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

by Natalie Barelli

  “He’s a writer under contract, Emma. I have many of those. Badosa Press and its imprints publish many books.” He smiles.

  I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “I had no idea.”

  “Thank you for noticing.” And we both laugh.

  “But why? The lunch and all that jazz?”

  “So you’d write, Emma. I was trying to give you a nudge.” He grins. “And you have to admit, it worked.”

  I smile at him, and in that moment, I make a resolution. I’m going to finish that next book. Without Sam. Just me.

  Can life get any better?

  It turns out that it can, because as Brad brings us steaming plates of scallops in champagne sauce, with a “That’s just for starters, guys,” and after we’ve exclaimed our delight, Frankie says, “Hey, Emma, I have good news. I wanted to tell you tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lunch tomorrow, you’re free?”

  “I—think so.” Lord knows what will happen between now and then. “Yes, I’m free.”

  “Great. There are some people I want you to meet. We can go together.” And he winks at me.

  I feel a little flutter in my stomach, because this time I’m fairly sure I know who he’s talking about, and it’s not Nick the Prick.

  “Oh, and I forgot to say, your friend called me earlier, just before you got here, in fact.”

  “My friend?”

  “Sam Huntington.”

  I close my eyes for a minute. “I don’t know who that is,” I say, because I’m drunk and I’m not thinking straight, and I haven’t been thinking straight for something like six hours.

  “You do know!” Frankie exclaims. He looks at me, surprised. “The guy from the restaurant the other day. Sam Huntington. He was at Nick’s book launch.”

  “Oh right, yes. What did he want?”

  Frankie lifts a scallop to his mouth.

  “He wanted to know where you are.”

  38

  “I love this place. Have you been here before, Emma?”

  Liz Carmody’s long hair falls across her cheek when she turns to me to say this. I wish I had long hair.

  “Just once, and I love it. I love Japanese food.”

  It’s not just the food, it’s the decor. It’s modern and retro at the same time. So unusual, with its curved ceilings, like the inside of a whale. We sit in a white booth and it’s a perfect setting for this sort of meeting. There are tall vases of what I think are cherry blossom. I wonder where they got those at this time of year?

  I must be delirious, but right now I’m just happy to be out of the house. I’m here with Frankie and two movie producers. Frankie told me about them in the car, just after he told me I looked awful, and did I really get any sleep? I assured him that I was fine, even though I spent all night listening for Jim. Frankie told me something else about the producers’ plans, but at this point I couldn’t care less if they were going to make a Disney animation of my book. I have no idea what’s going on anymore. I have come to believe that I dreamed the whole thing about Carol in the beach house, even though the rope is still there at the bottom of the broom closet. Frankie noticed it when we cleaned up last night. I was determined to sweep the floor, which required no sweeping, inventing imaginary crumbs, because I wanted to open the closet, but I timed it wrongly, and Frankie got there before me.

  “Is that yours?” he asked, a bit puzzled. “It’s a lot of rope.”

  “Mmm?” I said. “Oh that? I found it outside, on the grass, I thought it was yours.”

  “Really? I’ll check with the neighbors, but it’s not mine.”

  “Ah, okay,” I said, nonchalantly. If that’s the only problem I am going to be faced with, having to explain that bit of rope—happy days. I’m in heaven. I can come up with a million explanations for it. Easy. Give me a harder one, I want to say.

  “So, Emma,” Liz Carmody says, bringing me back to the present. Liz is one half of the husband-and-wife producer team we’re meeting here. “Firstly, we want to tell you how much we love Long Grass Running. It’s a beautiful book. And I’m surprised that the movie rights haven’t been snapped up yet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s been a few offers,” Frankie chimes in, “but nothing we felt comfortable with. Emma and I strongly believe that for the project to be a success, we need to work with the right people.”

  It’s hard not to laugh. We’d work with anyone. We’ve been trying to get this movie off the ground for a year now. But I nod sagely, in agreement.

