What Did I Do?

by Jessica Jarlvi

  WHAT DID I DO?

  Jessica Jarlvi

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About What Did I Do?

  When two murders happen in Chicago, a witch-hunt ensues, and Kristin quickly finds herself at the centre.

  The problem is she isn’t sure of what she did or didn’t do. Armed with a life insurance payout, she runs away to Sweden to start her life over.

  But it’s not that easy to escape the past. And whatever she’s done, someone is on her tail, wanting her to pay.

  The question is: could she be a killer and not even remember?

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About What Did I Do?

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part 2

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Part 3

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Jessica Jarlvi

  A Letter from the Author

  Also by Jessica Jarlvi

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  To Patty

  for your friendship and hospitality

  Prologue

  It was dark and the concrete beneath her was cold. She pulled her legs up; hid them under her skirt, swallowed, willing the taste of blood to go away.

  ‘Can you tell the children it’s time to eat?’

  Mother’s muffled voice travelled down through the ceiling, a waft of stew making its way downstairs, but her stomach didn’t rumble. She was too preoccupied with listening.

  ‘I can’t find them,’ Father said.

  As if he’d even looked. They probably didn’t know where her siblings were – they never did – but she wanted to shout: you should know that I’m here! Yet she didn’t make a noise. She stayed where she was, waiting, shaking. She hugged herself tightly, her dry eyes burrowed into hard knees.

  ‘Have you looked in the garden?’ Mother asked.

  ‘I don’t know where they are,’ Father insisted, and a short but intense verbal exchange erupted. She listened as his steps moved towards the front door, heard the bang when it shut behind him. Only then did she move. Knees scraped against the floor. Slowly, so as not to give away a sound, she crawled up the stairs. At the top she cautiously opened the door, the smell of food mixing with the crispness of Clorox. In the kitchen, pots were clattering.

  She limped to the bathroom.

  Before Mother saw her.

  Before Mother looked away.

  Before Mother understood.

  Part 1

  Home is where you hang your hat

  English proverb

  Chapter 1

  Kristin

  May 2017

  Kristin is on the run. From her life. From herself.

  Sitting in a spacious one-bedroom apartment thousands of miles away from the Chicago trailer where her life was turned upside down, she tries to remember what happened, if only to torment herself. It had been an ordinary Wednesday, her routine the same as every other day, cooking a laborious ‘wholesome’ meal for her husband: stew with cubes of beef and pre-cut vegetables. All details aren’t completely clear, however. Seven months have passed since the quiet dinner with Brandon became bedlam; the suppressed silence disturbed by his beer bottle falling to the floor, his big hairy hand rising up, grabbing his own neck. The wheezing and the terrified bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Brandon, are you okay?’ she stupidly asked.

  Of course, he wasn’t okay. Across the table, his wide eyes stared at her, begging for help. She stood up abruptly, her head hitting the white enamel ceiling lamp, just as Brandon’s large body slid off the vinyl seat. He landed with a thud next to the broken beer bottle, his well-worn jeans absorbing the oozing malt liquid. His skin was turning red, the rash spreading like wildfire.

  ‘I sprang into action,’ she told the police later. The rickety table had surely vibrated as she jumped past it and onto Brandon? ‘I called his name and hit his back.’

  Did she act quickly enough? That question was asked over and over. Did she do what she could have, to save him?

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  At least that’s how she remembers it. She worries that she may have altered the movie that repeatedly runs in her head.

  ‘I scanned the kitchen for my phone,’ she explained. ‘It was together with my charger in a basket on the counter top.’

  That’s the clearest memory of all: the shining kitchen surfaces, gleaming from her incessant cleaning. There was no evidence of cooking, the blood from the meat soaked up by a sponge, any oily stains attacked by her antibacterial spray. She had stood back and admired her handiwork.

  ‘I ran to pick up my phone and unlocked the screen,’ she said.

  The 911 call was recorded and replayed.

  ‘My husband seems to have choked on something,’ she could be heard saying on the tape, the static interference making it sound as if the words were said long ago, in another time. ‘Now he’s on the floor. Come help, quickly. Please.’

  Her voice was calm; too calm for their liking apparently, although she thought the urgency in her voice was noticeable. She rattled off the address at the trailer park and while an ambulance made its way, questions were asked about allergies. Before she knew it, she had grabbed the EpiPen from the bathroom cabinet but she wasn’t sure how to use it. She was still holding it when the paramedics arrived. Someone snatched it out of her hand and jammed it into Brandon’s leg. The feeling of failure makes a momentary comeback.

