After He Killed Me

by Natalie Barelli

  He puts the tray on the bed, over my lap.

  “This is—unexpected,” I say. “It’s wonderful, thank you. Did you sleep okay?”

  “I did. Thanks for not waking me up. That’s what I needed, a full ten hours’ sleep, uninterrupted.”

  “The couch comfortable enough?”

  “It must have been, I slept through the night until half an hour ago.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m really sorry, Emma.”

  “I was so worried. What’s going on? What was that all about?”

  He takes a breath, looks at a point over my head. I resist the urge to turn around to see what’s so fascinating. His eyes come back to mine.

  “There’s been some . . . developments, let’s say, at the Forum, that make me uncomfortable.”

  “What kind of developments?”

  He takes a moment to formulate his reply.

  “I’m telling you this in confidence, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’re going through a review of the processes in place. It’s because of the government contracts we get. We have to meet certain quality-control standards.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I think that some unknown people are using this process to conduct industrial espionage.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s why I’ve been working from home a lot.”

  “Oh God, are you sure?”

  “Ninety percent sure. But I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Of course! Can you go to the police?”

  “If I can prove it, yes, of course. It’s a crime. But I need more time.”

  “So, with the . . .” I hesitate.

  “With the webcam? And my overreacting?” He smiles. “My home laptop is connected to the internal network, so technically, everything on it can be accessed and also operated, remotely. I was working, reviewing the data, when I saw the webcam light come on.”

  “Seriously? You saw it come on?” My jaw drops. “So someone is really watching you?”

  “It looks like it, but it was only for a second. Em, it really freaked me out. I’m already on edge, you know that. It’s a really stressful time. I—we could lose everything if our competitors get hold of our models and algorithms. It would be the end of everything I’ve worked for. I don’t know if I imagined it, the webcam coming on, but it scared me. I thought they’d taken it to another level.”

  Strange as it may sound, it makes me feel better to hear all this. Sure, it does have a touch of conspiracy theory, but then again, who knows? What if they—whoever they are—really are using the process to access Jim’s secrets? Which one would Jim be more afraid of? That they get his algorithms or whatever they’re called? Or that they discover it’s all bogus? I think we both know the answer to that. I don’t want Jim to be put under all this stress, but I’d rather his behavior was real and justified than evidence of something seriously wrong with his health. Like going insane.

  “What does Terry say?”

  “Not much. I don’t think Terry understands the seriousness of the situation.”

  “I see.”

  “You’ll keep this between you and me, right?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “I’m sorry, Em—that I overreacted. I’m going to make sure I get plenty of sleep and that I don’t overstress myself.” He smiles, caresses my cheek.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “Does this have anything to do with—you know . . .”

  There’s a twitch, just above that spot between his eyes.

  “With what?”

  “You know, your research. Your data model. Are you scared they’ll find out? You know, the problems you’ve had with the results—”

  He moves away from me, almost falling off the bed. “Fuck, Emma! What are you saying?”

  His tone is so forceful, I feel like I’ve been punched.

  “Are you threatening me with something?” he asks.

  “No! I’m sorry, oh God! I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  He’s getting up, but I put my arms around him, awkwardly.

  “Don’t. I’m sorry. Stay. Please.”

  His body is rigid in my arms, but after a short while I feel him relax.

  “Sorry,” he says, finally.

  “You should go to the doctor, Jim, get something to calm yourself down, if you’re so stressed.”

  “I know, you’re right, I’ll do that.”

  He caresses my cheek again. “I love you, Em. I really do. I’m sorry. You were there for me.”

  “I love you, Jim.”

  “I know. Now eat your breakfast and let me go to work.” He stands up. I let him go. Reluctantly.

  “Will you be home for dinner?”

  He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “I’ll do my best, but I’ll be late. It’s my Boston meeting today, remember?”

  “Boston?”

  “You know, we talked about it.”

  “Oh, right. Well, I’ll keep something for you if you’re late.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t. I’ll grab something on the way home.”

  After he leaves, I put the tray back on the bedside table, chuckling a little at the cutout paper flower. I push the covers back and swing my legs to the side of the bed, feeling the soft carpet beneath my feet. I don’t remember anything about Boston. It’s been like this since the accident. I’m the one who should go to the doctor. I forget things. Maybe I really am going crazy. Maybe I’m the one having a nervous breakdown. I would have thought if you had a nervous breakdown, you’d know it. But maybe not.

  I get up and grab my robe from the back of the door, go straight to his office, and I gasp.

  It’s pristine. I take a closer look, try to open the filing cabinet, which has been locked again, everything on the shelves is back and neatly stored. I look at the laptop on the desk, open it, and turn it on. There’s a whizzing sound while it wakes up, and then the password prompt. But I’m not trying to check the contents of his hard drive, I just want to take another look at the webcam.

  There’s a piece of packing tape stuck over it.

  13

  As I step into the shower, I tell myself that it’s going to be okay. I’m not going to think any more about forgetting things and nervous breakdowns. I’m going to concentrate on Book Two, or the Book of Sam. We had such a great session yesterday and the story is coming alive in my mind.

