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

by Natalie Barelli

  He must have been so jealous to bring it up like that; having to show how happy he was for me.

  Well, Nick the Prick will have to wallow in his jealousy for a while longer yet, crushed by the realization that I’m not just a better writer—after all, there’s only one of us who’s won the Poulton, and, as far as I know, it’s not him—but also the more famous. Let him think about that for a while, then he can jump in the Hudson.

  I dress quickly and go downstairs to the newsstand and purchase a copy. I’m a little disappointed to see I’m not on the cover, even though I told myself it was unlikely.

  “There’s an article about me in there,” I tell the man who takes my change.

  “Really? You’re famous?”

  “I am. Emma Fern.” I tap the magazine. “Take a look when you have time.”

  “Will do!” he says, brightly.

  Back at the kitchen table I flip through the pages until I find it.

  In our Poulton Prize winner series: Emma Fern, or don’t judge a book by its cover.

  By Al Gonski

  I am tingling with anticipation. Take that, Nick the Prick.

  I need to reread Long Grass Running.

  Good idea, that’s great, tell your readers, Al. I could use the extra sales, that’s for sure.

  Long Grass Running was a surprise win, being only the second time that a novel by a first-time author received the gong. I can still taste the feeling of discovery I experienced when I first read it. A revelation. A story so sweet and so delicately told, playing with time as if—

  And I skip through that part since I already know the story.

  But meeting Emma Fern has taught me that sometimes, there is no correlation between writing a great novel and one’s ability to express oneself. Listening to Ms. Fern talk about her upcoming novel is as confusing as reading the subway map. And yes, that’s the intended analogy: it’s impossible not to get lost.

  I have to read that last part again, because I think I’ve got it wrong. Then I read the rest, and frankly, I never want to think of it again or remember a single word of it.

  I’m so angry. It’s not actively ruthless or cruel, but it makes me sound like I’m “on the spectrum,” as they say. I can write a magnificent novel—and at least he acknowledges that, repeatedly—but you’d never know it, talking to me. He doesn’t say it in so many words, but he implies it.

  There’s a sentence about me having a “shrine to myself” in my office. They even have a picture of my corkboard, for Christ’s sake! That has to be the most obnoxious line in the entire piece. I know what a shrine looks like. My mother had one, to the Virgin Mary. Nothing fancy, but on the dresser in her bedroom, she had a small statue of Mary, with a rosary that hung loosely around it, and a couple of candles. She never lit them when I was around, but sometimes when I came home from school and she was there, I could smell the wax. I found out that later that it was a shrine. My corkboard, with a few odds and ends from Lord knows how long ago, tidbits that were too small to make it into my scrapbook, is not a shrine. I don’t pray in front of it, for God’s sake. Unless please God give me inspiration when I sit at my desk counts.

  But the worst part, the very worst part of the article, is the bit about me supposedly being reluctant to discuss the influence that Beatrice had on the novel itself. That hurts the most. I told him what influence she had. I discussed it at length. I remember that very well. And anyway, she was a crime fiction writer, so what did he think her “influence” would have been? That I should have killed those characters in the first chapter and then spent the rest of the novel figuring out who’d done it? Does he think that would have earned me a Poulton Prize? That’s what happens to me when I read garbage like this. I forget Beatrice wrote it in the first place. And anyway, I wrote a book about that. What else does he want from me? I thought the interview was supposed to be about me, call me crazy.

  That’s the problem with New Yorker writers. They wish they could write a novel and then win the Poulton. Except that I’m the Poulton Prize–winning author, and you’re on the byline, Al.

  I should have had coffee before I picked up this piece of garbage, but I make myself a cup now, thinking about what Nick said the other night. It’s very you, Emma. They really captured the essence of you! What an awful man he is, with his arched eyebrows and fake solicitude. What did I ever do to him, anyway?

  My phone buzzes. Before I look at it, I know it’s Frankie.

  Frankie doesn’t even mention the article over the phone when I pick up. He calls to ask me out to lunch, and because I told him I had some chapters to show him.

  “I thought you wanted me to deal with—what was his name? Waleed? Exclusively. He’s in charge of my novel now, you said.”

  “But I’m asking you to lunch, and that trumps it,” he says.

  “Lunch it is. I’ll bring the chapters, but they’re on a USB stick. Shall I email them first?”

  “Just bring them to the office. I want to read them with you there. So we can deconstruct,” he says, which makes me laugh.

  I know the article will come up, and I also know he doesn’t want to put me on the spot. He’s more interested in the future. But I don’t have such qualms.

  “I’m going to put in a complaint, Frankie,” I say. “It’s really too appalling. Who does this Al Gonski think he is? Do they have a complaint process at the New Yorker? Because I’m not letting this pass. I bet you anything the little twerp hates women. Some men are like that, you know?”

  “Slow down, Emma. Stop. You’re overthinking it. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Yes it was.”

  “No, it was fine! It made you sound, I don’t know, interesting.”

  “Interesting? Really? Thanks for nothing, Frankie.”

  “Stop it. You know what I mean. You can’t be pigeonholed. You’re too remarkable for that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And I mean it. You worry too much about what people think. He made you sound really interesting, you know. You’re reading too much into it.”