  “We are flattered that you think we are the right people to work with on this project. We certainly hope to be. I’ve explained our vision to Frankie”—she says this to me—“and we have some exciting ideas to share with you.”

  “I can’t wait to hear them, Liz. I’m very excited.”

  “So are we. Where should we start, Liz?” says Dwight Carmody. But Liz’s cell buzzes and she lifts an index finger up in the air, as if to say, Hold that thought, and picks it up.

  Everyone has their cell phone on the table, myself included. It’s the sort of meeting where you’re not expected to turn your phone off, clearly. Frankie turns to me and he starts to say something when my phone buzzes as well. I answer it; it’s a reflex.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  I hang up. I put the phone back down on the table, a little more violently than I should have, and it startles Frankie.

  “Wrong number,” I say by way of explanation.

  “Everything okay?” he asks quietly, and I nod.

  Liz has finished her own conversation and is talking to Dwight, but the waiter has arrived with our sushi, and there’s a bit of a commotion at the table as everyone moves glasses and phones out of the way. My phone buzzes again. I pick it up and am about to turn it off, but then I change my mind. I get up from my chair.

  “Excuse me.”

  I go to the ladies’ room, the phone still buzzing in my hand. I answer it outside the door, leaning against the wall.

  “What the fuck, Sam?”

  “What’s wrong with you today?”

  “What do you want?”

  “To apologize, about yesterday. I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me to be honest. I’m not usually like that.”

  “You have been a little creepy, Sam.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll stop now. No more creepiness, I swear.”

  I don’t know what to say, except that I don’t believe him.

  “Emma, I think we should finish the book, and I think we should put personal feelings on hold while we’re doing that. If anything . . . romantic, is to happen between us—and I hope it will—then it needs to be after we’ve finished our project. I apologize for not having made that decision sooner.”

  I put a hand on my chest and take a deep breath. When Frankie told me that Sam was looking for me, I think, for the first time, I felt scared of Sam. Frankie didn’t tell him anything, thank God.

  “I’m not going to give your whereabouts to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who asks, Emma,” Frankie had said. “Seriously, what do you take me for?” I told him I’d call Sam, and tell him myself that I don’t know him very well, and he’s beginning to be a little clingy, shall we say, but Frankie didn’t think it was anything to worry about.

  “The price of fame, babe,” he said, but I knew he was making light of it on purpose, after what happened over a year ago, when I was stalked by Beatrice’s agent, for reasons which no one ever found out about, thank the Lord. Frankie didn’t want me to worry, and I suspect that if Sam were to call him again, Frankie wouldn’t mention it to me. After he’d told him where to go, so to speak. It upset me, hearing that. What does Sam want from me? This isn’t just a crush. What did he say that time? But you’re Emma Fern. Can I please, just once in my life, get a break?

  So now I need to ask the question. “You called Frankie yesterday, asking where I was. Why did you do that?”

  There’s a pause, then Sam replies,
“I’m sorry, but I was worried. I tried to call you when you left the book festival and your phone was constantly busy. I couldn’t get through and I got concerned. Sorry.”

  “Okay, Sam, I’m going to say this once, and once only. We’re done. There’s no book, no contract, no relationship, no nothing. I’ll have my lawyers get in touch to terminate the contract. Do. Not. Contact. Me. Again.”

  After I’ve hung up and I’m back at the table, I turn off my cell. Frankie puts his hand on mine and leans across. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine, really. I’ll tell you later,” I whisper back. “So, who’s going to play me? Jennifer Lawrence?” I ask brightly.

  They all look at me as if I have two heads.

  “It was a joke,” I assure them. “There’s no me in the book. Unless I lived a previous life as a farmer.” But it still falls flat, even though they titter a little.

  We don’t discuss numbers because that sort of thing is best handled when the talent isn’t there, I’m told. Frankie is my agent, as well as my publisher. He’ll take care of everything for me on that side.

  I lean in to him and say, “Can I stay longer at the beach house? Maybe for a few weeks even?”

  “Of course,” he whispers back. “Stay as long as you need. Why?”

