After He Killed Me

by Natalie Barelli

I love my morning runs. It must be the endorphins. Isn’t that what they say? You get addicted to it. Well, I have to do something this morning to clear my head after a sleepless night.

  The heat is unexpectedly oppressive, reflecting off the buildings, and for a moment I wonder whether it’s too hot to run, but I do it anyway, because if I don’t, I’ll kill myself for having been so utterly, completely, and comprehensively stupid. At least the good news is that if three makes a serial killer, then I’m not one. I didn’t kill three people. In fact, I haven’t killed anyone in years. That’s got to be good, and I hang on to that thought.

  Get her driver’s license. It’s in the pocket on the left side.

  How?

  I don’t know, maybe borrow her purse to get yourself a drink or something. Pretend you have no cash on you.

  I’m nervous Jim. I don’t know if I can pull it off.

  You will. When are you seeing her?

  In ten minutes.

  Okay. Call me after.

  I love you.

  I love you too.

  Sweat is running into my eyes as I run, and I slow down, wiping it off. I felt ill when I read those texts on Carol’s phone. There are others too, but less specific. They’re not from Jim’s own cell number, so I suppose they both got themselves burner phones. I can’t believe she let me take it from her, the day before the trip. They must be desperate to get that back, and no doubt the mood between them must be a little, shall we say, tense? He’s probably berating her for being so stupid.

  They set me up. The two of them. It’s all there, in text messages. I don’t know how Jim made it back to shore that day, but I can guess. The same way I did. I remember Carol didn’t want to leave right away, after we pushed him over the edge. I also remember feeling the boat lurch. It felt strange. But I don’t know how to sail, so how do I know what’s normal? But of course, he’d just got back on the boat, and that was when we reset the sails.

  I just can’t believe I fell for it. Jim must be right about me. I’m an idiot.

  An idiot with a plan, though.

  It took all night to formulate, but I’ve got it. I know what to do. And it’s not something so ordinary as going to the police and telling them about Jim’s little stratagem to get himself a brand-new life—and get away with fraud.

  I realize now why he stopped harassing me about his research documents. He didn’t care anymore. He doesn’t. As far as he was concerned, he would be dead, and I’d be charged with his murder.

  That is, if someone reports his disappearance to the cops. As long as I have Carol’s phone in my possession, she won’t do it. I need to make sure Terry won’t do it either, but I can do that.

  So on that front, it’s under control. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when my cell phone rings.

  “Emma, it’s Moira. Is Jim with you?”

  It’s hot and noisy out here in the street. I lean against the wall and try to get my breath back.

  “Hi, Moira, how are you? How’s Florida?”

  “Oh, Emma, I’m so upset. I don’t understand. I’ve been trying to reach Jim for days. Is he there? He didn’t call me for my birthday, you know that? He always calls me on my birthday. Always. Jim would never miss my birthday. I said to Larry that something wasn’t right. But Larry said he must be busy and he’ll call soon. But he hasn’t, Emma! Not a word!”

  Her voice is sounding progressively more shrill and I feel a tinge of sympathy as I say, “Calm down, Moira, please.” But I can’t get another word in, through the “how can I calm down? My son is missing, Emma. What’s going on? Is he with you?”

  “Moira, stop, listen.” I find a scrunched-up Kleenex in my pocket and pull it out to wipe the sweat on my forehead.

  She pauses; I can hear her breathing, fast, short, and shallow.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’m on my way home.”

  “He’s not there, is he?” she asks, her voice small and almost pleading.

  “No. Jim has gone away. But I’m sure he’s fine, really. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Where did he go? Have you spoken to him?”

  “Has he told you about us?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  “Told me what?”

  Of course he hasn’t. He wanted to wait until he’d gone away, wherever that was. Tunisia or whatever.

  I like Moira, very much. She’s always been nice to me. I think she recognizes a little of herself in me: we are both women who married up. Other than that, we don’t have very much in common, so most of our conversations center around her children: Jim and his two sisters. Mostly Jim, because everyone in that family is in awe of him. He can’t do any wrong. He could say anything, and it would be treated as pearls of wisdom. If I told her right now that Jim was convinced he was being spied on via his webcam, she’d tell me of an article she’d read recently about the perils of webcams. Or that it happened to a friend of hers. And she’d believe it too. We used to see them regularly for family meals, before they moved south, and it always struck me that his sisters would do a lot to help their mother and father. They’d bring food to store in the freezer so that Moira and Larry would always have a few prepared meals on hand. Or they’d bring Moira a gardening magazine, knowing how much she enjoyed it. On those occasions when we all went to their house, they would help with the meal, and shoo Moira out of the kitchen so that she could “put her feet up.” Jim did nothing of the sort, except maybe bring a bottle of wine, but he certainly never got his hands dirty with such mundane activities as clearing the table or stacking the dishwasher. But then again, I used to make up for it.

  I brace myself. “We’ve separated, Moira, I’m sorry.” It comes out on an exhalation.

