After He Killed Me (The Emma Fern Series Book 2)

by Natalie Barelli

  “You shouldn’t let me ramble on like this, I can see you’re distracted.”

  “No! Not at all darling, I love listening to you talking about all that.”

  I say supposedly, because there’s just one small problem with this utopian theory: it’s all a lie. Well, Jim would argue that it’s not a lie, it’s just not quite as refined as he made it out to be, but that every day there’s another tweak, and before long, the world will be a better place.

  I know all this, because I acquired something, some time ago. I came across some information, which I have kept secret. That information is tangible. Some of it is in notebooks, and some of it is digital and stored on CDs and a couple of USB sticks. If any of that tangible information were to be released into the wrong hands—as in, anyone else but Jim—well, let’s just say that his very important career would blow up into a million little pieces. And my husband’s career is the one thing, other than me hopefully, that he lives for. It would kill him.

  So instead, my husband and I have come to an arrangement. It may not be the most orthodox of marriages, but it works for us. I keep his dirty little secret, and he remains by my side; my loyal, faithful, loving companion.

  It hasn’t been smooth sailing, but then again, what marriage is? He didn’t take kindly to my terms at first. One day, after a particularly nasty fight, when I told him I was sick and tired of his sour face, he asked me to let him go, and frankly, I almost said yes. Go away. I don’t want you either. But that wasn’t true. I did want him. He’s my weakness, my husband. I can’t help it. I can’t let him go.

  So I said no. But I told him to take a few days off and have a good think about how he wanted to handle our situation, because one thing we both agreed on was that we couldn’t go on like this. “You have to be here, and you have to be happy,” I told him. And he looked at me as if I had grown two heads.

  And he did go away. I suspect he was happy to do that, but I don’t know what happened. I guess he did have a good think, because when he came back he said, “Emma, let’s start over. For real. Let’s make this work.”

  I proposed that we go to couples therapy.

  When I suggested it, he burst out laughing, but I didn’t. I just stared at him. So he said therapists and counselors were not recognized professionals; that anyone could buy a marriage counseling qualification over the Internet. La-de-dah, and on and on.

  Anyway, since I wanted us to go to couples therapy, we went. And it was wonderful. He had to listen. At first, it felt like hacking at a block of ice with a toothpick. But with each session he melted a little until finally he heard me. He understood how I felt, and what I needed from him. At that point, I may have had all the power in our relationship, but the balance has shifted since. I could say we’ve fallen in love again, but I never stopped loving him. I’m obsessed with him and that’s never wavered. But I’ve watched him fall in love with me again, and if only for that, I regret nothing.

  But even arrangements such as ours need a little give and take. And so, as a show of good faith, I made a pledge to him that every year, for our anniversary, I would return to him a part of what I have in my possession. It will take ten years, I decided, for me to return the entirety of my proof. I figured that after ten years of being happy together, he wouldn’t want to leave me anymore. I’m delighted that it hasn’t taken anywhere near that long for Jim to come to his senses and realize that he truly, truly loves me—and only me—and ever since, I have lived inside the happy ending of a fairy tale.

  Today, I have kept my promise, and the beautifully wrapped package I handed him contains one notebook and one CD.

  He half stands and leans forward to kiss me. His lips taste of champagne.

  “Shall we go to dinner?” I ask.

  “Let’s do that. I’m starving.”

  “Me too.”

  Jim motions to the waiter, who brings the bill. As he pulls out a few notes from his wallet, he frowns.

  “Remind me to get some more cash. That was the last of it.”

  “Why don’t you put it on your card?”

  “No, this is fine.”

  We get up together and he helps me with my coat, always the perfect gentleman, and when I walk toward the door on his arm, I am dizzy with a sense of pride. I’m so lucky, I remind myself, as I gaze down at my finger. Jim holds the door for me, and just before I step outside, I spot Charlotte Harper waving at me from the corner table. I nod my goodbyes to her.

  “God, I had the most awful dream last night. I just remembered,” I say, taking hold of his arm as a shudder runs down my back. I squeeze my shoulders.

  He rubs my hand gently. “What was it?”

  “More like a nightmare. I was in—I don’t know, a courtroom, with a judge, a jury, the works.” I shake my head at the memory. “It was awful. I was a has-been, passé.”

  He laughs. “That’s the nightmare?”

  I shake my head. “You were dead.”

  “There, there,” he jokes, patting my hand. “I’m not dead. No one died.”

  Well, that’s not strictly true.

  “How did I die anyway?” he asks.

  “They said I killed you.”

  It’s a little chilly when we leave the bar, but I don’t mind. I just wrap my coat around me more tightly.

  “Let’s take a taxi,” Jim says, looking up at the dark clouds gathering above us.

  “Really? We’re only five minutes away, Jim. We should be fine. I don’t think it’ll rain.”

  He puts an arm around my shoulders and shudders a little against me. “I’m freezing! I’d rather take a cab, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  We walk to the edge of the sidewalk, both of us looking up and down the busy street. I wish it were a clear night, because then we could be looking up at the stars, but instead I hear the sound of thunder, and any minute now we’ll be running for shelter.

