Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 25

by Elizabeth Kay


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  couldn’t believe that I had existed on the periphery of such a horrible,

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  desperate man for so many weeks and hadn’t realized it.

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  I thought I knew what was going to happen. Marnie was going to say

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  all the things that I was thinking: that he was selfish and egotistical and 28

  that unless he changed his attitude then they wouldn’t be living to-

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  gether ever thank you very much and how could he

  possibly—

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  seriously?— ask her to put him first when we had been friends for

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  years— years— did he not realize what an impossible ask that was?

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  I pictured us laughing about it later that evening. My anger would

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  have been quickly quashed, but the storm of it would have reignited

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  something within me. It would have been refreshing, a palate cleanser,

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  to experience something other than exhaustion and sadness and panic.

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  Except that wasn’t how the conversation unfolded. I heard her mur-

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  muring, not shouting— not really angry at all— and quiet but not quite

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  quiet enough.

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  “I know,” she said. “I know. And I want to live with you too. You

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  know that I do. This isn’t what I’d planned either.”

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  The following evening Marnie cooked me dinner. She explained

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  that on the night my husband died she had been helping her new boy-

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  friend pack up his flat. And the following morning, they’d started to

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  sort out this one. She acknowledged they hadn’t been together for long,

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  but she had seen how happy Jonathan and I had been, and that had

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  started quickly, hadn’t it? They had put an offer in on a place on the

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  other side of town. It had only been a few months but when you know

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  you know; that’s what she said. And it was on a whim; they’d seen the

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  apartment from the outside when they’d walked past and the real es-

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  tate agent was there— he’d just shown another couple around the

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  building— and so they went inside, and they didn’t think their offer

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  would be accepted— it was low; too low, really— but it was and every-

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  thing happened so quickly after that. She’d been planning to call me to

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  share the good news. She’d wanted to invite us to dinner, to be their

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  very first guests. It was a lovely flat. Or at least it would be eventually.

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  I’d like it, she said.

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  Things had been put on hold— of course they had; she wouldn’t

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  have had it any other way— because of everything that had happened.

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  But it was time to start thinking about the next steps for both of us. She 29

  was struggling, she said, to pay both the rent on the flat and her share

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  of the mortgage on the new place and, anyway, it was right for her to be

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  thinking about moving in there; there was so much work to do and

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  nothing was getting done. Perhaps I was interested in taking over the

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  S E V E N L I E S

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  lease here? But maybe not— and that was fine, too— she’d help me find

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  somewhere new if that was what I wanted instead.

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  I suppose I had known that she would fall in love at some point and

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  want to leave the flat. And yet I felt shocked. I hadn’t believed that it 04

  would happen so soon. And certainly not like that.

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  I left the flat that afternoon and I went to stay with Emma. But her

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  strange world was too strange for me: the empty fridge, the odd rules.

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  And so I rented my own flat: my first time living alone. The building

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  had been constructed a decade earlier, and each apartment was a per-

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  fect square: a bedroom, bathroom, and living space Tetrised into posi-

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  tion. The previous occupant had been permitted to paint the walls: a

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  dark blue in the bedroom, orange in the bathroom, and a yellow wall

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  behind the sofa. The flat was in a good location and it was affordable

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  and it was entirely inoffensive. But I hated being there. I wanted to be

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  with Marnie. And so I cursed Charles constantly. I blamed him for

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  everything— my loneliness, my sadness, my grief— partly because I

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  could and partly because, frankly, I thought then and still think now

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  that he was really, truly guilty of a great wrongdoing.

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  If I had known then what I know now— that very soon my life would

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  exist again without him in it— would I have hated him quite so much?

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  Would I have found comfort in the knowledge that the scales do bal-

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  ance themselves eventually?

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  I might have found things to thank him for. It is true, I suppose, that

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  he forced me to find my feet again. I hadn’t worked for nearly two months 24

  and his selfishness pushed me to find a strength that I thought I’d lost. I 25

  hadn’t spent a night on my own in years— most of my life, in fact— and

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  yet he took my companion and forced me out. My champions, my cheer-

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  leaders, my counselors were gone. There was no one to look after me, no

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  one whose love was absolute and unreserved, no one to whom I was cen-

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  tral. Not without Jonathan. And certainly not without Marnie.

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  Chapter Twenty- Three

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  I would later learn that the mysterious woman from the funeral was

  called Valerie Sands. She was thirty- two years old, divorced, and a

  journalist. She had been working for the local paper for a decade while

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  simultaneously running her own, often libelous, website and she was

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  determined to find a real story, something powerful, somethi
ng true—

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  something that could change her reputation.

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  LESBIAN LOVERS KILL THEIR HUSBANDS

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  That was the headline she chose. She used capital letters and dark

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  red type, like blood inked against the white background of her blog. We

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  didn’t know it was happening— that it was going to be published online,

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  that she was even investigating us— until it had already happened. We

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  discovered the post about two weeks after the funeral, when “fine” was

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  finally feeling like something that one day, someday, might again be

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  possible for Marnie. Things had been easing, the weight of the grief

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  spreading, yes, but thinning, too, like syrup diluted, and we had laughed 29

  once or twice. I had been flitting between absolute calm, because there

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  was no way to identify my involvement, and palpating panic, because

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  what if there was? And yet, as the first weeks became the funeral week,

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  and the subsequent weeks elapsed, I felt more measured in general and

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  the panic peaked only intermittently.

