After He Killed Me

by Natalie Barelli

  “I really need to go.”

  “I know. I’ll get it for you now.” I make a show of knocking back my drink, as if somehow it was important to do that first, then I watch her do the same, but she doesn’t drink all of it. It’s all I can do to stop myself from pushing her glass up to help things along.

  “May we both find happiness—separately, of course—after a rather rough patch.” I pretend to drink the last of my champagne, even though my glass is now empty, and she does the same, which is brilliant, frankly, as I’m running out of happy toasts.

  I leave the room, and when I turn to look at her from the door, I catch sight of her tilting her glass to get the last of it.

  I chuckle to myself. She really is in a hurry.

  Bad luck, that.

  Because of the seclusion of the house, I told her it was perfectly safe for her to park outside. I’ve never seen her car. I don’t even know what she drives. So I have to go outside, hiding in the shadows, and I slowly make my way to the Honda parked a few yards down the street that seems like a good bet. I crouch down, and when I am sure there are no other cars coming, I walk, crab-like, over to the Honda, my heart thumping in my chest so loudly I fear it can be heard in the silence. It takes a full minute for me to talk myself into peering into it, as discreetly as possible, to make sure Jim isn’t in it. I almost fall backward with relief once I see that the car is indeed empty. That it is the right one is confirmed when I press the electric key that I retrieved from her bag and it flashes its lights at me.

  I drive it inside the garage, which isn’t big enough for two cars, but I’ve already moved mine out of sight.

  Back in the bedroom I decide to unpack the suitcase that is sitting open on top of the bed. I may as well use the time efficiently while I wait. That’s one thing that Jim didn’t leave me much of when he moved out that night: suitcases. He took most of them with him, not that we had that many anyway, and the only set he left behind were the ones we purchased in Rome together. I can’t remember if it was on our honeymoon trip, or a different vacation, but we’d only taken one suitcase for the both of us and, unfortunately, one of the wheels had come off. The hotel manager directed us to a small store around the corner, where he assured us we’d be able to buy a replacement. We were amused to discover it was an ecclesiastical vestments and accessories store that sold various specialist items aimed at the clergy, including luggage. We bought two pieces, one small, one large. Jim joked that they were probably blessed. I guess his cup had runneth over, because he left them behind in our closet.

  I don’t expect unpacking to take long, because how long does it take to hang a few clothes? Not very long, is the answer. But I keep the door open and my ear tuned.

  I’m getting quite experienced at this, I think. It’s nice, acquiring new skills in life. Mine is calibrating dosages of barbiturates. Getting it just right for the job. Too much and you can kill someone, although I read somewhere that with barbiturates alone you’ve got to take a hell of a lot, as they don’t make them as strong as they used to. Well, since I don’t want to kill Carol—seeing as I have quite enough problems as it is—it’s not an issue. But too little, and well, you’ve got a situation on your hands. If your target becomes aware too soon that you’re trying to subdue them, they won’t let you have another try. You can’t exactly come back with a “top-up.” Which means you could have a fight on your hands; a few scratches on your face maybe, a bite mark on your skin. How are you going to explain that?

  So, best to get it right the first time, and, as it happens, I know what I’m doing. When I peer around the door of the living room, Carol, God bless her, is fast asleep on the couch, the stem of the glass resting in her loose fingers on the floor. I tilt my head, studying her face. I’d like to say she looks like an angel, but that would be a lie. I never really understood what Jim saw in her, frankly, because put the both of us in a lineup, and I’m by far the more attractive of the two, hands down. Asleep like this, her face sags, her jaw is slack, and I wonder if she snores. It wouldn’t surprise me.

  I take her pulse, which is a little slow; a little weak, but that’s to be expected. I need to work quickly, so I go and retrieve the rope I’ve hidden at the bottom of the broom closet, and I set it down on the floor, next to her. I’ve already cut it in various lengths, because I believe in preparation, which should be pretty obvious to anyone by now.