  Jim lets go of my arm. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  He points to the ATM we just passed. “I’m just going to go and grab some cash.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you stay here, see if you can get us a taxi. That would be great.”

  “Okay. Why not? I’ll do that.” I make a mock salute and we both chuckle.

  Maybe it’s because it’s our wedding anniversary, but I’m feeling a little sentimental, and as I watch my handsome husband walk to the ATM, I can’t help but reflect how far we have come together.

  I’m not completely stupid. How long is that going to last? I’ve asked myself that question many times. But what’s the point of that? He’s here, we’re happy. Why would I waste the best years of my life worrying about a future that may never eventuate?

  The rain starts, and pulls me out of my reverie. Jim is still at the ATM, and I turn around and face the street. There’s still quite a bit of traffic at this time of the evening; the streets are a little crowded, and people are rushing around me as they try to get out of the rain.

  There’s a bus shelter next to me, and I move to wait under it, but then I see her. It’s just a flash, but it’s unmistakable. She’s there, watching me, and the next moment she’s gone. Now there’s only me, looking at my own reflection.

  I stand still, waiting for the anxiety to pass as I talk myself down. You’re not seeing ghosts, Emma. It’s not Beatrice. It was just a reflection of yourself. You know that. Except I don’t know that, since it’s not the first time. In fact, Beatrice is showing herself to me more and more. No, she’s not showing herself anywhere. She’s been dead for almost two years. Don’t go crazy.

  So I don’t go under the bus shelter. I just tighten my coat again, and stand on the sidewalk looking out for a taxi. Should I see someone about this? Is this a sign of an impending nervous breakdown? How could it be, since I feel fine, I am happy; happy enough, anyway.

  I catch sight of a taxi in the distance, and before I have a chance to hail it, I feel something behind me. At first it�
�s a movement of air. I think it must be Jim, and I want to turn around, but I don’t have the time; the pressure is too strong against my back. I start to say something, but there’s a screech of tires, and someone shouts, and before I know it I’m on the road, as if I’d flown forward.

  I am lying face down, my cheek hard on the asphalt, my head exploding in pain. Just before I close my eyes, I see the tires, an inch from my face. I try to lift my head, but the pain that shoots through my skull won’t let me, and everything goes black.

  3

  “Darling, I’m sorry, but I need a favor. Do you have time to run an errand for me?”

  Time is all I have these days, but am I going to say that to Jim? No, of course not. As far as he’s concerned, I barely have time to breathe. I am a busy professional, run off my feet.

  “I—have a meeting with Frankie. What do you need, darling?” I don’t have a meeting with Frankie. I don’t have meetings with anyone. I do nothing all day but roam the rooms of this apartment, bored out of my mind. I will run this errand for Jim because, for one thing, it will distract me. But I don’t want him to know how truly lonely I am. Jim doesn’t like people who complain.

  “It’s just that I’m an idiot. I forgot to get my jacket this morning from the dry cleaners, and if I don’t get hold of it, I’ll be in shirtsleeves this evening,” he chuckles.

  “Well, you know, that’s not a bad look for you, actually,” I laugh.

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Never!”

  But he doesn’t want to banter, he’s busy. Of course he is. He’s always busy. He has very important things to do all day, every day. Especially today, since this evening we’re going to a very important function, where the Forum will introduce its new program, or something like that. So instead of laughing with me, he says, “Seriously, Em, can you help me out?”

  And I can.

  “Of course, my love, I’ll bring another one with me. What about your navy blue one?”

  “No, if you could just pick it up from the dry cleaners, that would be better. It’s the jacket with the dark lapel. That’s the one I need for tonight.”

  “Oh, okay, but why don’t you call them? They’ll drop it off for you. Or I’ll call them if you prefer. Shall I do that?” I’m already looking forward to the task; I can make a phone call and use up, oh, let’s see, ten, maybe fifteen whole minutes.

  “Tried that. They can’t drop it off in time. But if you’re too busy, don’t worry. I can make other arrangements.”

  “No, don’t be silly, I’ll do it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “I left the ticket by the front door I think, on the table. It’s at the place near the Forum.”

  “Oh, I see! Not the one on Third. Got it. I’ll pick it up on the way.”

  “Thank you, darling. You’re a lifesaver.”

  I laugh. I like doing little things like this for Jim.

  There’s a line of people waiting to be served when I get there. I feel silly all dolled up in my glamorous outfit. Maybe I should have picked the jacket up earlier, but it was on the way. I’ll meet Jim at the Forum, and we can go together to the Capitale. These are what my days feel like now. Hard work. Everything is too complicated; there are too many variables. Do I have the time to do something? Or should I wait until this other thing happens? In the end I do nothing.

  My shrink says it’s because of the accident, but I try not to think about that anymore. Not if I can help it. It’s been months, and the scar above my eye is almost gone. That’s the only tangible sign that I have of it. I part my hair on the left now, so that it’s mostly hidden anyway.