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  There hadn’t been many questions— a few at first, but nothing

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  significant— and everyone had accepted the most obvious version of

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  events as synonymous with the truth. Charles had been suffering with a

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  migraine and, dizzy and confused, had tumbled down the stairs, break-

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  ing his neck as he landed and dying almost immediately. And Charles did

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  have a migraine that morning; Marnie had confirmed it in the presence

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  of the paramedics. And Charles’s migraines were often characterized by

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  light- headedness, fuzzy vision, and occasionally vertigo, too.

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  The questions that everyone was asking— her friends and family, ac-

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  quaintances, those who didn’t know us at all but were simply shocked—

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  were more questions of faith than questions of fact. How could a young

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  man fall to his death in such a violent way? What did he feel as he fell?

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  What were the chances? Weren’t there many other ways in which he

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  might have fallen, a million other stumbles that he might have survived?

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  But I knew that the questions of fact were inevitable, and the initial

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  answers that came from the autopsy thankfully supported all the theo-

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  ries. The postmortem revealed that he’d eaten very little that day: some

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  coffee and a few tablets— in quantities slightly higher than prescribed—

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  for his recurring vertiginous migraines. He was obviously badly injured—

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  the broken ankle, the dislocated shoulder— but it was the peg fracture

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  at the back of his neck that proved fatal. He was very bruised, too, and

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  it transpired that his cheekbone was fractured, they assumed from a

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  knock on the way down. But they found nothing suspicious, so they

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  stitched him up and ferried him to the funeral home and they all con-

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  cluded that it was just a very unfortunate accident and very sad indeed.

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  If anything, I became less afraid. I wasn’t thinking about the police

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  or a prison or the truth. Because none of the authorities— not the para-

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  medics or the pathologist— were in any way imaginative. Isn’t that curi-

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  ous? I mean, I shouldn’t argue. But it wasn’t until later, after the funeral, S31

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  after that article, that the fear began to simmer within me again. Be-

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  cause here was someone who seemed determined to interrogate the

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  facts, who asked questions, who saw something darker blossoming in

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  the account of this death.

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  Valerie had been looking for a story to alter the trajectory of her

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  career. I don’t imagine she disliked writing for the local newspaper ini-

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  tially, but she had been working there too long, a decade, and she was

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  always assigned menial community events— dog shows and charity

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  bake sales and occasionally stints tracking down celebrities at fancy

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  waiting- list restaurants. I suppose she wanted something more. She

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  must have been delighted when her story walked through the front

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  door one evening and sat down on the sofa beside her.

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  Valerie had been living with her roommate, Sophie, for three years.

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  She’d left her husband at a train station after years of not unhappiness

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  exactly but simply emptiness. She’d found a room to rent and the two

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  women had quickly become friends. Sophie was training to be a para-

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  medic and Valerie loved to be regaled with stories of life and death and

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  gore: the most extreme moments of a human life.

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  Sophie might have said that she’d spent the day with a crew of two

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  men, one who was older and rather overweight, and another who was

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  younger. They’d been to an accident at a posh block of flats— I imagine

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  this was how she described it; it’s what I’d have said— in which a young 23

  man had fallen down the stairs and his wife and her best friend had ar-

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  rived to a twisted body sprawled in the hallway. And there was some-

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  thing strange, she might have said, about these two young women.

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  Valerie was intrigued.

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  She took her curiosity and tried to convert her suspicions into a

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  story. Because she knew that if this was going to transform her career,

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  then she needed to find some answers, to ask the right questions to the

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  right people, and unearth all the nasty details and the gritty truths.

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  And yet, at first, she found nothing. She attended the funeral and

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  noticed nothing untoward. She initiated a conversation with Charles’s

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  secretary and Debbie unwittingly confirmed that he did indeed suffer

 
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  with migraines. She loitered at the front of Marnie’s building— Jeremy

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  spotted her on the CCTV— but Marnie wasn’t living there then and

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  there was nothing much for her to find. The most obvious truth was

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  still the most probable truth.

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  I suppose it was when she had finished examining Marnie that she

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  started to look a little more closely at me. I saw her once at the front

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  desk of my office building, chatting with the security guard manning

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  the reception area. He was an older man, balding with a paunch, and

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  she was so much younger and taller with her short hair and sharp

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  cheekbones. I remember her leaning over the countertop, her low- cut

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  sweater gaping as she laughed excessively. Her mouth was stretched

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  wide to reveal straight white teeth, and I recall wondering what it was

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  that she wanted from him.

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  Other than that, I didn’t notice her prying into my life, but that’s

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  not to say that she didn’t. There was so much online that she could have

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  found had she looked in the right places— which she probably did.

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  There were articles I’d written for the university magazine and several

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  pieces about Jonathan: on his death, on his marathon run, and the foot-

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  age recorded afterward was still available. And there were one or two

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  articles on my company’s website that used my name and discussed

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  improvements in customer service.

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  She must have found something in among all of that to inspire her.

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  Perhaps she really thought she’d solved a mystery. But the piece on her

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  website put forth yet another lie. It said that I had murdered Jonathan,

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  pushing him into the path of an oncoming vehicle. I had then sold his

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  apartment, making a substantial profit, and scooped up his life insur-

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  ance policy. I had made a fortune— her words, not mine— by murder-

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  ing my husband.

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  But that wasn’t all. Her piece continued, espousing bullshit backed

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  by no evidence and no sources whatsoever. She claimed that Marnie

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  and I— malicious vixens and secret lovers— had found our strategy so

 

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