Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 22

by Elizabeth Kay


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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  also arrogant, confident that I had done everything possible to make

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  that impossible. Instead, I was afraid of her reaction. Terrified, if I’m 03

  honest, of what might come next.

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  “I don’t need dinner,” I said. “But I . . . I just wanted to talk.”

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  I was still holding my book and it was swinging awkwardly from my

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  hand and bouncing against my thigh.

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  Marnie sighed. “I love that book,” she said. “Have you reached the

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  part where— ”

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  “Spoilers!” I shouted, and it was a relief to make a loud noise, to

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  expel some of the chaos burning within me.

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  Marnie jolted backward, shocked.

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  “Jesus,” she said. “Calm down.”

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  I took a deep breath— in, hold, out. This was not the time to lose my

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  shit. I laughed and it sounded strange, sort of insincere.

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  “Look,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk. But you can come

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  in and we can try. But Charles is ill and in bed and he’s been sleeping

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  all day and I absolutely do not want to disturb him. It’s one of those

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  migraines and loud noises are the worst, so if you . . . if I ask you to 19

  leave, you leave, okay?”

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  I nodded.

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  Marnie turned back to the door and lifted her key into the lock. I

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  heard it scratching there, finding its way into the hollows, the grooves.

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  “It is nice to see you,” she said. “I am glad you came. I just— ”

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  “It’s fine,” I said. “I understand. It’s complicated.”

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  “Yes,” she said, and she looked at me and smiled. “That’s exactly it.

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  It’s complicated.”

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  She pushed the door open, just an inch or two. “And you’re wel-

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  come to have some dinner— of course you are. I want everything to be

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  normal again. You’re my best friend.” She grinned. “So, yes. I’ll pour us 30

  some wine and I’ll put on some pasta and we can talk.”

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  “Perfect,” I said, and I smiled, too, ignoring the burn of acid at the

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  back of my throat. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m really glad to be here. I

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  want it to be normal again, too.”

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  She pushed against the door again and I closed my eyes.

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  Isn’t that cowardly? I squeezed them shut as soon as her back was

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  turned, entirely involuntarily, because I was gutless. I was petrified of 05

  her reaction. I knew exactly what she was about to experience— I know

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  how it feels to see your husband lying dead on the ground in front of

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  you— and I know what that sort of shock could do to a person. I know

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  how it builds within you, relentlessly, until you have no choice but to

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  believe it. I know how it evolves into grief, the incessant, terminal na-

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  ture of the thing. I knew that her heart would break.

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  “Charles?” she said. “Charles!” she screamed.

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  I heard her footsteps as she darted across the wood, the crash of her

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  shopping as it fell, her knees slamming against the floor.

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  I opened my eyes. I followed her in; I paused briefly in the doorway.

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  He was most definitely dead. His skin had changed. It was no longer

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  pink and peachy, but sort of yellow, gray. She was hunched over his

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  body, her hands against his shoulders, shaking him. If he had been alive, 18

  he would have been in agony, her grabbing him like that, what with his

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  dislocated shoulder. But he was dead, so I guessed it didn’t really matter 20

  anymore.

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  “What the . . .” I cried. I spotted a hairpin lying beneath their

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  radiator— I recognized it as one of my own— and so I emptied my hand-

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  bag onto the floor, my things rolling everywhere, my book landing with

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  a thud, my phone beside it. I reached down for my phone, dialed the

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  emergency services, pressed it against my ear. “Ambulance!” I yelled, as

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  soon as I heard a voice on the other end, before they’d had a chance to

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  say anything at all. “I need an ambulance.”

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  “Where to, please?”

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  I reeled off the address. “Quickly,” I added at the end. “You need to

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  come quickly.”

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  Marnie was sobbing, her head buried against Charles’s chest. “He’s

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  dead!” she screamed. “Jane! He’s dead.”

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  “We think he’s dead,” I cried to the person on the other end of the

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  phone line, because I had no idea what else to say or what to do and I was 05

  becoming more authentically hysterical with each of Marnie’s screams.

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  “And what makes you think that? Give me as much information as

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  you can. The paramedics are on their way.”

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  “Marnie, how do you— He’s a funny color,” I said. “Yellow and his

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  body’s twisted. He’s fallen down the stairs.”

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  Marnie screamed again and then looked straight at me, her eyes wild

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  and unfocused, and then she shouted, “Tell them we can get him back,”

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  and she lifted herself above him, placed her hands at the center of his

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  chest and began pumping.

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  “We’re doing CPR,” I said. “There’s a doorman— Jeremy— he can—

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  there’s a lift— they’ll need to get the lift.”

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  “They’re on their way now. They’ll be with you very soon.”

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  “Keep going, Marn,” I said. “Are you . . . If you get tired, I can . . . I 18

  can do it too.” I was panting and adrenaline was pouring through me,

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  flooding my body.

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  “Is he breathing?” the operator asked. “Can you tell me if he’s

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  breathing?”

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  “Is he breathing?” I shouted. “No,�
�� I said. “No, I don’t think so.”

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  “They’re on their way.”

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  “They need to come quicker!” I shouted, and I really believed it. I

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  really wanted them to hurry, to drive fast, to be here, even though I

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  knew that there was nothing they could do, even though I knew that it

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  was already too late.

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  “They’ll be with you very soon,” said the voice at the end of the

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  phone. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re doing great.”

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  We heard the sirens screaming and Marnie was sobbing, sweating in

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  her raincoat, and I was standing, the phone still held against my ear,

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  listening to empty platitudes and frantically pacing.

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  “They’re here,” I said to her. “That’s them. They’re nearly here.”

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  Marnie stopped driving her hands into Charles’s chest and collapsed

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  on top of him, wailing into him. She knew, I think, that he had gone.

