After He Killed Me

by Natalie Barelli

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He puts his elbows on the desk and rests his chin on his crossed fingers.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Have you? Why?”

  “I need to find Jim. I need to speak to him. Do you know where he is?”

  “Ha! That’s funny. You don’t know—of course you don’t, but Jim—” I was going to say, Jim has left me, but something stops me. “We’ve separated. We’ve decided to go our separate ways.”

  I expect Terry to be shocked, but his face remains blank.

  “Did you know?” I ask.

  He contemplates that, then he says, “Jim said that things haven’t been good between you. That you haven’t been well.” He’s about to say something more, but instead he adds, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s mutual. Anyway, he doesn’t live in the apartment anymore.”

  He nods. “I didn’t know he’d moved out.”

  “When did he resign?”

  “Three days ago.”

  Oh God!

  “So you don’t know where he is either,” I say, then I catch myself. “No, of course you don’t; you’ve said that already.”

  “I have no idea. But I wish I did. I can’t reach him. He’s not replying to my calls or emails.”

  “If he resigned, why do you need to find him? You’re making it sound important.”

  “We’re having problems with the audit.”

  “Ah.”

  He sighs, runs a hand over his forehead.

  “I don’t know if Jim told you, but we’ve had some significant investments, as you probably know. The thing is, we haven’t exactly delivered”—he flashes a quick, apologetic smile—“and now the investors want to know why. A significant amount of that money has come from the government. It’s a mess, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Money’s gone missing?”

  “I’m not sure. Our record-keeping hasn’t been as thorough as it should have been. Even if there is money missing, it’s not as much as you might think. But yes, some questions have come up in the audit.” He sits back in his chair. “The biggest problem we’re facing is that the results have been so poor so far, from all the implementations of our recommendations, even on a small scale, that our investors and clients are starting to think we sold them a lemon, so to speak.”

  I understand now why he looks so awful. He’s got bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s lost weight too.

  “When did the audit start?” I ask, watching various pieces of the puzzle coming together in my head, fitting like Lego bricks.

  “Four months ago, but we’ve known about it for at least six months now.”

  Six months. According to Sam, that’s when Jim first contacted him. So he’s been planning to run away ever since he was told that an audit would take place. He had to come up with a way to get his documents back from me before he was found out. Except he messed that up. He messed up a lot of things, now that I think about it. And he really did have a nervous breakdown. That business about unknown people spying on him to steal his industrial secrets, he really believed that. What Jim did to me wasn’t just because he loathes me, as he so charmingly put it, but because he’s completely lost his mind.

  “I’m sorry, Terry. It sounds like you’ve been landed with the problem.”

  “Well, let’s not get carried away. Jim’s probably taking some time for himself. When did he move out?”

  “If I hear from him,” I say, standing up, ignoring the question, “I’ll tell him to call you.”

  I don’t want to be caught unprepared. I could tell Terry that, frankly, the likelihood of Jim getting in touch with him is somewhere south of zero, because he’s left Terry and me to pick up the pieces of his phenomenal screw-up and he has no intention of dealing with the consequences himself.

  We’ve both been had.

  I hate being here, in this apartment. I hate everything about it. Sometimes I’m even scared of my own reflection, because I never know anymore if it’s me, or her.

  I walk around, trying to figure out what Jim took away with him, and it’s not much. I begin with our bedroom and his clothes. We have a large walk-in closet that is split between his clothing and mine, and, looking at his side, I see he’s left quite a few items. Most things, in fact. He’s taken his nicest clothes, however—a coat, at least two suits, the leather jacket I bought for him last year, and some basic items. It’s as if he’s gone for only a few days instead of forever. Next I check his home office. The door is closed, and when I open it, I’m surprised again to find it perfectly tidy. But the drawers of the filing cabinet are gaping open. I flick through the files with the tips of my fingers, but I can’t tell what’s missing. His laptop isn’t here anymore, obviously.

  I move from room to room, looking at the artwork on the walls. I paid so much money for this stuff. What was I thinking?

  I should call Craig, and ask him what I should do with it. He’ll help me sell it. He’ll know what to do.

  Craig is a sort of friend, an “on the outer rim” type of friend, although the inner rim of my circle of friendship is completely bare, except for Frankie, and maybe Jackie, if she still considers me a friend, given how long it’s been since I’ve contacted her.

  I met Craig through Beatrice and we’ve kept in touch very occasionally, often because we run into each other at gallery openings, and we’ll organize a catch-up for lunch, or he’ll invite me to one of his notorious parties, but Jim doesn’t like him much, so we never go to those.

  I am not going to let this man destroy me, and since he’s destroying himself, all I have to do is—nothing.

  I’m going to pull myself together for real this time. The first thing I’m going to do is go grocery shopping and stock up with healthy food. I’m going to start an exercise regime and build my strength back up. I’m going to stop drinking. I will throw away all the alcohol I have in the house. That’s been part of my problem. I’ve let things get out of hand with my drinking. I will buy a juicer.