  I sigh. “I believe you’re just saying that, but I’ll let it pass.”

  “Come to lunch. I want to read what you’ve got.”

  “Apparently what I’ve got is a subway map.”

  “Shut up, Emma, and get over here.”

  “There you are. Don’t say I never give you anything.”

  Frankie looks up, surprised to see me standing there. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing, he didn’t hear me come into his office until I dropped the USB stick ceremoniously on his desk from a great height.

  “Tell me this is what I think it is,” he says.

  “This is what you think it is.”

  He stands up. “Can I look?”

  “That’s what it’s there for.”

  I love Frankie. He’s already displaying such enthusiasm about it. After the article in the New Yorker, he could have been distrustful, to put it mildly, about my ability to deliver. What did that awful man say about my story? It’s like reading the New York subway map, no matter how hard you try, you’re still lost. Or words to that effect.

  But Frankie has made it clear that he trusts me. And why shouldn’t he? I rescued his publishing firm with Long Grass Running. He would be bankrupt without me.

  “I know it’s going to be good,” he says, “and don’t worry about that article, okay? It’s not you, it’s him.”

  “That I can agree with.”

  He puts the USB stick in the slot and opens the document, and I can see his confusion at first, because of that very clever opening of Sam’s, the backward effect, but I don’t give instructions, and I can see from the sequence of expressions on his face that Frankie figures it out pretty quickly, just like I did. When he looks up, he has a funny expression on his face, his head turned slightly sideways.

  I take the seat in front of the desk.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t a really clever opening paragraph. Maybe I was already in lust
when I read it. Maybe it’s a stupid idea. I’m very nervous now. Frankie is the first to read it. Did I put too much store in Sam? Is he even for real? Maybe he made it all up—the website, everything. It’s very convenient, when you think about it, being a ghostwriter.

  Oh yes, I’ve had at least eleven titles on the New York Times bestseller list. Which ones? Sorry, that would be telling. Just take my word for it.

  Now I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. Surely I could have asked for some references at least. There must be something out there for him to prove what he says is true. But no, not me, I’m too busy believing anything anyone says. It’s what always gets me in trouble. It’s what Beatrice did to me, back then, when she tricked me into—

  “It’s wonderful.” Frankie beams.

  I actually put a hand on my heart and it’s beating so fast. I love him. I love Frankie again with all my heart and he loves me, I can tell, again, with all his heart, and for this moment, all is right with the world, as we beam at each other. I stand and lean over the desk and take his face in my hands and I squeeze it as I kiss him.

  “Okay, okay, thank you, that’s good, you can stop now,” he says through pursed lips.

  I laugh and clap my hands in excitement. “You really love it?”

  He stands abruptly. “Yes! I love it, Em! You did it!” And I’m so happy that we jump, and hoot, and whoop, and it’s so much fun, and his secretary comes in and says, “Are you okay in there?” but we don’t stop jumping, and he hugs me and I hug him, and life is simply perfect.

  “How much is there?”

  I take a while to get my breath back, after these exertions. “Fifteen chapters.”

  “Where’s the rest?”

  “It’s coming.”

  He gives me that sly look again.

  “It is! I swear it! I’m frantically working on it, Frankie, but I wanted to show you what we’ve—what I’ve got. I knew you’d love it.”

  “You swear you’re working on it?”

  “Do you love it?”

  “I love it. Do you swear?”

  “I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die!”

  “Don’t say that, just promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “I love it, Em. It’s amazing.”

  “Isn’t it? Oh, I’m so pleased, Frankie, for all of us. I mean that.”

  “I know. I can’t tell you what it means to me, Em. I was worried, I can tell you.”

  “What, that I was a one-hit wonder?”

  “Don’t say that. I would never think that about you. You’re the most talented person I know.”

  “Thank you, and I’m sorry, but it wasn’t easy. You understand, don’t you? With Beatrice dying and all that.”

  “Of course I do. I need to see the rest, though, before I love you too much. When do you think?”

  “What about Waleed?”

  “After I read the first draft, then you can deal with Waleed.”

  “Okay. Well, since it’s going very well, I’d say a few weeks.”

  “I’ll take that as a few months then. But really, I’m so pleased, Em. I can’t wait to get started on this.”

  “Me too.”

  “Welcome back, Emma Fern,” he says as he hugs me again, then he releases me and says, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, “Let’s celebrate. I’m taking you to lunch.”

  “Yum! Where to?”

  “The Tavern,” he says, helping me put on my coat.

  “Wow, that’s special!”

  “Nothing but the best for you, my dear.”

  I lightly punch his shoulder. My phone rings, and without thinking I pull it out from my pocket and take the call.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fern? This is Charlie from Avis Car Rentals. How are you today?”

  I make a face at Frankie, shaking my head.

  “I’m fine, thanks, but I’m busy and trying to get out the door, so if you’re selling anything—”

  “Oh sure, sorry to disturb you, it’s just that you left a cell phone in the car you rented on Wednesday. I’ve put it safely in the office ready to be picked up, when do you think—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your cell phone. You left it in the glove compartment.”