  A paramedic even insulted her by asking if she had been drinking.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  No alcohol for her. She had wanted to keep a clear head.

  ‘You cooked this meal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Both paramedics talked while they worked, which she found distracting. Maybe that’s why it’s difficult to remember everything. Too much happened at once.

  ‘Did you include anything in this meal that he’s allergic to?’ they said.

  The air in the trailer was thick at this point and she hesitated before she replied. This she remembers, because every head in the room suddenly turned in her direction and she hurriedly said, ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’ the female paramedic
asked, her greasy hair glistening in the light.

  Kristin confirmed that she was sure. She must have, but this is one of those moments where reality and fiction merge. What did she really say? If anything?

  She rests her head in her hands and looks at the communal garden below her window. It looks serene with its swaying birch trees but also strangely unreal. Is she even here, in Sweden of all places, or is she dreaming?

  That’s her cue to look at the enamel ceiling light hanging over her brand-new kitchen table. This lamp is the only item she packed in her suitcase. It took up most of the space and required new wiring upon arrival, but she needed it to serve as a reminder of the chaos that swept through her old Chicago home. She pushes the lacquered surface gently, watching the light sway from side to side, thinking of the beer bottle crashing, Brandon’s hand around his neck, his body down.

  It really did happen. He was removed from the trailer and placed in an ambulance. Curious neighbours watched her as she climbed in at the back. There, she held her husband’s hand, her body swerving along with the traffic, the sirens blaring loudly.

  ‘I love you,’ she told him over and over, loud enough for the paramedics to hear, their suspicious glances unnerving her.

  She cried. Her cheeks were wet for sure because Brandon had been her saviour once. But at the hospital, his unkempt beard and closed eyes were placed on a white pillow, and that was where it ended. He would neither love nor harm anyone ever again. He was lifeless.

  She’s not sure how long she stayed at the hospital.

  ‘Did they light a candle for him?’ his mother asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  It felt as if there was little respect for her loss.

  ‘It was busy,’ she probably said.

  Everyone rushed around in sterile uniforms and when it was time for her to leave, she was simply given a bag with Brandon’s belongings. His watch; the bent leather wallet that was always tucked into his back pocket; the snakeskin cowboy boots; the plain wedding ring and a gold necklace that used to hide within his dark chest hair. Holding the bag with the few items made her feel as if he were leaving with her, holding her hand.

  Now she keeps her eyes on the lamp, reminding herself that he didn’t go with her. He really is dead and here, across the Atlantic, she is safe.

  No one will find her. Just to make sure this is so, she checks her emails. That’s the safest way of communicating with anyone, should she wish to. But as a precaution she changes her VPN to make it seem as if she’s still in Chicago. Opening her inbox, there’s only one email and it’s from her former mother-in-law. It’s short and succinct:

  I hope you rot in hell.

  Chapter 2

  Frank

  October 2016

  Frank and Birgitta were on a weekend retreat, their legs wrapped around each other, Frank deeply thrusting into his wife, when the phone call arrived. Did they know where their son was? They realised that they hadn’t seen him for a few days before they left but that wasn’t unusual. He would sometimes go off with friends they’d never met and, although they probably should have been more vigilant, he was the youngest and the one they had been the least controlling of.

  They threw their clothes and toiletries into the overnight Louis Vuitton bags and rushed home in a panic, speeding on the highway and through every tollbooth; the details of what was going on not completely clear. All they knew was that a neighbour had raised the alarm that something terrible might have happened to their son, Anders.

  ‘Before we go into further details, we need you to come home,’ they were told.

  ‘They must be mistaken,’ Frank kept saying in the car.

  He was racking his brain. Where could Anders have been? Who could he have been with? Why would they think he was hurt?

  ‘He’s still not answering his phone,’ Birgitta said. She had tried calling him a million times.

  ‘Is it even ringing?’

  ‘No.’

  Frank slammed the steering wheel, frustrated. His son was fine. Of course, he was.

  ‘We should have demanded to meet his friends,’ Birgitta said. ‘Then we would know who to call now.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have let him have all those tattoos and piercings,’ Frank said. ‘That’s attracted bad company.’ He stopped himself from adding: if only you hadn’t been so relaxed about it. There was little point arguing. They needed to stick together now. ‘He’s okay,’ Frank repeated over and over. ‘He’s okay.’

  Anders was the only child they had left. Their older son, who was fiercely independent, had already moved out and practically vanished, only making the occasional phone call, while their daughter’s psychological issues had kept her away.

