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After All I've Done

Page 17

by Mina Hardy


  Against my better judgment, I check the feed’s saved footage. It only goes back a couple months. As I figured, it’s mostly shots of me, Jonathan, and Harriett coming and going, with the occasional package drop-off. The mail is delivered to the bottom of the driveway, so no regular visit from the postal truck. I find the couple clips of me arriving home too late for explanation and delete them.

  Then, from a night weeks ago, a figure in a hoodie creeps along the side of the house, from Harriett’s driveway. No car that I can see. I can’t see their face but I don’t have to. The shot of Jonathan leaving the house to chase after them tells me enough.

  Val came to my house in the middle of the night, my husband ran out to meet her, and I had no idea. On Christmas night. A shiver runs through me, twisting my stomach.

  What else happened that I don’t know about?

  I scroll through everything else, all the way back to the first saved video. There’s nothing unusual. Back to more recent clips.

  Wait. Something I almost missed. In this clip, there’s a hint of something moving by the back deck, going inside the house. Definitely a person, although I can’t see what they’re wearing, the gender—nothing. They navigate the yard by creeping around the house without setting off the motion-sensitive floodlights—so they must know what they’re doing. They go in but don’t come out.

  Revulsion closes my throat. He’s been sneaking her into our house. My house, with me inside it, sleeping. Fucking her where? On our living room sofa? In the basement, on the pool table?

  As I’m fighting back a rush of sick fury, an email pings in on my phone. It’s from the final lawyer I was able to track down. I guess I’m not the only one suffering insomnia. She has the name of the person who took over the archives of the lawyer who made the prenup.

  Finally.

  I don’t plan to kill my husband, but I am going to slaughter him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Cole

  LAST SUMMER

  I couldn’t take her money. I mean, I wouldn’t take it. Diana was still talking, but for me, the conversation stopped the second she oh-so-casually dropped the line about giving me the cash.

  “No.” I stopped her before she could keep going.

  She paused. Stared. “No? Why not?”

  “I’m not taking your money.”

  “You already took some of my money, Cole.”

  “I’m not taking this money.”

  “You’re not taking it. You’re just keeping it for me,” she said and added with that little teasing laugh I usually loved but in that moment despised, “Payment for services rendered.”

  The joke wasn’t funny. She apologized, but it was the first time that we both realized how serious all of this was and how seriously we should be taking it.

  “You know I would never do it for the money. I’d do it for free.” I knew that in the end, I’d do whatever she wanted me to do.

  “I just need it to be kept safe, away from him.” Diana stood at the window in my living room, where she tugged aside the curtain to stare out into the late afternoon sunshine. “What’s the worst thing you ever did in your life?”

  I chuckled. “I’ve done too many bad things to count. I couldn’t tell you what’s the worst.”

  She twisted to look over her shoulder at me. “Have you ever killed someone?”

  “No.” I paused. “Have you?”

  She flicked the curtains shut, dimming the room. “Letting someone die is not the same as killing them.”

  “No. I guess it’s not.”

  Diana drew in a breath. “I hardly ever feel bad about anything, Cole. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad person.”

  “You’re not a bad person.”

  “When I was in high school, Val’s mom was really sick. Cancer. It started in her ovaries and just spread so fast that they couldn’t really do much for her. She suffered a lot. She was in and out of treatment, but finally nothing worked. She got sent to palliative care at the end. It really fucked Val up. She couldn’t handle it. So I did.”

  “Sounds like you were a good friend to her. And now she’s being a good friend to you,” I said.

  “She’s in love with him,” Diana said. “It changes everything.”

  That was why I took her money. Because everything had changed, and not just for Diana. It had all changed for me too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Diana

  I have never liked February, but this one sucks more than most. It’s cold. It’s dark. My not-rebroken-but-still-broken clavicle thrums and whines every time I try to lift my arm.