  I get dressed quickly, I can’t wait to go to work. I can’t remember the last time I felt this good about starting my day.

  My phone rings from somewhere in the living room, where I left it last night. I go to pick it up. It’s a blocked number.

  “Mrs. Fern?”

  “Yes?”

  A male voice says something, but it’s muffled and I don’t quite understand. He’s in a busy place, like a train station or something.

  I press my hand over my other ear.

  “Can you speak up, please? I can’t hear you.”

  “Sorry. Is that better? I’m Dr. Johnston. I’m calling from the New York Presbyterian Hospital, in Queens. Do you know Frankie Badosa?”

  “Frankie? Yes! Is everything all right?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fern, but Mr. Badosa has been in a car accident. He’s in Emergency. His office said you were listed as the person to contact. Can you come now?”

  It’s true, what they say. When you get news like that, everything changes in an instant.

  My vision blurs. My legs wobble under me. I grip the back of the nearest chair. “Yes, of course, I’ll come now,” I manage to say. I ask the question I’m afraid of. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Fern.”

  Oh God! Not Frankie, God, please. Please, please, please God. I stumble. I rush to get my things: my keys, my bag, my coat. I close the door behind me and step inside the elevator, which is still on my floor. Dr. Johnston�
��s words echo in my head over and over again. We’re doing everything we can. It’s bad.

  Dennis is the regular doorman in my building. I like Dennis. He’s a big man; tall and stocky, the type of man you expect to see outside a nightclub. He would be more at home as a bouncer than in livery. He told me recently that he was saving to study acupuncture. I looked at his hands when he said that, and I was surprised to see how delicate they were. If I had to get needles stuck into me, I would be okay with Dennis doing it.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Fern?” he asks now.

  “Would you help me get a taxi, please, Dennis?”

  He does.

  It took forty-five minutes to get to the hospital in Queens, and I cried and prayed for the entire journey. I saw the driver watching me in his rearview mirror, an anxious expression on his face. He didn’t ask me if I was all right. When you take a taxi to the Emergency Department of a hospital, you don’t have to explain why you’re upset.

  I ran to Admissions, but it’s chaos in those places, and I didn’t get to speak to someone right away. Then I told them I wanted to see Frankie; that I had to see him now. I told them I was the next of kin, you can call his office if you don’t believe me, I said. I told them I wanted to speak with Dr. Johnston immediately.

  Another twenty minutes went by before Dr. Johnston arrived at reception to see me. He sat next to me in one of those plastic chairs, but I stood up, and said to him, “I’m here, where’s Frankie? Can I see him? Will he be all right?” And he told me the same crazy thing that the attendant in Admissions said earlier.

  “There is no patient by that name here.”

  “But you called me,” I said. “You told me to come.”

  “I didn’t call you, Mrs. Fern. You have the wrong hospital.”

  He left and I put my hands on my head and wanted to hit myself, because that’s when I got it, finally. I wanted to tear my hair out for not even thinking of the obvious.

  Call Frankie.

  So I did, my fingers trembling. I called his cell phone and he said, “Hey, Emma, what’s up?” and I said, “Nothing, I’ll call you later,” and I hung up.

  It’s raining when I get out of the taxi at my building, and Dennis kindly meets me with an umbrella. My whole body is aching with tiredness, and all I want to do is have a bath and go straight to bed, but I know that’s not going to happen.

  “How is your friend, Mrs. Fern?” Dennis asks.

  “My friend is not nearly as sick as I first thought, thank God. Thank you, Dennis.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Fern.”

  “Me too, Dennis, thank you.”

  When I turn the key in my door, I know that something is different. It’s difficult to put my finger on, but it’s like a presence in the air. I almost expect to see Beatrice sitting on the couch, waiting for me. The silence feels ominous nevertheless, and I find myself tiptoeing inside my own apartment.

  The first thing I notice is the large abstract painting in the living room. It’s slightly crooked. I stare at it for a while, wondering why that would be. It’s not as if we move it regularly. We don’t have a safe behind it.

  A safe. Did we get robbed? I look around the room quickly, but everything is here, except it’s a little different. The two armchairs on either side of the couch have been moved, leaving small depressions in the carpet.

  I walk quickly from room to room, and it’s the same thing. Some drawers are not closed flush. Almost, but not quite. The tall vase in the corridor has been moved around so that a little of its central pattern now faces toward the wall. Everything in my closet has shifted slightly, as if picked up and put back with care.

  Even the kitchen hasn’t escaped. There’s a trace of a white substance on the floor tiles that looks like flour.

  14

  I spend the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch, trying to understand what’s happening to me. Nothing makes sense. I want to talk to Jim. I think it must be true, what he said about being spied on. I want him to come home and tell him about Frankie, but why Frankie? They wanted me out of the house, yes, but why Frankie?

  It’s almost eleven when I hear the key in the door, and I jump off the couch and rush to meet him.