  That left Anders. With or without his body art, he was the one who made them feel as if they were still a family unit.

  *

  By the time they arrived back at the Winnetka house, ambulance and police cars were parked by the entrance, making it impossible for Frank to even access his garage. It didn’t matter. The sight of the emergency vehicles was terrifying and Frank simply left the car outside the gate as the two of them ran inside, the trail of people leading them down to the lakefront.

  They only stopped when they saw the divers pulling a pale body out of the water, unable to move any closer for fear of what they might witness.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ Birgitta said, grabbing hold of his arm.

  ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ Frank said, attempting to keep his voice steady.

  It’s someone else.

  Many people died in Lake Michigan every year. Frank knew the statistics. Twenty-five people had tragically ended their lives in the lake the year before, and it was likely to be even higher this year. His son would not be one of them.

  From where they stood, the body was barely recognisable, the waxy skin making the person resemble a doll, or a ghost, or, at the very least, someone else. Not their child.

  The sun was glittering on the lake, appearing as if this were any other autumn Sunday. Yet here they stood, watching a lifeless person be carried across their property.

  At that moment, an arm pulled away from the body, detaching with ease like clay, and Birgitta screamed.

  ‘The body is fragile after spending time in the water,’ someone said, or whispered or shouted.

  Stop talking! Frank couldn’t focus on anything but the figure on the stretcher drawing closer. His son’s face was thin. As Frank leaned forward, he could tell that this one was swollen. Yet somewhere, below the wet streaky hair, he couldn’t deny the resemblance to Anders.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. No.

  His son was about to turn nineteen. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Birgitta clutched his arm. He had almost forgotten her presence but now he pulled her closer, her almost silent tears soaking through his shirt.

  ‘Is it really him?’ Birgitta sobbed.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny it.

  Frank felt Birgitta’s body weaken in his arms and he held on harder, afraid that he would disintegrate if she let go. This wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. As Frank stood there holding onto his wife, his brain was shutting down; he was frozen in disbelief, his emotions getting the better of him. Everything seemed pointless. The large mansion-like house behind them, their perfect home, was insignificant. The money he had worked hard to earn for his family no longer mattered. It was all trivial compared to this. What was happening to their lives? They had harboured such hope for the future. Once upon a time, they had left Sweden for the US because this was where dreams came true. ‘Anders was a miracle,’ he said, his mouth pressed against Birgitta’s hair.

  He had been the unexpected addition to their family that had made Frank feel complete: a colicky baby they’d hired a nurse to assist with.

  ‘He was a quiet and gentle boy,’ Birgitta said.

  That had been true once. He hadn’t been boisterous like his older brother, but fra
gile and always crying, Anders had only become stronger and more opinionated with age, making him increasingly hard to control.

  ‘I don’t think I can let go,’ Frank said. ‘I can’t.’

  Just the thought of it brought on a new wave of sorrow. His children had all grown up too fast. Why couldn’t they stay little forever? He had probably worked too much during their formative years… it made him feel guilty.

  They struggled to keep up behind the stretcher. As their feet stumbled around the corner of the house to the driveway, Anders was carefully moved into one of the many vehicles.

  ‘Where are they taking him?’ Birgitta asked, her voice faltering.

  She burrowed her head deeper into his chest, and Frank thought: Should I want to touch him, to make sure he really isn’t breathing?

  ‘They’re not going to revive him,’ he said, the realisation only just dawning on him.

  Anders’s body was headed for a morgue, not a resuscitation scenario at a hospital. Nothing could save him. His son really was gone. The tightness across Frank’s ribcage made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t bear it. Now it would only be the two of them, him and Birgitta, in this big empty house. He collapsed onto the tiles, the ones he had carefully chosen together with his son, a few months previously.

  ‘Frank,’ Birgitta cried. ‘Please don’t. Get up! Please.’

  But he couldn’t. His family was in pieces. Someone tried to pull him up, voices tried to speak to him, but he was incapable of being coherent. Everything was a blur.

  Birgitta crouched down to hold him, and there, in the driveway, they numbly hung onto each other; two lost souls, watching their son be driven away, never to return.

  Chapter 3

  Kristin

  May 2017

  Light is streaming through the sheer white curtains as Kristin opens her eyes. Next to her, a man is snoring and it takes her a few seconds to adjust. It’s not Brandon. She is no longer married, which is an odd feeling. Instead, she has a boyfriend. She didn’t plan to meet anyone so soon after Brandon’s death but it’s easier to remain in the real world when you share it with someone.