  I will get myself an attorney and begin the process of divorce, and come to think of it, I should do that sooner rather than later. I know nothing of our finances, as it’s been made clear to me, and I better make sure that I bear no responsibility for whatever financial mess he’s gotten himself into. Separation of assets—all that fun stuff.

  Sam calls, but I don’t answer. Then he calls again. And again. I don’t answer any of those calls. I want him to go away. He’ll get the message eventually.

  So when the phone rings again I groan, ready to turn it off, but it’s Frankie.

  “Hey, Em, it’s me.” It does me good to hear his voice. Last time I heard it, I was checking that he wasn’t smashed into a million pieces.

  “Hey back, Frankie. What’s up?” Funny, that’s what he usually says to me, but my tone is wary. Please don’t talk to me about Nick, or about my book.

  “Where are you?”

  Something about his tone makes me stand up straight. “I’m home. Why?” I walk into the living room, the phone cradled in my neck. “Something happened?” I ask, closing my eyes in silent prayer.

  “I’m looking at your Twitter account.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “You posted something just now.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I say quickly. “I never post to Twitter, you know that. That’s what you do.”

  “Fiona does, actually.”

  Get to the point, Frankie.

  “She’s here with me in the office. I’ll put you on speakerphone.”

  “Hi, Emma.” Fiona’s voice comes out loud and crackly, and I have to take the phone an inch away from my ear.

  “Hi, Fiona, what’s up?” I say chirpily, the feeling of dread already forming in my stomach.

  “There’s a weird tweet from your account. It came through just now. We just want to check if it’s from you.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I killed her.”r />
  I’m going to be sick. My stomach lurches, and I press the palm of my hand against my forehead, trying to relieve the pressure that is building against the back of my eyes.

  “Are you there?” Frankie asks.

  It’s hard to breathe. “Yes, I’m here,” I manage, finally.

  I can hear another call coming through. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen. I don’t recognize the number, but I know I have to take it. I have to know.

  “Just wait a sec, Frankie. I have another call.”

  He says something, but I don’t let him finish.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma Fern?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Ann Kennedy from USA Today, is this a good time?”

  “Why?”

  “Hmm, right. Regarding your email? This is Emma Fern?”

  “What email?”

  “That you have something to confess.”

  I burst out laughing. “Seriously? It’s a prank email, whatever your name is. Okay? I didn’t send you an email, for Christ’s sake. Do you believe everything you read? Jesus! Goodbye!”

  I end the call. Then I hear Frankie. “You’re still there, Emma?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening, Frankie.” My voice is wavering. “That was a reporter. What’s going on?”

  “I know. We’ve had a couple of calls too. It’s everywhere. I’m sorry.”

  When the room starts to tilt around me, for a moment I can’t tell if it’s because I’ve fallen over. But I haven’t.

  “What’s ‘everywhere’?” I hear myself ask.

  “It seems someone is sending emails on your behalf, and posting to your social media, that you killed someone. You killed a woman.”

  “It’s bullshit!” I shout. I almost bounce in position. “I didn’t kill anyone! Do they say who I’m supposed to have killed?”

  “Emma, we’re going to take all your social media offline, okay? Until we get to the bottom of this.”

  “Don’t do that. It’ll look like I have something to hide,” I wail.

  Frankie sighs. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “Do I know if I committed murder? Seriously, Frankie? Hmm, let me think. No. Nothing springs to mind.”

  Fiona’s voice comes through again. “That’s what the tweet you sent says.”

  “I know that’s the tweet, for Christ’s sake! And I didn’t send it.”

  I must be imagining it, but it’s as if they both recoil from the phone. I almost hear the whoosh.

  “Listen, Frankie. I didn’t tweet this. I don’t tweet. Okay? You do the tweeting. You know that.”

  “Okay, I hear you.”

  “We got hacked, Frankie. Jesus! I killed her? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. We’ll change the passwords.”

  “Do that. Right now, please. And this tweet: pretend it’s a publicity stunt gone wrong. Say that it’s to do with my new novel. That’ll work, right? We’re whetting the reader’s appetite.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it.” Frankie says.

  My head hurts. That’s how he did it, with the New Yorker. He has all my passwords. Of course he does. I’ll need to change them. Right away.

  When the text comes, I think it’s going to be Frankie with more bad news. But when I pick it up, I feel like I’m going to faint. Like a physical reaction. It’s Jim.

  Can I have my stuff back now?

  My fingers are trembling so much it’s hard to hit the right buttons, but I manage all the same, and I send a reply, one that I already know I will regret but I can’t help myself.

  Fuck you.

  Nothing else happens for a few minutes as I stare at the screen, shaking and afraid to look away. Then, just as I finally put the phone down, there’s another one. And there’s a moment, as the screen goes blurry, that I am transported to another time, and another place, and for a split second I wonder whether I’m wrong about Beatrice being dead. Because that text is from her. She sent it to me a long time ago, before we put her in the ground, before I won the prize, when we were still friends and I had agreed to be the author of her book.

  Emma my love! We did it! She LOVES my book!

