What a touching story. Has he known all along? Suspected?
He sees me wince, one glancing giveaway, and thinks it has something to do with the park, or with the fact he used me to get what he most wanted. “I’m sorry. I … ”
What in fuck was it about Anna anyway? She wasn’t all that great. Was she? And yet all these men. And she cheated on them, every one.
He more than suspects me now—he knows. Why else wait so long before looking me up? This is a wrinkle that needs to be ironed out.
“May I offer you some tea?” I ask.
“Ah. Do you have something a little stronger?
“I sure do.”
And with that can-do Yankee spirit I go into the kitchen and rummage out the old Rossalind remedy I used to such good effect, so many years ago.
If that doesn’t work, I have the dried herbs from my little garden on the balcony, and my Chinese lanterns growing in a pot. They say poison is a woman’s weapon. What narrow-minded sexist claptrap. We use what we’ve got.
I have to figure out how to get rid of the body. In pieces, I suppose. I’m quite strong but Milo’s a big guy. I smile, remembering that woman who put her husband in the curry. But no, I can’t do that to Milo. He’s a good man, as men go. But still. The thought of him in love with Anna makes it easier to do what must be done.
I jump at the sound of the kitchen phone ringing. I start to let it go to voicemail, but I’m expecting a call from Oscar about our plans for the evening, so I pick up.
A woman introduces herself as Lily Higgenbotham. She tells me she’s a member of the committee to select the Rasmussen Prize for best screenplay. Indigo is on the longlist. The story I began writing so long ago. My true crime novel. My Capote book, my nonfiction novel, with names changed to protect not the innocent—who cares about the innocent?—but to protect me. The only names I didn’t change were Weycombe’s, and Anna’s.
Indigo. I still keep my notes and research in an encrypted file folder, with the same password: IKilled@nn@.
“How wonderful!” I say, so flooded with happiness I’m practically dancing across my new Italian tiles. It was the call I’ve dreamed of, since … since all my life, really. Shot through with a lightning bolt of pure joy, for a second I think I might spare Milo after all, the way an emperor in a good mood might spare a gladiator’s life. But as quickly, I think again. I have even more to lose now.
“I never dreamed of this!” I say to the woman. “Thank you! Such an honor.” I’m gushing, unabashedly thrilled. She says she’s delighted to be the bearer of good news and wishes me luck.
And she asks me to keep it to myself until the entire list has been notified and they officially release the news.
That will not be a problem, I assure her.
I am good at keeping secrets.
the end
Weycombe Page 31