  I start by tying her feet. That’s easier than the hands, because of her position. I remove her shoes first, just like that article said, the one I found from googling how to tie up a person. I wouldn’t have necessarily thought of it, but of course if the person manages to remove their shoes, then they’ll have a bit more wriggle room. Self-evident. Once you know it.

  She’s wearing running shoes—the expensive kind—and dark grey pants. This is more her “I’m going to the police after this” outfit. Practical and nondescript. Every other time I’ve seen her, she’s been wearing something sporty. I noticed also, that night on the boat, when we moved Jim, that she’s surprisingly strong. I must not forget that.

  I tie her legs together, below the knee, just like the instructions said, and I make sure not to pull the rope too tight. I don’t want to cut off the blood flow. I only want to immobilize her.

  I study her hands and arms next. I would have preferred tying them behind her back, but it’s too hard, given her position, so I have to tie her hands together at the front. She’s wearing pale-pink nail polish. It’s a pretty color. I must ask her what it is.

  I stand up and take a good, appraising look at her. I think I did a fine job. I reach for the bottle of champagne and refill my glass. I feel quite parched after all these exertions, but I’m happy with the result. Carol is not going anywhere fast.

  I’m about to sit down when I hear a phone ring in her bag and I lunge for it, even though I know nothing is going to wake her up right now. By the time I find it in the multitude of zipped pockets, it’s no longer ringing. But there is a missed call alert on the screen.

  Jim.

  I turn off the phone. All I need to do now is wait.

  32

  I suspect Carol’s going to be passed out for at least another half hour, since I am now an expert in such matters, and I leave her there, asleep, and go to the kitchen. I’m so fortunate that dear Frankie let me stay in this house. It’s so pretty here; so lovely and welcoming. Frankie has such good taste. These are the things I tell myself over and over to convince myself that everything is normal. Then maybe I can keep the lurking feeling of dread from engulfing me.

  Coffee. That’s what I should do. Make coffee. Except Frankie doesn’t own an espresso machine, which is rather annoying. I make a mental note to buy one for the house. It can be my thank-you present. It’s the least I can do. But meanwhile, I find myself this evening having to do with French press coffee, which is just not the same. People say you shouldn’t drink coffee after midday, but I must be immune, because it’s never stopped me from sleeping. Anyway, that’s academic at this point, since I have no intention of doing so; not for a while yet.

  It feels like an eternity, but it’s only just over half an hour when I hear her moan in the next room. It makes me clench my jaw, just hearing the sound of her voice. It makes me want to hurt her.

  “Ah, Carol. Hello. How did you sleep?” I ask.

  I walk into the living room as I say this. She’s trying to move her arms and legs as if she hasn’t noticed she’s tied up. Because she’s not quite awake yet, it hasn’t registered.

  Ah, now it does. I can see her eyes flutter open, and then her head lifts. She has a mark on her cheek from the sewn edge of the cushion. Her eyes dart around the room. She manages to pull herself into a sitting position, her head moving frantically left and right. Maybe she doesn’t remember where she is. I hate it when that happens. It’s a feeling I know well from the days when I was doing book tours—staying in hotels, never more than one night—so I can sympathize. And I would, if it were anyone else.
r />   And then she spots me. She tries to speak, but it comes out all blurry. She smacks her lips a few times.

  “Emma, what the fuck?” she slurs, finally.

  “What the fuck what, Carol?”

  She blinks a few times, her eyes darting around the room.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, quite genuinely, which surprises me. I expected more fear from her than this puzzlement. But no doubt that will change.

  “I was going to make a cup of coffee, if you must know. I’d offer you one, but you know . . .”

  Her eyes are really open now. The light in the room is dim because I’ve only got the small lamp on in the corner. Even though I’ve drawn the drapes across all the windows, I keep getting this feeling that Jim is outside, watching.

  “Untie me! Now!” she yells.