  “So I can finish my book.”

  I go back to the beach house by myself after lunch. It’s the first time I’ve been alone since Carol disappeared into thin air, so it’s the first opportunity I’ve had to try to figure out how she did it. I checked last night, after everyone went to bed, whether my cell phone was still here, the one Jim took from me and Carol brought back. It was. Just as I left it, hidden inside the box of washing powder, along with her stupid burner phone.

  I’ve offered to make coq au vin for the three of us tonight; something I haven’t done in years, but Brad mentioned he loved the dish. The weather has cooled, finally, otherwise I wouldn’t serve a meal like that. I wish they were here already. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay by myself after the weekend, when they leave. I think I’ll have to tell Frankie about Jim; that I’m frightened of him. I don’t know how I’ll ever sleep again otherwise.

  After I’ve put the groceries away, I move slowly from room to room, listening intently.

  “Oh, and another thing, Em, make sure to lock the sliding doors onto the deck. It’s not as safe as you might think around here,” Frankie had said last night, before we went to bed. Needless to say, I had locked the sliding doors. Somehow, they magically opened themselves.

  “No, it wouldn’t do to walk in and find me hit over the head with a hammer now, would it?” I replied; I don’t know why. One of those times where my mouth was running faster than my champagne-soaked brain. They looked at me, startled. I waved it away. “Sorry, I was thinking of something on the news.”

  “Around here? Hit with a hammer?” Brad had blurted, more dismayed than I’d expected him to be.

  “No no no, ignore what I said. I should go to bed, I think.” Then I added, just before getting up from the table, “Is there anything else? That I should know about?”

  They looked at each other. Frankie started to shake his head, but then abruptly he said, “Just curious, why didn’t you park your car in the garage?”

  I remember feeling the color drain from my face, because I’d completely forgotten about the garage, where I’d parked Carol’s little Honda. Completely forgotten. Totally. For all I knew, Carol had somehow crawled in there. “I . . .”

  “Well since you’re not using it, we parked the Lexus there,” Frankie said, his tone indicating that he didn’t think it important. Good.

  “Good, good.” I even managed not to blurt out something about parking outside in the street on purpose, so that they could bring the Lexus in. Since I didn’t know they were coming, that would have sounded a little weird. Note to self: Do not sound weird. I didn’t ask anything else about the garage. I figured if there was a dead body in there, or something else, Lord knows what, they would have mentioned it.

  Then Frankie added as an afterthought, “But again, Em, without wanting to bring up anything scary, the garage door wasn’t closed all the way down. There was a gap, at the bottom of the roller door. Probably not big enough for someone to slip through, but you know, you can’t be too careful. Especially since I haven’t had it fixed yet—the garage door.”

  It’s the first place I check thoroughly for clues, now I’m back. After I’ve made sure the doors are still locked—and they all are. Including the sliding doors. The garage is clean, as clean as a garage can be, and why wouldn’t it be? Obviously that’s how Jim got in. He must have staked out the place, figured out the door didn’t close. Then they probably walked right out through the front door.

  That’s the part I don’t understand. Why she went to such lengths to hide the fact that I’d kept her here—against her will, let’s face it. That’s called kidnapping, and carries a hefty jail sentence.

  I’ve already started cooking when Frankie calls to say they have to cancel tonight, but they’ll be back tomorrow night instead. Please come, I want to say, but I don’t.

  “I’ll cook something tomorrow night then, okay? Don’t bring any food.” I say instead.

  “I’m really looking forward to it, Em.”

  I’ll make it tonight anyway, since I’ve already started, and this is a dish that does nicely the next day, if not better. So I spend an hour in the kitchen, chopping and preparing. The distraction of cooking is calming me. I put the pot on to simmer, and go into the living room to put some music on. I flick through the CDs scattered on top of the cabinet, when the light comes on outside, shining around the edges of the drapes, and I drop the CD I’m holding.

  It’s only an animal or something. It happens all the time. The sensor is too sensitive. Even the wind can trigger it.