  I could have died. I almost did. That’s what they said when I came to in the hospital. They said I was really lucky that the motorcycle slid on the wet road. It slid all the way to the bus, which came to a screeching halt, inches from my head. The motorcycle driver got off with just a couple of scratches. He was lucky too, even more than me, apparently.

  The first thing I asked Jim when I came to was: “Did you see him? Did you catch him?”

  “Emma, love, calm down.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who pushed me! Or at least I think it was a guy.” Maybe it was a ghost. “Someone pushed me, Jim. Didn’t you see?”

  We must have had that conversation fifty times. Didn’t you see? Someone pushed me, you must have seen it, Jim!

  But he always says he wasn’t looking. He was coming back from the ATM, and must have been distracted. He saw me fall, he says, he tried to catch me, but it was too late, and there were so many people rushing around, getting out of the rain, getting taxis like I’d tried to—if someone pushed me, he might not have seen it. But he doesn’t believe me. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him. I can tell. He thinks I’m confused, I hit my head, I’m imagining things.

  “But did you see me fall?” I’ll ask for the umpteenth time, watching his face trying not to betray his frustration.

  “Yes. No, I just—you were there, and then you weren’t! I wasn’t looking exactly, Emma. It was raining. There were people everywhere!”

  At first I was obsessed. In my mind, I would go over and over those few seconds before I found myself on the asphalt in the middle of the street. I would close my eyes and recall the feeling on my back; the swoosh, and then the pressure. I could remember it physically at first, but as time went by, it no longer made sense. I couldn’t tell if I was making it up. It is possible that in the shock of the moment, I did get confused. Maybe I did trip when I turned and tumbled. I don’t know anymore. Then I stopped thinking about it. Except when I see the thin scar above my eye.

  “Can I help you?”

  That’s the other thing since the accident. I’m always distracted, in my own head; I don’t realize people are talking to me until they’re three sentences into it.

  “I’m sorry, yes, here.”

  I hand my ticket to the woman, and lift my bag onto the counter. She returns with the jacket in its protective plastic wrapping, and lays it down carefully as I look in my wallet.

  “God, sorry, I was sure I had some cash on me.”

  “Don’t you hate that?” says a male voice behind me. I turn to look. Christ, there’s a line of maybe fifteen people waiting. Of course there would be.

  “I can’t think what I spent it on, but never mind, I’m sure it will come to me,” I say, turning back to the woman.

  “Something special, I hope,” he says behind me.

  I need to get on with it. Get my credit card and pay for the jacket. Not everything has to be difficult. I tell myself to hurry up before everyone gets annoyed with me, then I tell myself that it’s fine, it doesn’t matter if people get annoyed. Relax, breathe.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll put it on my card if that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I smile my apologies for holding everyone up, and go to pull out my card, except it’s not there. I don’t have my credit card. This is ridiculous. I only carry one card in my wallet. When I had the accident, my purse was stolen, and with it, my cell phone and my wallet. I had to get everything replaced. After I got my new credit cards, I figured it would make more sense to carry one only.

  I give her a quick smile and try to remember, as I pull everything out more and more frantically, a little shakily. Let me think. I took out the card yesterday to pay for something online, but I’m sure I put it back. I can see myself doing it.

  I rummage around inside my bag in case it fell out of my wallet, even though what are the odds? The woman behind the counter is pursing her lips; no longer so accommodating. I can feel the shuffling of feet behind me. My neck is reddening with embarrassment. Everyone wants to go home.

  “I’m really sorry, I—I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have my card or any cash with me. I’ll have to come back. I’m so sorry.”

  She makes a face as if to say, Thanks for
nothing, and I want to cry. I put my head down and shift across all the things from my bag I’ve left on the counter, so as to let the person behind me get on with it.

  “Allow me.” A man moves forward to right next to me, puts his hand on the counter and smiles at the woman, who smiles back much more pleasantly than she did with me, I notice.

  He’s holding up his ticket. “I’ll get both, thanks.” I’m about to protest, but he turns to me. “Don’t worry, you can pay me back later.”

  I have no idea who this man is. I’m slow, sluggish—this is me now—so by the time I manage to say something, he’s paid for his items and Jim’s jacket, and he’s leading me outside by the elbow.

  “Thank you.” I put a hand on my chest.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you so much, that was—oh, you know—embarrassing.”

  “It happens. Nothing to be embarrassed about, I assure you.”

  I look at him more closely, trying to work out if I’ve ever met him before, but I don’t think so.

  He’s a bit older than me, probably in his early forties. A good-looking man, with his crinkly eyes and his light brown hair, but not really my type. God! What’s the matter with me? Why am I even thinking about whether he’s my type or not?

  “Thank you, really. I’ll pay you back, of course.”

  He smiles, a sweet, boyish smile, like he’s a friend.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I continue. “My husband really needs this jacket”—I check my watch—“in about an hour, so I’ll get your details and—”

  “Have coffee with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll give you my details, as you call them, at the same time. What about over there?” He points across the road to a coffee shop. “It’s a nice place.”

  “Right now?”

  “Why not? Otherwise how will you find me again?” he smiles.

  Is he flirting with me? I don’t know what to say, how to behave. I turn my ring around my finger.