by Minka Kent
I didn’t know it was possible to hate this woman more than I already did, but here I am, hating her with every strained, tensed fiber of my being.
“I met your brother,” she says. My heart stops cold.
My chest tightens, cutting off my air and strangulating the words I’m trying to form.
“He told me things about you,” she continues with a smirk. Marnie rises, arms folding as she stumbles toward me. “Really, really fucked up things. And as soon as Ben gets back, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him everything. And he’s going to leave you, because you’re fucked up in the head, Autumn, and now I finally have proof. You-”
There’s a crack.
And then she’s silent.
And when I open my eyes, I’m hovering above her, my hands in her hair, and she’s not moving.
Her head slides off the marble-top coffee table that centers her living room, and I let her go. She slouches, her body limp and pooling at my feet.
I lift my hand to my mouth, harboring a breath. Frozen, I watch her chest, looking for a rise and fall that never happens.
And then I leave.
Forty-Two
Autumn
“Was she home?” Ben doesn’t answer his phone with a “hello.”
“No,” I say, hands trembling as I drive home.
I never meant to kill her.
I mean, I’ve thought about it a hundred times before, but making it happen was never more than a daydream fantasy for me.
I’m not a killer.
I’m not violent or murderous.
I don’t have those urges.
“Well, shit,” Ben sighs into the receiver. “Where the hell could she be?”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“Nah, it’s been several days. I talked to some of her friends tonight. They all said she’s been ignoring them too. We’re going to have to call the police and report her missing.”
God damn it, Marnie.
I get that she was “going through some shit” and in a funk or whatever, but why’d she have to cut off the rest of the world? That attention-seeking, drama-thriving little bitch.
“Did it look like she’d been home recently?” Ben asks, his voice lifted as if he’s subconsciously willing me to tell him what he wants to hear.
“Everything was dark,” I say. “All the lights were out.”
I think about the flickering candle on the mantle. Shit.
If I’m lucky, it’ll burn out before the police arrive.
“Well, thanks for checking on her, babe,” he says. He still has hope. And it breaks my heart. “I’m taking the next flight home.”
Ben hangs up. He doesn’t say he loves me. I imagine him calling his parents next, updating them. I imagine the Gotliebs worrying sick, booking early flights back, losing sleep and shedding tears.
They’re good people. And I feel for what they’re about to go through. They really loved their Marnie, and I can’t blame them. They never saw the ugly side of her. They never experienced her dark side. All they ever did was love her unconditionally and treat her like a spoiled house pet, her smiling face repayment enough for all of the gifts they rained down upon her.
And in the end, she still had a rough life, and she was a miserable, ungrateful soul. And it was all her own doing.
I pull into the garage fifteen minutes later, sitting in the car until the garage door closes and the light goes out and I’m engulfed in pitch blackness.
I wonder where Marnie is now. If she’s bathed in light or drowning in dark. I wonder if she’s being shown her life in photographs and flashbacks, and if she feels any remorse for the way she treated people.
I pull in a breath and exit the car, feeling my way to the nearest door knob.
Ginger greets me on the other side. The house is cozy and comfortable. The only light illuminating the space is from the hood range in the kitchen. It’s good to be home. I scoop her up in my arms before heading to the medicine cabinet to grab another little yellow pill in a preemptive attempt to silence my mind tonight on the off chance I find myself awake at three AM, replaying Marnie’s last moments.
A vision of her face, eyes open and staring dead ahead, her blonde hair wild and hanging in her face, floods my memory.
The pills are almost out.
If I want more, I’ll have to go back to Dr. Josh.
I take one, chasing it with a sleeping pill and a glass of milk, and I wonder if any of this is normal. I wonder how many people have killed someone with their bare hands and went straight home to bed afterwards.
I determine it doesn’t matter.
And then I determine that I don’t actually know if Marnie is dead.
She was drunk, and she hit her head, that’s all. She’s probably passed out, and she’ll probably wake up tomorrow with a killer headache and no recollection of what happened the night before.