  But I can’t hear him very well, probably because of the sudden rush of blood in my ears. It makes his voice sound as if it’s traveling through cotton wool. Thick. Distant.

  I say nothing. I’m afraid that if I speak it will become real, this impossible scenario. I’m going to be sick. I need to be very still and not breathe, and then maybe he will go away, the man from Avis. He will realize he has made a mistake. He will apologize and say goodbye and go away.

  “Are you still there, Mrs. Fern?”

  I try to swallow. “How did you get this number?”

  “Hmm, that’s the number we have on file. It’s the number you gave us when you filled out the rental contract. That’s why I didn’t call you sooner. I thought you’d come and get it. We assumed that was the cell phone we had on file for you, so there was no point in calling you, but seeing as you didn’t come to retrieve it, I thought I’d give your number a try. Is there a problem? I can call you back on a different number if you like.”

  “I think there’s been some mistake.”

  Please, God. Please let there be some mistake.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I didn’t rent a car.”

  “This is Mrs. Fern, right? Mrs. Emma Fern?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have the paperwork right here, Mrs. Fern. You rented a white Buick Verano last Wednesday. Returned it the next day.”

  26

  My hand is shaking. This is not good. I’m completely confused, and I’m frightened. I had to make my excuses. I’m not well, I said. Lame excuse, but what else could I do? There was no way I could go through lunch pretending nothing was wrong. Frankie was disappointed, but, as always, he was understanding.

  “Call me later, okay?” he said, putting me in a cab. “Get some rest.”

  I have to lie down when I get home, because I think I’m going insane. People tell me I have done things, but I have no recollection of them. I did not rent a car last Wednesday. And yet it seems I did.

  I remember how clean the car was. I even commented on it. I thought to myself, Carol must be very fastidious, she clearly takes very good care of her things.

  I try to remember any stickers on the windshield. Don’t rental cars display something on the windshield? But I didn’t pay attention. I had my head down. I kept my sunglasses on the entire time. I just wanted to be let off where we agreed and go from there.

  I said I’d call him back, Charlie from Avis, that I had to hang up, I couldn’t stay on the phone, but he said, “No need, just come by the office whenever you like, same office you rented the car from. Midtown.”

  Four blocks from where I live.

  Of course I’m not going there. Why should I? I didn’t rent the car. They might think I did, but I’m not the one who fronted up and filled in the paperwork, and anyway, don’t they need a driver’s license? It’s the law, surely, to check the ID of the person renting the car, otherwise anyone can rock up and pretend to be someone else—

  I spring from my bed and almost run to my purse, sitting on top of the counter, in the kitchen. I empty its contents and grab my wallet. I open it, my hands shaking.

  It’s not there. It’s always in the same place, in the pocket on the left side. I would have it behind the little clear plastic pocket, but it never quite fitted there, so I’ve always put it in the pocket behind that. Except it’s not there now. I go through every pocket, thoroughly. I pull out all my credit cards, the bits of receipts I’ve been accumulating since God knows when, the business cards I’ve collected for one reason or another. I flick through everything again but I already know I won’t find it. It’s always in the same place, and I haven’t needed to pull it out for any reason. Someone else did, I’m sure of it. And that person used it to rent a ca
r in my name.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I have to pull myself together and make sense of this.

  I didn’t rent the car. I couldn’t forget something like that, for God’s sake. So it could only be Carol. Who else? She must have taken my wallet when we met, and taken my license. When? Did I leave my bag unattended? I can’t remember. We only met twice. I replay each scene in my mind, but I can’t remember. Then I remember, she wanted to get some soda or something, but didn’t have any cash and she took my wallet.

  Really? She engineered that situation to take my driver’s license from my wallet? Why would she do that? I wish I could call her. But of course I can’t. She doesn’t have the disposable phone anymore, because I left it in the glove compartment and forgot to tell her. She must think I still have it. I wonder why she doesn’t call me for it? Or has she not noticed?

  What’s Carol trying to achieve? By hiring the car in my name? She was supposed to bring her car, for Christ’s sake. I go through it in my mind again, the plan. It went like this: Carol takes Jim on a boat trip, ostensibly to discuss their escape, away from prying eyes, because he’s a paranoid psycho. Or was.

  I dressed like him, so that it would look like Jim and Carol, the happy lovers, came back from their little trip and then she dropped him off, at his request, and he was never seen again. His body will wash up eventually, and then all will be clear: Jim went back to the sea and drowned himself. A tragedy, but not unexpected if you have all the facts. Me, I have nothing to do with any of this. When the police come calling, and they will, I’ll make clear that I haven’t seen nor heard from him in weeks.

  She must have reported him missing by now. The police will be in touch any minute. How is that going to look? If she rented the car in my name? And why would Carol rent a car anyway? She’s got a perfectly good car. She told me she used it to go to D.C. and back that day we met for the last time. So what’s the point in renting another one? And now, by doing something so stupid as to use my driver’s license to rent the car, she’s put both of us in danger of being discovered. It wasn’t part of the plan, for God’s sake.

  Both of us?