  I wait, still as a statue, and listen. Slowly I make my way to the window, peer out at the edge of the curtain, but there’s nothing. Just the usual distant sounds.

  I wait for my heart to slow down. I return to my task of choosing some music, and settle on Claude Debussy. While the pot simmers, I go through the bathroom again, inch by inch. It’s so strange. There’s nothing there. No evidence whatsoever that Carol was ever in this room. Not even a hair off her head.

  Exhaustion overwhelms me, and I tell myself that it’s going to be okay. After all, Jim got his Carol back. He has no need to come here again. He’d be stupid to do so. I need to relax and stop being so paranoid. I draw a bath, in which I add a few drops of scented oil, and I light some candles. The coq au vin needs to simmer for half an hour at least, so I have time to luxuriate in the scented water with a glass of wine. I need to calm down. I lay back in the soft water and close my eyes. I could fall asleep.

  Am I dreaming? I open my eyes with a jolt. The music has stopped.

  He’s here. This is it. Oh God. How could I be so stupid? Why did I think he wouldn’t come now? My heart thumps in my chest as I wait, listening, but there’s nothing. Just eerie silence. I get out of the bath very quietly and pull on the thick robe that hangs behind the door.

  “Frankie?” I whisper.

  My feet make a wet noise on the wooden floor as I go through the house. It’s darker now, and I turn on a lamp in the living room and go to check the sound system. The CD is still spinning. I stop it, then restart it, but there’s no sound.

  I lean closer, just to make sure, and fear explodes in my chest, because I can see that the volume control is all the way down.

  “Frankie?” I shout now. “Is someone here?”

  I look around me, desperate for something to use as a weapon, but there’s nothing. I run to the bedroom and slip on the floor. I get up, and flick the light switch, my chest thumping.

  “Who’s there?” I shout. “Jim?”

  I turn and scream at my own reflection in the window.

  I run to the bedroom, grab the clothes I threw on the bed, and lock myself in the bathroom. I put on my jeans
and my T-shirt, then I listen by the door.

  I fucked up. I really fucked up this time. Jim is crazy. I’ve put myself in real danger. Oh God, what was I thinking? I pull at my hair and I let out a low wail when I realize I don’t have my phone. I don’t have anything to call anyone, and he’s on the other side of the door.

  I lean my forehead against the door, and listen. There’s no sound in the house. Not a creak. Just the distant lapping of water against the boats. Slowly, I unlock the door, as quietly as I can, and open it a fraction. Nothing. I pull it open, wider this time, fully expecting to see Jim brandishing a weapon of some sort.

  I need the gun. Think, Emma, pull yourself together. You can’t go crazy like this. I force myself to breathe, big, deep gulps of air, and keep my hand on my chest, waiting for my heart to slow down.

  I go back out to the living room. Nothing has changed. There’s no one here. The disc is still spinning. I make my way to Frankie’s bedroom, but then I hear something. In the kitchen. It’s getting louder. It’s the pot. The lid is jumping on top like a pressure cooker that hasn’t been closed correctly. The noise is too loud, and I want it to stop, so I run to the stove and the flame is up high, at the highest possible level.

  I scream.

  39

  I can’t breathe. There’s a hand over my mouth. I reach up to pull at an arm, to get a hand off my face. I can smell him. Oh God, I can’t breathe. I can’t—

  “Shut the fuck up, Emma!” he hisses in my ear. “If you scream, I’ll break your neck. Do you understand me?”

  I nod, frantically, and he releases his grip, slowly. I take in big gulps of air, he lets me go, and I fall on hard my knees.

  “What the fuck, Emma?”

  I don’t have the gun. After all this, I don’t have the gun.

  He grabs hold of my hair. I try to hold on to his hands.

  “Did you miss me, sweetheart?” he hisses in my ear.

  “Jim, stop! Please!”

  “I don’t get you. I really don’t. Kidnapping Carol? What’s the matter with you? I had to come here to get her out, can you believe it? And it wasn’t easy, I assure you.”