I drop my head in my hands and close my eyes, trying to stop the wave of nausea from rising. I go back over every minute detail. Jim and Carol, the happy lovers, did not come back together to the marina, laughing and kissing for all to see. No, Carol made sure that “Jim” came back on his own, except that “Jim” was wearing a hat that he didn’t have when he first got there, and a blue windbreaker that I’d put money on that he’d never laid his eyes upon.
I didn’t look like Jim at all. I was just some guy leaning against a barrier by himself. Which means only Carol came back.
On her own.
Carol, who told me exactly what she would be wearing, in detail, down to the logo on her cap, so that we could match our outfits completely. So that when I went to take the cooler to the boat, it wasn’t Emma, it was Carol. Then everyone saw Carol and Jim together, going to the boat. So if anyone had seen Carol take the cooler earlier—and that was unlikely considering the time of day and the lack of people around—but for argument’s sake, if anyone had seen her, and then later Carol and Jim going to the boat, they would have simply assumed that Carol came back after dropping off the cooler.
Carol, who looked like my twin.
Carol, who looked so much like me, anyone would have thought it was me. My chest hurts now. It’s hard to breathe.
Carol was never there.
Only Emma was there, Emma who rented the car. Emma, who, I’d wager my meager life savings on, also rented the boat. And Jim?
Jim did not come back at all. The only time “Carol and Jim” were together after the boat trip was in the parking lot, and in the car. And if anyone saw us, it won’t mean anything. We no longer looked like the same people who went in.
So the story goes like this: Emma and Jim went on a boat trip, and Emma came back alone.
I’ve been set up.
How could I have been so stupid? I slam my palms against my forehead, over and over, until it hurts. How could I possibly have fallen for this?
Carol came looking for me. You have to help me. Please help me, she said in her little-girl voice, and I, Emma, the stupidest person on the planet, said, You need my help? You’ve got it. Sure, the fact that Jim was holding that stupid text from Beatrice over my head didn’t help.
I don’t regret the killing part. He had to die. He really was crazy, and he was going to tell everyone that I’d killed Beatrice and I didn’t write my first book. He was warming up to that, I could tell.
God. I feel sick. I’m shaking. I need to do something but I don’t know what to do, so I just sit and shake.
Can I steal this car rental contract from Avis? Could I go there and distract them and take the paperwork?
No. I’m not going to Avis in Midtown. I can’t be seen there. I have to report my driver’s license as stolen. I’ll say that I have some idea who stole it, this strange woman I met who needed my help, and I never saw her again, but now my driver’s license is missing. Et voilà!
I wish I understood why she’d do this to me. We killed him. He’s not going to hurt her anymore. Why screw up the plan? I’ve got a headache. I need to go back to bed.
What about the phone? What does it mean for me that Avis has it in their possession?
She didn’t know I put her disposable phone in the glove compartment. There was nothing personal in there. So why would she look? Does she even realize it’s missing? If she does, she’s not necessarily going to assume it’s in the car. She would have checked everything else about that car. Maybe she hasn’t noticed yet. It’s just a throwaway phone.
But I know.
I know she rented the car in my name.
I think I should get that phone, because it’s her phone. That phone was a genuine ploy, to avoid calls showing up on hers. Christ, I thought she was so smart, that it was a wise idea. Well, she is smart; I’ll give her that.
But she bought it. I wonder if you have to provide some form of ID when you get one of those phones? That would be very incriminating. Whose ID did she provide anyway? Mine?
Oh God.
I have to get that phone back.
27
I need to think straight. I need to stay focused. Breathe. Just breathe. Now think.
If the police get involved, it won’t be long before they realize that since that boat trip, Jim hasn’t used his credit cards or his cell phone; that he has disappeared, and jeez, I wonder what his estranged wife has been up to lately?
I need to call Terry. Oh God.
My fingers tremble as I find the number. Why is everything so hard?
“Emma! Any news?” Terry says, almost shouts, as soon as he picks up the call.
“No, nothing.” I try to keep my tone just this side of calm. “That’s why I’m calling you. I thought you might have heard from Jim?” I put this to him as a question.
“Not a word,” he sighs. “I’m really worried, Emma.”
“I know, me too. Have you spoken to his mother yet?”
“No. I’ve been putting it off. Sorry. I don’t mind admitting it.”
God, don’t apologize. I almost say it out loud. This is such good news. If Terry calls Moira, she’ll be beside herself. My son is my sun, is what she used to say to me. I used to think that was really sweet. Groan.
But if Terry tells her he’s concerned, she’ll be at the police station filling out a missing person’s report before Terry ends the call. And I can’t have that. I’m pretty sure Carol hasn’t reported Jim missing yet, because she thinks I have her burner phone, and she wants to get it back first. With my name on the rental car, I can’t have anyone reporting Jim missing right now. Not until I figure out what to do.
I wonder if Jim told Moira he left me? I think she would have called me if he had. We sure weren’t the best of friends, but she was always kind to me.
“What about the police? Did you speak to them?” I ask. I close my eyes in silent prayer.