  It’s Valentine’s Day, and I haven’t heard from Cole since the day I had to go to the ER. I’ve texted him twice. The messages are delivered, but I have no idea if they’ve been read. It’s very obvious that he’s not answering them, though, and I think, Well, fuck. So much for that.

  I’m hardly surprised. He’s a young, handsome guy. Why would he want to get tangled up with an older married woman with two bum collarbones and a trunk—no, a boxcar—full of baggage? I can’t blame him, but it’s always worse to be the one who’s dumped. So, I’m cranky. Hurt. Angry.

  And Jonathan’s made some excuse about a late work meeting.

  “On Valentine’s Day? What poor planning.” I say this over the rim of my coffee mug as he’s spooning cereal and soy milk into his mouth.

  “I’ll make it up to you this weekend, babe.”

  He’s clean-shaven and smelling of cologne. He’s wearing his normal work clothes, but that doesn’t mean anything. I search his face for any signs that he’s lying to me, but there are none. Doesn’t matter. I know that he is and … I can’t bring myself to care. I don’t want to spend a lover’s holiday with him, and it’s just more proof anyway. I finally got a copy of the original prenup agreement. The more lies I can document, the sooner I can turn off the life support to this dying marriage.

  He leaves. I check my phone for messages, but there are none. I wait for Harriett’s inevitable visit, but this morning she seems to be taking her sweet old time.

  I eat a pan of her homemade beef macaroni bake and finish the pot of coffee.

  I get an answer from GenTech. The money was paid out months ago, not by direct deposit, but via check. And the check was cashed. By me. They send a screenshot of the canceled check with my signature on it.

  What is going on?

  In the days after I woke up, my missing memory had pushed me into overwhelming waves of anxiety. Talking to Dr. Levitt had helped, at least until I found out she’d been discussing me with my husband and without my permission or knowledge. The meds had helped too, but eventually, even if I was very aware of how much my situation sucked, I wasn’t anxious anymore.

  Until today. Now, I pace. My palms are sweaty, but chilly sweat trickles down my spine. I can’t breathe.

  I have to breathe.

  I signed the check. But I did not deposit it into any account I can access. The money is gone. Where is it? What did I do with it?

  I can’t remember. I can’t remember so much, and it’s knocking me to my knees.

  Where is my mother-in-law? Any other day she’d have been here at the crack of dawn, but today, the day I’m totally losing my mind, she’s AWOL. I text her. No answer.

  I text my husband. Please call me. I don’t want to need him right now. It feels weak and wrong, considering everything that’s been going on. I don’t want to rely on him for anything.

  I dial Jonathan’s number, but I don’t tap the screen to connect the call. I put my phone down. I pace some more. I pick it up again. I take my arm out of the sling. The humming vibration of pain feels distant and soft, there but easily ignored.

  Deep breath.

  Count to ten, and if I can’t make it to ten, at least to five.

  Count to five.

  Close my eyes.

  Panic swells inside me, the rising of a tide driven by a storm. I do close my eyes. I do breathe deeply, again and again. I run through ev
ery trick my pony can do, everything Dr. Levitt had ever suggested to quell the anxiety, but I can still feel my fingers curling and releasing into fists at my sides.

  My phone pings with a notification. Motion alert at the front door. Harriett gasps in surprise and clutches at her heart when I fling it open before she can.

  “Hi,” I say. My voice isn’t shaking, so there’s that. “What’s up?”

  Harriett’s brows rise. “Oh, nothing, honey. Just checking on you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She blinks. “May I come inside?”

  I was desperate for her to be here, but now I don’t want her. When she gently pushes her way in, guiding me away from the front door, I fight to find the words to tell her to get out. But, defeated, my heart pounding, I just keep breathing instead.

  “Are you hungry? It’s past lunch.” She calls this over her shoulder as she heads for the kitchen.

  Food is Harriett’s love language.

  What is mine?

  “Diana! Did you finish the entire pan of beef macaroni bake?”