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  She had known since she opened the door and saw him lying there, his

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  ankle twisted, and his shoulder dislocated, and his neck snapped.

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  I crouched down and rubbed her back— small circular motions that

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  I hoped would convey that I was here for her, here for her always, what-

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  ever she needed— until finally we heard the lift clanking up to this floor 08

  and the doors scraping open.

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  I jumped up and leaned out the door. “We’re here,” I called. “Over

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  here.”

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  Three paramedics ran toward me. An older man, overweight with

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  no neck whatsoever. A younger man, faster and fitter and quickly in

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  front of me. And a young woman, who hung back, nervous, new per-

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  haps, and said nothing at all and never entered the flat.

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  “Can you tell us his name?” shouted the younger man.

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  “He’s my husband,” said Marnie, crawling away from Charles’s dead

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  body so that the paramedics could reach him. “Charles,” she said. “His

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  name’s Charles. He’s thirty- three. He has a migraine.”

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  We laughed about that a few weeks later. “I still can’t believe I said

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  that,” she said. “That he had a migraine. I mean, Jesus. A migraine.”

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  Here is something you learn as you get older, as you start to live

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  alongside death in its many guises, as it becomes an ever present part of 23

  your world. Death becomes softer in the months and years that follow.

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  It loses its sharp edges; they don’t cut quite so deep and make you bleed 25

  in quite the same way. Sometimes you are laughing at something that

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  made you cry just a few days before. But soft edges are still edges, and

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  they are sharpened unexpectedly, by an ill- considered comment or an

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  anniversary, or are filed to a point at the memory of a happy moment.

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  There is no logic to grief, no well- worn path that we all must follow;

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  there are simply the times when it is bearable and the times when

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  it is not.

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  I heard her say those words— “a migraine”— and I saw the humor in

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  them even then. I knew that it was so much worse than a migraine and

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  yet they were the words that broke me. I had seen her see him, watched

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  her desperately trying to revive him, heard her screaming, and felt only

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  a strange— again, giddy— excitement. I had been caught somewhere

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  between panic and hysteria, only ever a second away from doubling

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  over and laughing like that little girl at the beach.

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  But those words changed everything.

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  Suddenly it wasn’t about Charles anymore. It wasn’t about his rigid

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  body lying concertinaed on the floor. It wasn’t about his behavior or my

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  hatred or the tension that had lived between us. It wasn’t about the fact 12

  that he was dead or the fact of his dying. It wasn’t about Charles at all.

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  It was all about Marnie.

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  I had done to her what the world had done to me.

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  You were meant to ask me if I regretted it. This was the moment I

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  first felt any kind of regret.

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  The fruit from the shopping bag had rolled down the corridor, to-

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  ward the kitchen, and the chicken, still wrapped in plastic, was swelter-

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  ing on the wooden floor, my hairpin glittering beneath the radiator. But

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  none of that mattered. All I could think about was Marnie. The para-

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  medics were working in my peripheral vision, doing something that was

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  probably nothing. And we all knew that soon they would stand up and

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  step back and clear their throats.

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  Marnie was curled up on the bottom step of the stairs. Her raincoat

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  had fallen from her shoulders and it hung around her waist, strapped

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  around her arms. She wasn’t crying anymore. But she was trembling,

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  shivering, almost violently, like there was something within her that

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  needed to escape. Her jaw was slack and her eyes were swollen and red

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  and she kept making these terrible little noises, tiny retching sounds,

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  like an infant choking. She was small, her knees bent up against her

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  shoulders and enveloped in her own arms.

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  I had broken her. I knew then that I had broken her.

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  And don’t start now with any nonsensical platitudes. Those people,

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  the ones who say they understand when they don’t, are the worst. And

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  you are not one of them.

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  I knew then that it was all my fault. I had driven her to this moment.

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  It was my words, my lies. And, to you, I cannot deny that I was the one

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  who turned his head, who snapped his neck.

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  The remorse was unexpected. And perhaps it would have been so

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  intense as to m
ake me regret my actions had it not been tempered by a

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  seed of hope. Marnie and I had been separated by romantic love. Those

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  openings were now empty, cracks that could be refilled and repaired,

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  until it might seem that they had never existed. I had created that op-

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  portunity. I felt sadness for her suffering and for what she would go on

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  to experience. But I didn’t feel guilt. I mainly felt relief.

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  Thing have changed substantially since that day; you know that bet-

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  ter than anyone. It must be about a year ago now, I suppose. You make

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  it feel so much longer.

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  Later that night— after the police and the doctor and the undertakers—

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  we returned to my flat.

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  I was very aware as we rode up in the lift and stepped into the cor-

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  ridor that my building wasn’t in any way luxurious. There were none of

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  those symbols of success here: no polished floors or mirrored walls. But

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  I had known this woman as an eleven- year- old girl, and she had never

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  been impressed by wealth or success then. And I knew that she was still

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  that same person. Those were the proclivities of her late husband; he

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  liked money and indulgences and extravagance. But we both knew—

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  had always known— that they were simply façades, trimmings that

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  decorated but didn’t change the substance of a thing.

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  Marnie had never spent much time in my flat and it was nice to have

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  her there with me. I offered her a pair of my pajamas— my favorite

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  pair— and she had a long bath and I made her a cup of milky, sugared tea.

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  I lay in bed and waited for her and I heard the plug being pulled and

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  the gurgle of water as it descended through the pipes. I heard the bath-

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  room door opening as she stepped into the corridor to collect the paja-

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  mas from the radiator. The light was off, but I heard her enter my room

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  and then she climbed into bed beside me. The sun was beginning to

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  rise, peeping over the horizon and brightening the edges of my blinds.

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  I couldn’t sleep knowing that she was there. She was on her side,

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  facing away from me, toward the window, and her breathing was calm

 

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