wait here and I’ll go check.”
I left Nolan on the stoop and went back downstairs. Addison was refilling her wineglass. “Guess who’s here?”
“Who?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Nolan. I left him upstairs. You want me to send him away?”
She let out a long, dramatic breath. “No, I’ll see him.” She continued to sit there at the table, and I realized that she was expecting me to go get him. I climbed the stairs for what seemed like the twentieth time that night, and when I reached the door I could hear male voices talking loudly at one another. I recognized one as Eric; he was back from the pub.
“I see you two have met,” I said, opening the door to find them together, Eric with a hand on Nolan’s shoulder, telling him about the pub challenge. I knew that Eric had succeeded by the way he turned toward me, a handsome grin on his face. “And it looks like you triumphed,” I added to Eric.
“Barely,” he said. “It’s much goddamned harder than it looks.”
“Come down, you two. Eric, let Nolan and my roommate be. They need to talk.”
We all trooped down the clattery stairs. Addison was now standing in our doorway, a look of determination on her face. Nolan said, “Ad,” in a hoarse voice. Eric introduced himself, sounding relatively normal for someone with so much beer in him. It was one of his immutable traits, that he was always civil and friendly no matter what the circumstance. A politician, basically.
Eric and I went inside while Nolan and Addison stood just outside the door on our grim landing, lit only by a bare lightbulb hanging from its cord. I filled Eric in on what was going on, looking to gauge any reaction he might have to hearing that Nolan was, like himself, dating two women at the same time.
“You think they’ll work it out?” he asked, then said, before I had a chance to answer, “I need to eat something.”
I was about to tell him that there was Indian food in the fridge that I could heat up for him, and that he shouldn’t risk the chicken korma because I thought it had nuts in it, when Addison pushed her way back into the flat. “Don’t worry, you two. We’re going to give you some privacy. We’re going to go get a drink.” Nolan was behind her, and I could tell by the redness around both their mouths that they had been kissing in the hallway. I don’t know what he had said but it had worked. Addison grabbed her coat and purse and they went back out into the damp night. I realized suddenly that my plan was back on if I wanted it to be. My stomach roiled with anxiety, but if anything, what I had just witnessed between Nolan and Addison had given me added resolve. Guys like Nolan and Eric got away with breaking hearts far too often.
“Look, Eric,” I said. “I’m exhausted. I drank too much myself, and Addison wiped me out. I’m getting into bed. There’s Indian in the fridge if you want. I got you a chicken korma.”
“You goddamn saint,” he said, and kissed me sloppily on the side of my mouth. I went into the bedroom, swung the door so that it was partially open, and took off my jeans and sweater, slipping into the wool pajamas that kept me warm in our cold flat. I could hear Eric rummaging around the kitchen; there was the sound of clanking dishes, then the loud hum of the dingy microwave. I could smell the korma—the tang of spice and coconut milk—as it heated up. I was sitting on the edge of my bed. I felt calm but my mind was feverish, filled with images. I pictured Chet in the meadow at dusk, swaying above me, not knowing he was about to die. I saw Eric emerging from his office, lighting a cigarette, meeting Faith. I saw Eric the night we first made love, his dark brown eyes an inch from mine.
The microwave stopped humming and I heard Eric open and shut the door, then it was quiet for a moment. I assumed he was rapidly eating, maybe still standing.
A minute passed and the bedroom door swung open. Eric stood there, the food container in his hand, the skin of his face already reddish. And there was a puffiness around his eyes. “There’s nuts in here,” he said, pointing at the container. It sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of cotton.
“You sure? Where’s your EpiPen?” I said.
“Bag.” He jabbed frantically at the air with his hand, finger toward where his bag was.
I pulled his bag up from where it was resting on the floor and put it on the foot of the bed. Eric put the container down on my bedroom’s bureau and went quickly to the bag, shoving me out of the way. He searched through the zippered pocket where he’d left the pens, then turned toward me, panic in his eyes, and the redness of his skin now rising. One hand was now scratching at his neck. “You didn’t bring them?” I asked in a raised, panicky-sounding voice.
“Yes,” he said, and I could barely make out the word. It sounded as though it was coming from a great distance, the shout of a man trapped far underground in a narrow damp cave.
Eric dumped the contents of his suitcase on the bed, then began rapidly searching through them. He sat down, his body held rigidly, his lips pursed as he tried to pull air into his lungs. I began to help him sort through his clothes and toiletries but he grabbed my arm, mimed the action of making a pho
ne call. “You want me to call for help?” I asked.