  I have followed her into the kitchen, step by step. “Yes.”

  “My goodness, that was a lot. It’s good to see your appetite is back. How are you feeling?” She bustles around at the sink, starting to wash the pan I’d left in it to soak. “Did you take your meds?”

  Before I can answer, she’s opened the cabinet to pull out the prescription bottle. Nothing rattles inside. She turns slowly, with a strained smile.

  “You’ve finished them?”

  I didn’t. I mean, I don’t think I did. I can’t really remember taking any, but my arm isn’t hurting a lot, so maybe I did.

  “Yesterday, maybe,” I say.

  You can see her cat-butt face from space, and I’m surprised the entire universe doesn’t get sucked into the black hole she’s making with her mouth. I am an awful person. Terrible. Harriett has been nothing but good to me. I am ungrateful.

  I should feel bad. I do not. Why do I never feel bad about all the awful, terrible, and horrible things I do or think?

  Harriett moves around the kitchen. “Hmm. Well. Why don’t you let me make you a grilled ham and cheese and some tomato soup? I’ll add bacon, just the way you like it. Although I don’t suppose you’re hungry after eating all the bake.”

  Actually, my stomach is empty and complaining, and I press my hand against the rumbling. “Okay.”

  Where is the money?

  I fight another rush of panic.

  I sit at the table in front of the bowl of soup and the sandwich. I drag the spoon through it, bring the rich, creamy soup to my mouth. It’s good. Harriett’s food always is, and I’m suddenly hungry enough to almost gobble it, along with the perfectly toasted and decadently dripping sandwich that she’s made with a myriad of cheeses, including bleu. Meat and cheese, meat and cheese, just for me. All for me. I force myself to take small bites and chew thoroughly.

  Harriett doesn’t eat anything, but I’m used to that. She moves around my kitchen wiping at countertops and emptying the dishwasher. When she pauses to lean against the counter, the twitchy way she slips a lip balm from her pocket to slide across her mouth tells me she hasn’t had a cigarette in too long.

  My stomach fills quickly, long before I’m finished. When I get up to scrape my bowl into the sink, Harriett reaches to stop me. Creamy pinkish red soup splashes over the back of my hand. It doesn’t look like blood, but my stomach twists hard, and I have to blink quickly to clear my vision when it threatens to blur.

  “Don’t waste it. You might want to eat more later.” She pries the bowl from my hand and sets in on the counter so she can pull a glass container from a cupboard. “I’ll just put this back in the fridge for you.”

  I’m not going to eat it later. The fridge and freezer are full of half-eaten meals Harriett has insisted I put away in case I want to eat them later. That doesn’t stop her, but neither do I. I step back and let her tuck my sandwich into another container.

  When she puts the food into the fridge, I spy the bottle of white wine. Harriett has the smokes she pretends she doesn’t need. I’m suddenly craving a drink I don’t want to admit I want. I wait until she steps aside, then open the fridge myself and grab the bottle.

  White wine is classy, I remind myself. It’s not like I’m slugging back a bottle of one of the brothers. Not like my mother. Rich bitches drink white wine with their pinkies out and their pearl necklaces strangling them.

  Harriett watches me pour myself a glass of yellowish liquid. It’s the last of the bottle from the fridge. I don’t remember drinking the rest of it, but I know better than to say anything to her about it. Instead, I toss the empty into the recycling bin where it clinks against four other bottles I also don’t remember drinking, and sure as hell not since the last time the trash went out.

  I take a long, deep drink from my glass, until it’s empty. Somehow, I’m in front of the basement fridge like my feet took me there while my brain was somewhere else. I pull another bottle to take upstairs, but pause. It’s chardonnay, the kind I drink. And it’s got a label that looks familiar, white and black, but there’s no rose on the front. It’s not the brand I drink. It’s close, but not the same.

  Upstairs, the bottles in the recycling bin are also not my brand. I didn’t buy this wine. I haven’t bought wine in months.