  “What do you mean ‘separated’?”

  “Jim has moved out, he’s left.”

  “Left what?”

  “Me, Moira.”

  “You’re getting a divorce?” She shouts that last part, and I have to move my phone away from my ear.

  My heart breaks a little. She used to brag that no one in her family had ever divorced. Not her children, not her sister or brother or her parents or Larry’s parents, all the way up and down the family tree.

  “I don’t know, Moira. I hope not.”

  “But what’s happened?”

  “Maybe we should talk about it another time.”

  “But where is he? Why isn’t he returning my calls?” She lets out a little sob.

  “He’s not missing, Moira, okay? Give it a few days. He’s a little upset.”

  “When did he move out?”

  “A few days ago.” Which is sort of true.

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “Yes, so you see why we should wait? He told me he was moving into a hotel somewhere, to get his thoughts in order.”

  Even to my ears that sounds completely unconvincing, but I’m hoping that Moira will let anything persuade her that her son is safe.

  “Do you know which hotel?”

  This conversation is starting to grate on me. I don’t know how many ways I can tell her that I don’t know where he is and have no means of reaching him, but I force myself to stay gentle.

  “No, he said he would let me know soon, but not yet. He wanted to have some time to himself.”

  She lets out another small sob.

  “I can’t reach him, Emma. I tried calling, but I only get his voicemail. I’ve left messages but I don’t understand why his phone isn’t working. What if he was in an accident? Have you thought of that?”

  “He just needs some time, Moira. He’ll call you. I’m sure of it. You’ll see.”

  We go through a few more rounds of this: Why won’t he pick up the phone? Have you tried to reach him? What does his work say? She hasn’t called the Forum yet; she called me first. She doesn’t know that Jim has resigned, and I don’t tell her. But I do say that he’s taken leave from work as well.

  “You call me the minute you hear from him, all right, Em
ma? Promise me.”

  I know it’s not going to be that simple. I can see her in my mind’s eye, one hand over her mouth and her eyes darting sideways as she begins to imagine the worst. It won’t be long before Moira calls the hospitals, and soon after that she’ll ring the police.

  Which means that I don’t have a lot of time, and I can’t stay in my apartment, because that’s the first place they’ll come looking for me, once they piece it together.

  I walk briskly back to my apartment, my head down. My thoughts are racing in my mind and I force myself to slow them down. I can’t panic now, or I’ll make mistakes.

  I’m almost back at my building, only another block, when she does it again.

  “Emma!”

  I jump, almost trip. I turn to the voice, even though I already know who it is, the same as last time, waiting for me in the shadows, whispering as I come past.

  “Jesus! Fuck! Carol! You almost gave me a heart attack! Are you trying to kill me too?”

  She recoils at that, and I stifle a smile.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Yes, well, you did. Give me a minute.”

  I bend down, hands on my knees to get my breath back. It’s my composure I’m concerned about. She gave me a shock, leaping out like that. I take a deep breath.

  “Do you think this is a good idea? Us being seen together, like this?” I ask.

  “Let’s just walk,” she replies. She seems a little sharp in her movements, a little nervous maybe. She steps up beside me. “No one will recognize me anyway.”

  “Aren’t you hot in that?” She’s wearing a hoodie and yet another baseball cap, a different logo this time that means nothing to me, but it is an even larger cap, as usual set low over her eyes, and large sunglasses.

  She ignores my last question, takes off the sunglasses. “Do you still have that burner phone?”

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  “Yeah, I meant to give it back to you, obviously, then when I got home it was still in my pocket.”

  Her eyelids flutter in relief. So she was really worried. I can’t say I’m sorry about it. I hope she lost sleep over that burner phone. Now that I see her eyes I’m pretty sure she did lose plenty of sleep.

  “Great. I wasn’t sure. I don’t know. I got really confused. Can I get it from you?”

  “I don’t carry it in my pocket, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—I mean, I can wait for you here. You can go and get it.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “I know, but if you could go up to your apartment and I’ll—”

  I stop and look at her squarely.

  “I don’t have it upstairs. I’m in the process of moving out, right now. All my things are in storage. Burner phone included.”

  Her head does a quick shake, then she does it again, like an electrical impulse she can’t control. “But I have to get it back!” she says, urgency in her voice.

  “I know.” I speak very calmly, unlike her. “Trust me, I don’t want your burner phone either. In fact, I was going to throw it out—”

  “You didn’t!”

  “No, I figured you’d call for it, so I waited. It’s in my storage unit.”

  “So when can I get it?” she blurts, then smiles, as if to correct the impression that she’s more agitated than she lets on.

  “I can get rid of it if you like,” I propose.

  “No! No, don’t. I’ll do it. Can you go and get it now?”

  I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Stop worrying. I’ll get you the phone as soon as I can.”

  She nods and we resume walking.

  “You shouldn’t be here anyway, even with your stupid disguise,” I add.

  “Yes, well, if you answered your own phone occasionally, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

  “You called me? I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I used a different phone.”