He nodded. The redness around his neck and throat had puffed out alarmingly, like landmasses on a topographical map. But his face stayed pale, now taking on a bluish tinge. I ran into the adjoining room, picked up the phone, and stood for a moment, just listening to what was happening in the bedroom. I heard another zipper being opened, then a soft thwumping sound. I put the receiver gently back onto its handset, slowly counted to ten, then walked to the doorway, peered toward the bed. Eric was laid out, one hand still at his neck, but he was no longer scratching at it. His hand was just lying there, still. I watched him for long enough to know that he wasn’t breathing, then, just to make sure, I waited a minute, then crossed the room and placed two fingers along his throat and felt for a pulse. There was none. I went back to the phone and dialed 999, gave my name and address, told the woman with the chirpy voice on the other end that my boyfriend was in anaphylactic shock.
After making the phone call I moved quickly. I took the few whole cashews from the paper towel in the refrigerator and put some in the chicken korma that was still in Eric’s bowl (and still warm from the microwave) and some in the take-out container. Then I flushed the paper towel and washed my hands. In the bedroom, Eric hadn’t moved. I slid my hand beneath the mattress and pulled out the plastic Baggie with the two unused EpiPens. Eric’s belongings were spread around the room. I wiped my prints off the Baggie with a pair of socks, then pushed the entire thing into one of his running sneakers. It seemed like a place where someone might keep emergency medicine. Eric never would have, but he wouldn’t tell anyone that. And he wouldn’t tell anyone that I had said the chicken korma didn’t have nuts in it. I would tell them that he was drunk, and that he must have just decided to eat the chicken anyway, and I was in the bedroom, and then we couldn’t find the EpiPens. I tried to think if there was anything else I needed to do to set the scene. I thought it might look good if I pressed on Eric’s chest a few times, just to make it look as though I had tried CPR. Would a coroner be able to tell that sort of thing? I was about to start when the buzzer sounded again.
I ran up the stairs to let the medics in.
Three days later, after Eric’s family had been notified, and arrangements had been made to have the body shipped home, the constable who had arrived after the medics that Friday night came to my door to tell me that there would be no inquest.
I was pleased, of course, but surprised. I had read so many English mysteries that I just assumed that any slightly unusual death would result in an inquest, one in which all the evidence would point toward an accidental and tragic death. In a small way, I was disappointed.
“Okay,” I said, making my face look confused. “What does that mean?”
“Just means the coroner deemed the death accidental and doesn’t see the need for further review. It’s the right decision, I’d say, although an official inquest might have called into question the Bottle and Glass and that pub challenge of theirs. I might pop over there myself and talk to them about it.” The constable had kind eyes and a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Twice now, I had told him all the relevant facts. How Eric was drunk, and how I had let him know about the nuts in the korma and how he ate it anyway, and then he didn’t remember where he kept his medicine.
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m thinking I might go round that pub and talk to them some more,” he repeated. He lingered briefly in the doorway, then turned to go. He had told me his name, but I didn’t remember it.
My adviser at the Faunce Institute asked me if I’d like to return to America, and I told her that I was fine staying in London. That if there was a memorial service I would probably go back for that, but that, despite the trauma, I was happy in London and happy in the program. It was the truth—I loved my basement flat in Maida Vale, and I loved that Addison, since the incident, was almost never there. I had never thought of myself as a city person, preferring the quiet of Connecticut to the oppressive humanity of New York City, but residential London was different. There was something calming about its long rows of flats, its leafiness, its anonymous, polite bustle. The streets near where I lived were so quiet that birdsong was more common than the sound of humans. I was happy when I heard via e-mail that the Washburns had decided on a private family funeral, and that there would be a larger memorial service planned for sometime in the future. I planned on attending. For one, it would look strange if I didn’t, but I also wanted to see if Faith showed up, and if she did, what her reaction to me would be. I still wondered if she had willingly conspired with Eric to cheat on me during the summer, or if she was a fellow victim of his duplicity. It was something I intended to find out.