  I come forward so I’m standing in front of her. It’s easier for her that way. She’s shaking; the tears are starting to fall on her cheeks.

  “Don’t be scared Carol. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I just want to talk.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Kill you? No! Lord no! Don’t be so paranoid! Jesus! I don’t want to kill you. If I did that, I’d have to admit I have a problem; that killing has become a compulsion, rather than a necessity. I’d have to join Killers Anonymous.” I chuckle. “Do you think there’s such a thing? There should be, you know. It’s better to get people the help they need before they do the deed, don’t you agree?”

  I tilt my head at her, waiting for an answer. She shakes her head, takes big gulps of air, like she’s hyperventilating.

  “Do you want some water?” I ask, helpfully.

  “Untie me, Emma.”

  She doesn’t know whether to plead or yell, so her tone is stuck somewhere in between, which is nowhere.

  “No,” I reply, turning away and moving toward the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” she blurts.

  “I’ve changed my mind about the coffee.”

  When I get back, elegant glass in my hand—and I’ll say this for Frankie, he doesn’t skimp on the glassware—I sit down in the lovely plush armchair to the right of the couch.

  “You know, it’s a real shame that Jim and I couldn’t make a go of it,” I say. “We were actually really well suited. But he didn’t know that.” I lean forward, one arm on my knee. “Do you know he did exactly the same to me once? Okay, I’ll come clean. That’s where I got the idea from. Although he didn’t tie me up.” I wave at the ropes. “He drugged me with something. I don’t know what. Anyway, it was very similar. Interesting to note we had very similar instincts, Jim and I. We should have talked more, you know? Isn’t that what they say? Communication is the key to a happy marriage. That’s what the man at the boat rental office said too. What a waste.” I sigh, sitting back in my chair. I take a sip. “Oh well, water under the bridge, right?” I smile.

  Then I lean forward again, bringing my face close to hers. I glance at her trembling chin, then look straight into her tearful eyes. I don’t smile.

  “He was a horrible man, Carol. A sick, cruel, vindictive man, and he almost killed me.”

  She nods and bites her lip, tears falling down the side of her nose.

  I put the glass down on the coffee table.

  “So why did you do it?”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t do anything,” she says, quietly.

  It’s all I can do not to hit her across the face. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “No, of course not. Poor, sweet little Carol, who was so frightened of the big bad wolf. Help me! Help me! Seriously, do you think you’d be here, trussed up, if that’s what I believed? You think I haven’t figured out your little stratagem? Well I have. I know you set me up. You both set me up. Tell me that’s not true, Carol, just try.”

  I say that last part through gritted teeth. She nods quickly, mumbles something.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “We set you up,” she whispers, “but—”

  “Stop!” I shout, raising my hand, palm toward her. “Don’t say another word.”

  I was determined to remain cool and rational. It’s a decision I made, coming into this. But it is harder than I can manage.

  “How could you, Carol? How could you trick me like this? You rent the car in my name?” I’m shouting now, I’m shaking and shouting, and my face is red and I’m spitting in her face as I yell into it. “Then you rent the boat in my name? You came to me! You asked me to help you! And I did! I trusted you!”

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, her voice small and trembling.

  I pick up my glass again and take a small sip.

  “We’re going to wait for Jim.”

  She shakes her head from side to side, frantically. “He doesn’t know I’m here! I didn’t tell him I was coming here!”

  “Don’t lie to me. I will never believe another word you say.”

  I take a deep breath. I need to stay calm, otherwise I’ll kill her right here and now. Not that I’d mind, but I need her to be the bait. Keep the bait alive. That’s the whole point.

  “My mother always said I was too nice. ‘You’re too nice, Emma,’ she’d say, ‘you’re too trusting. People will take advantage, mark my words.’ Funny how you get older and you realize your mother was right, more often than not. Have you noticed?”

  She nods, continually. She’s stuck on a nodding loop, essentially.