  “Really? You should have texted. How was I supposed to know who it was?”

  “Are you crazy? We’re not supposed to have any contact, Emma! You think exchanging texts is helpful?”

  “Okay, fine, I get it. Call me tomorrow night, okay? I’ll get the phone and I’ll let you know where we can meet. But I need something from you, Carol.”

  “Oh yes? What?”

  “Jim stole something from me. My old phone. He showed it to me the day he left and he took it with him. It must be among his things. I need it back.”

  She stares at me, eyes a little wide.

  “What kind of phone?”

  “It’s an iPhone. In one of those hard, protective cases, with an animal print pattern. Have you seen it?”

  “Not that I recall. Are you sure he had it?”

  “Positive.”

  “Is it really that important, Emma? What if I can’t find it?”

  “You’ll find it,” I smile. “I have complete faith in you.”

  Her shoulders drop. She just wants her phone, clearly, and she doesn’t want to have to do chores for it.

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “I won’t get to the storage unit before tomorrow, so yes, tomorrow night. We’ll arrange a time to meet then.”

  “Okay,” she says, reluctantly. “I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

  Then she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and walks away. I put my hand where her lips touched my skin. That was so strange. I can’t work out if she did that for the benefit of onlookers; two friends running into each other.

  I watch her disappear around the corner. I didn’t ask myself, or her, the first time she surprised me like this, where she came from. But now I wonder. There are no recesses or nooks or dark alleys, and yet she seemed to materialize out of the shadows. Did she observe me from the Starbucks across the road? Sitting by the glass window, afraid to look away in case I appeared and she missed me? Did she sprint across the road behind me?

  “I forgot about this place,” I say, looking around La Masseria. “I haven’t been here in God knows how long.”

  “Well, as you can see, it’s still the same,” Frankie says, scanning the menu. “What will you have?”

  “I don’t know.” I glance at the table next to us. “Soup, I think.”

  “La zuppa del giorno!” Frankie says to the waiter with a flourish that makes me smile.

  He puts the menu down, and we’re alone again. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “You’re a little distracted, maybe.”

  “Well, since you ask,” and I tell Frankie a version of my separation. I’m getting some practice now, it flows easily. I also tell him about my financial situation, which I blame squarely on my economist husband.

  He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Em. Tough break.”

  I make the usual noises about how life goes on, and que sera sera, and it’s all for the best, and it was on the cards, and when I’ve exhausted the platitudes, I come out with it.

  “That’s partly why I wanted to see you. I was thinking about your beach house.”

  “Yes? What about it?”

  “I need a place to stay, and—”

  “Oh, Emma!” He grabs my hand. “You’re not homeless, are you? Did Jim ask you to move out? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  I burst out laughing. “Lord no, it’s nothing like that. Jim is the one who’s left the apartment. I just want to have some time away.” I was about to say by myself, which makes no sense since I’m already there. “Time away from our home and the memories, just until I work out what to do next. So I was wondering, could I stay there for a while? If you’re not using it, obviously.”

  “Of course, anytime, Emma. Come on, you paid for it,” he says sweetly, and we chuckle together. That’s one of Frankie’s lovely quirks, he always credits me with his “rising from the ashes moment,” as he calls it.

  “You can stay at the beach house as long as you like. We don’t use it at the moment, a
nd even if we did, there’s plenty of room.”

  “Huh, stop right there.” I put a hand up, still my favorite gesture. “We?”

  “Yes, well, this is probably not the time, under the circumstances—oh, forget it, I’ll tell you another time.”

  To my surprise, Frankie blushes.

  “No, tell me now.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “Is it good news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must tell me. Good news I can take.” I smile. He does too.

  “I met someone.” He looks down at his plate, surprisingly shy. “You see why it can wait? It doesn’t seem appropriate after what you just told me.”

  “Why? It’s great news! Out with the old, in with the new, I say. Tell me all about him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He laughs. “Well, his name is—”

  And for a second I find myself praying he doesn’t say Nick, but no, thank God, it’s Brad.

  “You’re kidding. You got yourself a Brad?”

  “I know, right?” he grins.

  I push my plate away, so there’s room for my elbows on the table as I rest my chin on my hands.

  “Everything,” I say. “And I mean everything. Go.”

  He blushes. It moves me.

  “What do you want to know?”

  I take his hand in mine, across the table. “Where did you meet him? Let’s start with that.”

  “At the gym.”

  “Oh, nice! So he’s in good shape, then.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  And for the next hour, Frankie tells me all about Brad, sweet, beautiful Brad, a financial adviser.

  “Watch out for those,” I quip. “I was married to an economist. Look where that got me.” Which raises a laugh from both of us. “How long ago did you meet?”

  “Two months.”

  “Two months? And you’re telling me now?”

  “Emma, I’ve barely seen you! Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been dying to tell you, believe me.”

  “Okay, I forgive you. Any pics?” I point to his cell phone on the table.

  “None you’d like to see,” he says wryly.