  Where is the money?

  Did I give it to someone? Did I spend it? Did I lose it? What did I do with it?

  What else can’t I remember?

  Everything spins and shakes.

  I hold up the bottle in front of Harriett. “Where did this come from? Did you buy this?”

  “Oh no, of course not,” Harriett says with a small clap of her tiny, soft hands. “You know I don’t drink alcohol, Diana.”

  I’m used to the judgement, silent or otherwise, but she’s answered a question I didn’t ask and did not answer the one I did. I open the new bottle and pour myself a glass, then top it with the cork and put it in the fridge. I take another long drink. The wine is not as good as Briar White, but it’s crisp and cold, and I swallow almost convulsively in a gulp that threatens to come back as a gag because I’ve taken too much, too soon. I solve that with another, slower sip. Warmth spreads through me.

  Harriett’s fingers link together. She squeezes her hands. Releases. Her rabbity gaze is still focused too intently on me. I know she’s aching for a smoke break, but I don’t know why she doesn’t simply slip out the back door to do it the way she always does. Why she tries to hide it from me.

  What else is hidden from me?

  “Thanks for dinner,” I tell her. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “It’s no bother. I enjoy cooking for you.” Harriett shrugs, but then gives me that coy, sideways smile I suddenly loathe. “Jonathan always loved the way I made his tomato soup. I use real milk. He loved it. He would never even touch it the way I made it for you.”

  “I know that. You’ve told me. Over and over.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and it’s too late to call them back.

  Kicking a puppy would be less traumatic than watching Harriett’s feelings get hurt. The wine helps me not to feel bad, making the world a warm and fuzzy place, and I haven’t even finished one full glass. It was generously poured, true, but I’ve hardly drunk even half of it, and the first glass contained even less. Both together, not even one full glass.

  “I’m going to read. In my room,” I add pointedly before Harriett can say anything. “I have a headache.”

  Her glance at the wine glass makes me want to down the whole thing, but the truth is, my guts are churning a little, and the wine is no longer appealing. I take the glass with me upstairs, though. No sense in wasting it. After all, like Harriett says, I might want it later.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cole

  Diana has texted me twice, and I answered her, but she hasn’t replied. I’ve resisted tracking her location. She knows where I am and how to find me, if she want
s to. And if she doesn’t want to? What will I do then?

  There’s still the matter of all that money. She wouldn’t know if I just kept it. Nobody would. If I give it back to her, I’ll have to tell her the truth about why I agreed to take it in the first place, about what she paid me to do and how I failed.

  Or I could just finish the job.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Val

  9:14 AM:

  Happy Valentine’s day, baby.

  9:35 AM:

  Don’t be like this. Come on.

  11:45 AM:

  Answer your phone.

  11:55 AM:

  Let’s not go through this again. Please just answer me. I have plans for you tonight. I’ll be over at 6.

  Don’t come over, I text. I don’t want to see you.

  1:15 PM: I’ll be there at 6.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Diana

  There is blood everywhere, and the sickening thump still vibrates in my stomach. The rain is cold, and the world turns and tips in the lights from the oncoming cars. My hair is wet. My head hurts.

  The mud is full of rocks.

  My fingers are bleeding, my nails ragged and broken, caked with dirt, and maybe that’s blood on my hands, maybe my knees are scraped and raw and covered with blood, maybe it’s my blood.

  Maybe it’s not my blood.

  There is my mother. There is the tub. She’s sliced one wrist. Bleeding. The water is red. She looks at me.

  “I never should have adopted you,” my mother says.

  There is my mother, with lines around her eyes and mouth. She says, “I wasn’t fit to be a mother then. I hope you give me a second chance to try, Diana. I hope you can forgive me.”

  There is my mother. There is a hotel room. There is the bottle of pills and vodka and her dead body, and I am on my hands and knees, and my hands are covered in blood, and there is blood, and I am dreaming, but I can’t wake up.

 

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