  “It’s not—”

  “Shh.” I raise my index finger and we both become still and listen to the sound of a car coming down the road. My heart races as I look toward the door, but the car moves on without stopping.

  I wait until my heart slows down. I look at the draped windows, the sliding doors that lead to the deck. We shouldn’t be here, in this room. We’re too exposed.

  “We’re going to go into the kitchen.”

  Her face crumples and the tears well up again.

  “Carol, stop! What’s the matter with you? Do you really think I’m going to hurt you? What do you take me for? I’m not that person, Carol! Although Lord knows you deserve it.”

  She wriggles on the couch, trying to stand up.

  “No no, don’t do that, I’m going to leave a bit more rope between your feet so you can take small steps. Okay? Ready?”

  I crouch at her feet, all the time looking at her face. I feel my way through the knot and then I look down and retie her legs, leaving a small length of rope between her ankles.

  “Okay, I’ll pull you up now.” It takes a couple of tries, but I manage to get her up. She’s shaking as I guide her slowly to the kitchen and help her sit on a hard-backed chair, one of the tall ones around the kitchen island. Then I tie her to it, looping the rope around her and the chair together.

  My skin feels hot and clammy from the exertion. I wish it were over. I hope he comes soon, because I don’t know how long I can keep this up.

  I sit down on the chair opposite, across the kitchen island.

  “So why?” I ask her this in the most genuine manner I can. I want to show her this is a real question, that requires a real answer, even though I already know the answer, obviously. But I want to hear it from her lips.

  “I—I—” She’s stammering, so I wait, give her a little space. “I was frightened. I’m sorry.”

  I’m so angry at her lies that it’s me who’s shaking now. I want to tell her everything that I know—that I read the texts, that I remember how cool she was when we came back to the pier, that she didn’t look scared to me—but I don’t get that far. There’s someone at the door.

  33

  They pull out their ID; bring it forward as I peer at them through a small gap in the doorway.

  “Can we come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Wait one minute, please.”

  My heart is pounding as I slip the gun back in my pocket, just before I open the door wider.

  I thought it was him at the door. So did Carol. We both gasped when th
e doorbell sounded. I watched her eyes open wide and I thought she looked as scared as I did.

  “You say one word, and I will kill you. Clear?” I said as I pulled the gun from my pocket. I went to the living room and crouched by the window closest to the front door. I pulled the drapes back, less than an inch, and peered out at the porch. There were two of them, and I was fairly certain Jim was not there.

  I was pretty fast, going back to the kitchen. I pushed a couple of pills down Carol’s throat and wrapped a dishtowel around her mouth. She tried to fight me off, but let’s face it, she’s got a handicap. It almost made me laugh out loud seeing her try so hard.

  “If I hear a peep out of you, I will kill you. Okay? Nod if you understand. Okay, good! Just lean back against the chair—that’s it. Because you’ll fall asleep again in a minute and that just can’t be helped. Okay?”

  I closed the double doors between the kitchen and living space. She probably wouldn’t be asleep in a minute, but she’ll definitely be even more out of it than she already is.

  “Sorry, I was in the middle of cooking,” I tell them as I lead them inside. They exchange a glance.

  “Let’s go on the deck,” I say, because it’s the space furthest away from the kitchen, and even if Carol manages to moan we won’t hear her; not with the sliding door closed.

  “Can I get you some water?” I ask, once they’ve introduced themselves as Detective McDonnell and Detective Murphy. I try to hide my anxiety, but my hands are trembling a little.

  “No thank you,” they both reply, at the same time.

  I don’t know why they’re here, but they haven’t come to arrest me. They wouldn’t be lounging on the deck if they had. I fight the urge to get a stiff Scotch for myself. Just a shot of Dutch courage.

  “So, how can I help you?” I ask when I’ve finally sat down, chiding myself for not asking earlier. I bet that’s the number one lesson in the police handbook. Innocent people will ask you right away what you’re doing here; who died? Is everything okay? The guilty ones, they already know. They forget to ask.