A month and a half after Eric’s death, I took a different route from the Tube station back to my flat and walked past the Bottle and Glass. It was a cold, dark evening, and the windows of the pub brimmed with soft light and the outlines of after-work drinkers. I had not been in since the day Eric died. I pushed through the doors into the crowded space, filled up with the murmur of low English voices. I ordered a pint of Guinness at the bar and took my glass over to the wall that explained the rules and regulations of the beer challenge. Nothing had changed, and I wondered if the friendly constable had ever popped around to talk with the pub owners about changing the challenge. If he had, they hadn’t listened to him. Next to the rules was a large wooden board, filled with embossed name plates, the mostly male names of those who had completed the challenge. I went to the end of the list. Eric Washburn was the second-to-last name. There was also a bulletin board, covered with tacked-on Polaroid photographs. All the snapshots looked the same—pale, bleary-eyed men holding aloft an empty pint glass. I found Eric’s picture in the upper-right-hand corner. He held his head slightly back at an angle, and his eyes were bright with what I recognized as pride. He was still a little tan from the summer, and with his head cocked back, his girlish beautiful eyelashes were even more apparent. I thought of taking the photograph for myself but decided against it. It belonged here. A testament.
Finishing my Guinness, I thought that my career as a murderer was over. Not because I had lost the stomach for it, but because there would never be the need. I would never allow anyone to get that close to me again, to hurt me in the way that Eric had. I was a grown woman now. I had survived the vulnerability of childhood, and the danger of first love. There was comfort in knowing that I would never be in either of those positions again, that, from now on, I would be the only person responsible for my own happiness.
I walked back that night to my empty flat, made myself a simple dinner, then settled into my favorite chair to read.
A long, uncomplicated life stretched out before me.
CHAPTER 15
TED
I backed into the foyer, my eyes on the gun in Brad’s hand.
“What the fuck?” I said, and glanced at his face. He didn’t look well, his normally ruddy complexion gray, and his neck muscles taut. He was wearing a jean jacket with a sheepskin lining and there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead. He seemed drunk.
“Nice place you got here,” he said, and the words came out in a strange rhythm, as though he’d rehearsed them.
“Can I show you around, Brad? Can I get you a drink?”
His brow lowered, as though my words had confused him. “Yeah, a lot nicer than my temporary little shithole, right? This is where a real man lives, right?”
A memory flashed through me. The night that Brad and I were drinking. Me saying something about where Brad lived. A hateful look on his face. And suddenly I knew that Brad was here to kill me, and instead of panicking, I became calm and rational, my mind in overdrive. I knew I could talk him out of this. I knew that I was smarter than he was.
“Seriously, Brad, what are you doing with that gun?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” he said, and raised it so that it was pointed at my head. Everything in the room disappeared except that gun.
<
br /> “Jesus, Brad, think for a moment.” I stared at the gun, probably the same one I’d seen in Brad’s drawer in Kennewick. A double-action revolver. I watched as Brad slid his thumb onto the hammer. Did he not know that he could just pull the trigger? I needed to make a move, either attack or run. I was less than two feet from him, and I found myself lunging forward. The last time I’d been in a fight I was a third grader and I’d lost to a kid named Bruce in the first grade. I simply shoved at Brad as hard as I could, spinning his body so that the gun pointed away from me. He flew backward, his head striking the front door with a loud crack. I thought he might have been knocked out, but he hissed out a word I didn’t understand. I turned and ran toward the stairs. As I hit the first step, already thinking about the phone on the first landing, I heard the loud pop of Brad’s gun, and felt a slap of air at my back, as though the bullet had missed me by less than an inch. I kept bounding up the stairs. By the time I reached the top I could hear Brad behind me, his work boots hitting the first few steps of the stairway. I reached toward the phone, sitting on an antique phone table, and stumbled, falling to the carpeted floor, knocking the phone and the table over. Something warm had spilled across my stomach and I put my hand there. When I pulled it back I was surprised to see blood, and for a second, wondered where it was coming from. Then Brad was standing over me, the gun pointed in my direction. He was breathing heavily, a strand of saliva hanging from his lower lip.
“Why?” I said, but as soon as I said it, I knew. Brad was no psychotic, deciding to kill me because I’d insulted where he lived. He was doing this because of my wife. And in a few moments, it all unfolded in front of me. Miranda was using Brad to get rid of me. She wanted all the money for herself. Why hadn’t I seen this before? A sharp pang of pain went through my gut, and I grimaced, then almost laughed.
I looked up at Brad with his stupid face and shaking gun. “Miranda would never be with you,” I said.
“You don’t know a fucking thing.”
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