“I was thinking of calling them,” Terry says. “I thought I’d wait. I know, Emma, you said I should, but—”
“No, wait. I remembered something. That’s why I’m calling.”
“What’s that?”
“When Jim left, he said he was going away for a while.” I feel under such pressure that I can’t think of anything else to say.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You only just remembered? What else did he say?”
Terry is annoyed with me now. I think he’s the only person who is genuinely worried, seriously worried, about his friend.
“Look, it was hard, okay? Some terrible things were said, and not by me. When Jim left, he was upset, and so was I. I didn’t really register too much of that night; it’s all a bit of a blur.” I sound peevish, but what can I do? I’m so desperate right now, I feel like I need to stop the world. Christ.
“Sorry,” Terry says, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“No, I understand.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
I sigh. I want to sound as if I’m thinking back to our imaginary conversation.
“No, I don’t think so, but under the circumstances—I mean, we’re both worried about him—I’ve been going back over our last words, and he did say something like, ‘Don’t come looking for me. I won’t be around.’”
Even to my ears this sounds completely idiotic. Not to mention false, off-key. But I’m banking on the fact that Terry is a friend and that he trusts me, so even if his instincts tell him that my conveniently recovered memories are a little lame, he won’t pay attention.
“Don’t you think that sounds . . . ominous? Isn’t that some kind of cry for help?”
“Oh Lord, no! It wasn’t like that! No it was more like, ‘I’m going away for a while, somewhere nice’”—should I have said that?—“‘and I don’t want you to look for me.’ I think that’s what he meant, you know? Like he needed some time to think. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. Yes, that’s what he said—that he nee
ded some time to think and was going away for a few weeks.”
“Jesus, Emma, couldn’t you have remembered that before? I’ve been going crazy here, even without the audit, which is beyond serious, believe me, but nothing is so serious as someone’s well-being. I’ve been extremely concerned about Jim’s mental health.”
Mental health. That’s one way of putting it. Does being a dangerous psychopath fall under the umbrella of mental health? Probably.
“I’m really sorry. I don’t know what to say. But it’s good news, isn’t it?” Lord, I’m so bad at this.
“Emma, there’s something else. Carol called me.”
I take a sharp breath, but I don’t dare speak.
“Are you there?” Terry asks.
“Yes.” I breathe out, my chest feels tight. “When did Carol call? What did she say?”
“Thursday night. Look, Emma, it’s not my place, okay? And I’m really sorry, but it sounds like she was expecting Jim to turn up there. I don’t know.”
“What did she say?”
“They’ve been seeing each other. He’s staying with her. I’m just telling you what she said. But she’s worried.”
Oh my God. My mind is reeling. Why would Carol call Terry the day after? It makes no sense. She was supposed to wait two days, and then call the police.
“Did she say anything else?”
His short silence tells me that she did. Then he says, “I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s not exactly impartial, if Jim and her are, you know . . .”
“What did she say, Terry?”
He sighs. “She said Jim was concerned about your state of mind.”
“Oh? That’s it?”
“That he was worried you might do something.”
“Do something? Like what, hurt myself?”
“No, hurt him.”
I can’t breathe. Everything is happening too fast and I can’t make any sense of it.
“Fuck her!” I snap, and I can hear Terry’s intake of breath. “I mean, why would she say such a thing? It’s a lie, Terry.”
“I know it is.”
“What gives her the right to be so concerned?” I continue, outraged. “It’s no business of hers, is it? She has no business meddling in our lives.”
“I know, you’ve got a point.”
“I do. I mean, who does that? Makes a big fuss just because he doesn’t show up at her place? For Christ’s sake! Isn’t that a little strange?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Yes, all right, it is a little strange.”
“Obviously she wants him back. Now that we’ve separated. She’s spreading lies. About me, and about Jim.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ll tell you what to say, Terry.” I must sound shrill, I’m so angry. “Listen to me. Jim told me he needed time out. Give it a few more days. It’s a stressful time for him, and he’s your friend!” I almost shout that last bit, aware that I made the complete opposite argument the last time we spoke. But my God! Carol calling Terry? That wasn’t in the plan. Oh, I’m so worried. Yeah, you should be. You killed him.
Breathe, Emma. Breathe.
“Give it a few more days,” I say in the most reasonable tone I can muster. “He deserves the chance to redeem himself. We have to afford him that dignity, Terry. It’s the least we can do.”
I feel like such a bitch. I’m repeating his words back to him, words of kindness from a true friend, and here I am appropriating them for myself.
“Yeah, okay, Emma, but I’m worried. If I don’t hear from him by—”
“Friday, Terry. Promise me. End of the week. Okay? Give him that much, for Christ’s sake. And don’t worry his parents unnecessarily, please.” God, I sound so ridiculous. I can tell how hard this is for him.
“Yeah, okay. Friday,” he says. “But you keep in touch, all right? The moment you hear from him—”
“You’ll be the first to know. I promise. And, Terry, don’t speak to Carol again. It’s none of her business.” I was going to add she’s poison but think better of it.
“Yeah, all right.”
Christ! That was a close call.