  17

  Every time my phone rings or I get a text, my heart skips a beat. I’m anxious, all the time, and I don’t understand why I haven’t heard anything else from Jim. It’s been almost two weeks now and it makes me nervous. He’s up to something. I know it. Sometimes I’m convinced that I’ll wake up and my face will be plastered over the front page of the newspapers.

  POULTON PRIZE WINNER CONFESSES TO MURDER!

  The anxiety I feel about Jim has become a weight in my chest. I don’t know what to do, but I will think of something. Today, I decide I’ll go for a run. I haven’t gone running in, Lord, two years, I think.

  It’s hot outside, almost steamy. I start by walking briskly. I should have brought earbuds, and something to listen to.

  “Emma!”

  For a moment, it’s as if the ghost of Beatrice has spoken to me, and I slam my hand against my chest. I’ll ignore it, I decide. I’m going to ignore that ghost and maybe it will go away.

  “Emma!”

  I turn then, and look at the woman who has appeared from nowhere and is now standing beside me.

  “I have to see you. You have to help me,” she says, quietly.

  “Carol?”

  She’s wearing dark sunglasses and a gray baseball cap with its wide brim pulled low. I recognize the Dodgers logo.

  “Jesus, Carol! You gave me a fright! What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Jim.”

  She speaks so softly I can barely hear her. I move closer. Her chin trembles.

  “Carol, if something has happened to Jim, that has nothing to do with me anymore. We’ve separated. Everything has changed since I saw you last.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know? You said you never saw him anymore. What’s going on here?” I look around quickly, confused. “Is he here?”

  “Oh God, no! Emma, Jim’s not with me! He doesn’t know I’m here.” Her tone is urgent, pleading. She takes hold of my sleeve. I look down at her fingers grasping the fabric and resist the urge to peel her off me.

  “Can we talk?” she whispers.

  I take her hand away. “No. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know, okay? I told you. It’s nothing to do with me anymore.”

  I move around her, determined to get away from her.

  “Please, Emma, wait, I meant—I’m frightened,” she sobs. “I’m really, really frightened. I don’t know what to do. You have to help me. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  I have my back to her, and I could take a step forward, right at this moment. We’re in the middle of a busy street. What could she do to stop me? But I don’t take that step. I can hear the desperation in her voice. Do I feel sorry for her? Yes. But mostly, I want to know what Jim’s done now. And there’s also a small part of me, not the nicest part, that experiences a tiny pang of satisfaction that it’s not just me he loathes, it seems.

  I close my eyes for a second, and turn around.

  “Do you want to come up to my apartment?”

  She looks around. “No. Not here.”

  “I was just going to go for a run. Do you want to come with me?”

  She jerks her head like I just said something bizarre.

  “No.”

  “Then I’m all out of options, Carol.”

  She leans in closer to me, and says, “Meet me at Gramercy Park. East side. Near the gate. In half an hour.”

  Her head is bent. She removes her sunglasses and raises her eyes to look at me, pleading, and I hear myself say, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  I watch the relief spread over her face as she gives me a small smile. “Thank you,” she says, and turns around, hands in the pockets of her hoodie.

  I have a really bad feeling about t
his.

  Gramercy Park is only a couple of miles away from here, not half an hour’s worth of running, so I take a detour along the East River.

  The city is teeming with tourists at this time of year. It’s crowded, and it’s hot. I’m not as fit as I once was, but I know from experience it will come back, and the pain in my lungs feels good. Still, I know not to push myself too hard. I stop to take a breath and I bend down, my hands on my knees. I see my rings. My wedding ring, and the other one: the one engraved, I love you more every day. I quickly tug at them to take them off, and then I throw them as far as I can into the river. Two guys walking past look at me, a question in their eyes. I turn away and resume my run, feeling that much lighter.

  Carol is already there when I get to Gramercy Park. She’s sitting on the low concrete wall that supports the fence, still wearing the shades and the baseball cap.

  “Here.” I hand her one of the paper cups I’m carrying. “I got you the same as me, black, no sugar.”

  She takes it from me, slowly. Her hand is shaking. I pretend not to notice and I put my foot on the fence and stretch my leg, casually.

  “What happened, Carol?”

  She takes off her sunglasses and looks up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying.

  “Sit down, please,” she says, patting the concrete next to her. I wipe the spot with my sleeve and sit.

  “Shouldn’t you be in D.C.? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Jim came to see me,” she says, without looking at me.

  “When?”

  “Two weeks ago. Right after he left you.”

  “I see. He told you about that? Did he tell you what he did to me? I doubt it somehow.” I close my hands into tight fists, trying to keep control. “I thought you didn’t see him anymore? How did he find you?”

  “I’m not hard to find. He was waiting for me, outside my office building.”

  “What for?”

  “He’s got it into his head that I’m part of some conspiracy to send him to jail, or to steal his secrets, I’m not sure. It’s because I work for the department that’s investigating the Forum.”

  “Ah. So you know about that. The audit. Terry is looking for him, by the way. Seems Jim has a few questions to answer. If you see him, you might want to pass on the message.”