  “Hey,” he laughs. “So you missed me, then?”

  “Oh, Jim, something terrible is happening. You—”

  “Hold on, let me walk in first.” I nod, and he looks at me. “You’re okay, Em?”

  “No, I’m not. Come and sit down. I have to tell you something.” I take him by the hand. “You know what you said, about being—”

  “Wow, slow down. Let me get us a drink first, look what I got.” He brandishes a bottle of expensive champagne, as if we don’t already have enough of that here.

  I shake my head quickly, shuddering. “Okay. Sorry, sit down, and I’ll get glasses for us. We need to talk, Jim.”

  “No, you sit, Em. Relax. I’ll do it,” he says, removing his jacket and laying it on the back of the chair. I curl up on the couch again, listening to the sounds in the kitchen. I wish he’d hurry up.

  He comes back with our glasses and sits next to me, puts his hand on my thigh.

  He frowns at me. “Okay. What’s going on with you? Are you ill? You’re being a bit strange.”

  I sit up and I take the glass he offers me. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  He nods, sagely, as if pondering over what I’ve just said.

  “You know what you said this morning? About being spied on?”

  “Yes?”

  “Because I think—”

  “Emma, stop. Slow down. Drink up, it’ll relax you. You’re being intense.”

  I tell him about the call, about Frankie, about the small details that had changed around the place by the time I got back. But then I notice a strange shadow pass over his face, almost as if he’s trying to contain his joy, or is it triumph?

  “You’re not saying anything,” I say.

  He refills my glass. I hadn’t realized it was already empty, which explains why I’m feeling a little lightheaded suddenly.

  “What do you want me to say? I’m listening to you.”

  Something is not right. I put a hand on my cheek. “Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

  Jim just smiles at me and sits back in his chair.

  “Why are you staring at me?” I ask, but he doesn’t reply. “What is it, Jim?”

  “I’m just listening to you, that’s all.”

  I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t quite reach the bottom of my lungs.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong,” I say. “I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

  I lift a hand to my forehead, but even this gesture is surprisingly difficult, heavy. It’s like my muscles are working in slow motion. My skin feels clammy. Something is wrong, very wrong. I’m starting to feel scared and my heart is beating too fast. I think I’m having some kind of attack, a panic attack? Or a heart attack or—my God!

  I try to sit up a little straighter, but I can’t move.

  “Jim, help me. I don’t feel well.”

  “I love you.”

  It’s such an incongruous thing to say right now, I would laugh if I could.

  “I love you too. I wish this awful feeling would pass, though.”

  He chuckles. “I said, I loathe you.”

  He’s smiling, but there is no kindness in his face. He’s watching me with narrowed eyes, and I wonder if this is all just a bad dream.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t understand.” My words are slurred, my jaw is slack. “I’m—I’m hallucinating, Jim. Oh my God, it’s Beatrice. Jim, help me, please! It’s her! Please help me!”

  In my hallucination, Jim is laughing at me. It’s awful. I’m so frightened.

  “I’m having a heart attack, Jim! Please, I beg you, help me!”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I really think I am. Can’t you see? I can
’t speak properly. I’m going to pass out.”

  “Not yet you won’t. Eventually, yes, but not right now.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He has an awful smirk on his face. It’s horrible. It’s her. She’s done something to us. I’ve slid down on the couch, so that my back is half across the seat and half across the back. I have one arm on my chest and the other has dropped by my side.

  “Listen to me, Jim.”

  “No, Emma. You listen to me.”

  Oh my God. Something in his tone. “Did—did you put something in my drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I hate you.” He leans forward, his eyes hard, boring into mine. “You have no idea how much I hate you. I’ve wanted to tell you that for a very long time and now I can. The very sight of you makes me sick. Did you know that? No. Of course not. How could you? You’re completely delusional. Do you really think this little charade you’ve been playing is real? That we’re happy?” He sneers on the last word like he’s disgusted. “You really thought you could blackmail me into this happily married couple, crazy scenario you’ve dreamed up, for ten years? For ten fucking years of my life? Do you have any idea how crazy you are, Emma?”

  I thought you loved me, I try to say, but it doesn’t work; it doesn’t come out properly. I am screaming in my head: Don’t you see? I thought we were going to make it! I thought you would learn to love me again and that you would be happy too! I thought you understood!

  “I tried to kill you once, you know that? I pushed you into traffic. There’s a way to do that, you know, to maximize the chances of killing someone, and doing it so fast and so discreetly that no one would have known it was me. It’s all in the shoulder.” He jerks his shoulder forward, puts his hand to it. “Then you extend your arm and pretend you were trying to help. Of course you have to time it correctly, which I did. That bus—it was supposed to kill you. It wouldn’t have stopped in time. But you got lucky, the driver saw the motorcycle and he anticipated it losing control. Crazy, hey? How lucky you got.”

  He stands up and does something I have never seen him do before: he pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one. At that moment, I think maybe I’m having a nightmare and that I will wake up and everything will be all right. But the smell of cigarette smoke is real.