It’s not Charlie at the Avis counter, it’s Mike. Mike is very helpful, very sorry they didn’t call sooner, but as Charlie explained, they assumed this was the contact number they had on file, and they expected me to inquire earlier. I assure him that’s fine and I understand. I mumble something about it being a spare phone and I don’t even remember why I brought it along. He nods, then goes to a back room, to their lost and found property holder. He returns with the phone wrapped in a plastic bag, a yellow Post-it note stapled to the top. I can make out what I guess to be the registration number and my name.
I thought briefly of putting my other wig on, my Jackie Collins black wig, but what’s the point? What if someone remembered me from that day? “That’s funny, you don’t look anything like the Mrs. Fern who rented the car from us.” Wouldn’t that be awkward? I may as well look like Carol, who looked like me.
“Can I see some ID, please? Driver’s license will do.”
“Ah, as it happens, I recently lost my driver’s license.”
“Really? Sorry to hear that, I hate when that happens.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Do you have anything else? I can’t just hand you the phone, Mrs. Fern. No offense, but we have—”
“That’s fine, I understand, I appreciate that.”
I go through my wallet, looking for something that I can use instead.
“What about the credit card you used to pay for the rental?” he says.
“The credit card?”
No, please God, I had assumed she paid with cash. I quickly run through the contents of my wallet. I can’t believe it! She stole my credit card!
He checks the contract: “Visa, ends in 0144.”
I find it! The only credit card I carry. How is that possible? I pull it out to show him.
He takes it and looks at it closely, matching the details with whatever he has on the screen.
“That’s all good. Here.”
He hands the card back to me, and picks up the package with the cell phone in it.
“So I used this credit card”—I’m holding it up—“to pay?” I’m shaking, so I quickly lower my hand again.
“Yep, that’s the one we have.”
“That’s odd.”
He shrugs. “It went through fine. We wouldn’t have accepted it if it had been rejected for lack of funds.”
“No, what I mean is, I don’t usually carry it with me. I just happen to have it. I forgot I used it, I guess.”
“Oh, that’s because you paid over the phone, remember?”
Over the phone?
“Ah yes, of course. Thank you. I’m having one of those days.” I smile.
“Well, no harm done. I hope you find your driver’s license, Mrs. Fern. And maybe you shouldn’t be driving anymore.”
“Why?”
He taps his temple. “If you’re having trouble remembering, you know.” He shakes his head. Wonderful. Now he thinks I’m suffering from dementia.
I take the phone from him. There’s a part of me that hopes Carol will realize it’s missing and call Avis. Let her sweat a little, when they tell her, “But Mrs. Fern, you already picked it up, don’t you remember?” Tap, tap, on the temple.
I don’t even know why we own a filing cabinet. Who has a filing cabinet these days? Isn’t everything in the Cloud? Jim always made himself out to be so technology-minded, up-to-the-minute knowledgeable, and yet you couldn’t pry his fingers from that vintage piece of office furniture. It has followed us for most of our marriage, always locked, always in a corner of his space.
But when he left me, he didn’t take it, of course. He could hardly lug it out in the elevator. But he didn’t bother to lock it. I noticed when I checked it that there are big gaps in there now. Lord knows what used to fill those gaps, but one thing I know i
s that my credit card statements were mailed to me every month, and he reviewed them, paid the balance in full—I respect that banks are out to make money, Emma, but that doesn’t mean we have to throw it at them—and I never saw them again. I assumed they found their resting place in the filing cabinet, never to see the light of day again until tax time.
It makes me so angry that he left it behind, along with the other items he didn’t want, all the things that didn’t matter anymore: his books; most of his clothes; his antique desk lamp, a gift from someone or other; a musical cigarette box that used to belong to his grandfather; me.
I’m rattled that my credit card was used to rent the car—over the phone, Mrs. Fern, don’t you remember? I make a beeline for those statements the moment I get home. I’d already seen that the two bottom drawers where Jim kept his paperwork, whatever that might have been, have been emptied, but the two top drawers still had files in them, and I didn’t look too closely. Until now, when I pull open the top one so hard that the entire unit almost falls over and I catch it against my chest.
There are no bank or credit card statements, not even mine. No financial information at all. He took it all with him. My credit card number was in those papers, I know it. Jim kept records of everything. That’s how Carol did it, I’m sure of it. I can smell it. She found my credit card details among Jim’s papers, and then used it to rent the car.
I decide to call my bank, to check the last few transactions. I should cancel the card, but then I change my mind. I don’t want to raise any flags, not yet anyway, not until I know for sure what I’m dealing with.
28
I know in the back of my mind that it’s the wrong thing to do, that I could do it over the phone, stay under the radar, but I do it anyway. I want to check again, to go through the motions, see if I can gather some more clues, anything. I need to know how exposed I am.
After I’ve been to the DMV and filled in the paperwork to get a replacement license, I go back to the same marina, the same office, ostensibly to ask whether they retrieved a ring from the boat. There’s a bit of activity here this morning, and when my turn comes, I speak to a nice man, pen poised over an open ledger, ready to take my booking.
After He Killed Me Page 18