I didn’t kill her.
She tripped and hit her head.
If she is dead, the autopsy will show that. It’ll show her blood alcohol content at several times the legal limit, and they’ll take one look at the scene of the accident and determine she stumbled onto the coffee table; a young life tragically cut short by alcohol abuse and a string of unfortunate events.
It happens all the time.
Forty-Three
Autumn
Graham and Daphne are two passing ships in the night the following morning. His nose is buried in his phone, and she refuses to take her eyes off the made-from-scratch, whole wheat pancakes on the griddle. It’s a late breakfast for the McMullens, and I wonder if they had a late night too. They haven’t muttered more than a couple of formalities this morning, and the tension between them is dense and ripe.
I watch as Graham thumbs out a text message on his phone, his eyes moving between his screen and the back of his wife’s head to ensure she isn’t paying attention.
She isn’t.
It’s as if they’ve reached an impasse in their marriage, neither of them trying. Neither of them caring. Both of them in limbo until one of them makes the next move.
Ben came home from Tulsa earlier this morning, several days ahead of schedule. He was going to meet his parents at the police station as soon as they land so they could file a missing persons report on Marnie.
I rise from the table, leaving Grace’s side and retrieving a bib for Sebastian from one of the kitchen drawers. I fasten it around his neck a moment later, staring at my hands: the hands of a killer. They look exactly as they did yesterday. No marks or scuffs or bruises. No unfamiliar notches or creases. Cream-toned and baby smooth.
The hands of a possible killer will be tending to these children today, and despite that fact, I would protect these babies with my life. The irony is not lost on me.
“Autumn, can you please set the table?” Daphne calls out, plating pancakes.
“Of course.” I make myself busy, watching as Graham fires off another text. His jaw sets. His lips flatten. He exhales through his nostrils.
“All right, I’m off,” he says a moment later. No one responds. Daphne doesn’t tell him to have a nice day, and the children are too preoccupied with their impending breakfast to notice he’s halfway out the door already.
Graham’s Tesla veers out of the driveway in under a minute, and I tend to the children, telling Daphne I’ll take care of clean up in a second.
“I’m volunteering today,” she says, though she doesn’t say where and I don’t ask. “I’ve got to leave here in thirty minutes.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the kids or to herself. Her tone lacks enthusiasm and energy, and I wonder if today is one of those days when she’s just going through the motions.
My stomach twists when I think of Graham and his hands all over Marnie and her mouth all over all the places on his body that Daphne should only know. I wonder how much she knows? Surely she’s aware. A man doesn’t just slip away from a marriage for no reason. He’s always going to someo
ne.
Daphne slips upstairs quietly, and the children share knock-knock jokes and giggles, like it’s any other day, and I can hardly stand here pretending like everything is fine.
How lucky they are to know the gift of living in the moment.
The doorbell chimes.
“Stay here,” I tell the kids. “I’ll be right back.”
It’s much too early for a delivery, but sometimes one of the neighbor kids stops by wanting to play. I’m willing to bet it’s the little red-haired boy from down the street.
“I’ve been trying to call you all morning.” Ben stands on the other side of the McMullens’ door. His forehead is covered in worry lines, and he’s out of breath. His car idles in the drive.
“Ben, I’m working,” I say with a gentle chuckle. “What are you doing here?”
“The police are going to Marnie’s now. If she doesn’t answer, they’re breaking down the door. I’m headed over there.” His shoulders rise and fall.
“Okay, keep me posted.” I glance over my shoulder, down the hall and toward the children. They’re still eating at the kitchen table, giggling and being perfect little angels. Daphne’s footsteps echo from upstairs. She’ll be coming down any minute.
“Come with me.” He isn’t asking.
“Ben.” I tilt my head.
“Autumn, I need you.” He reaches for me, then stops. “I’ve never asked for anything from you.”
That’s a lie.
“Please,” he begs, and begging looks horrible on him, but I look into his pale blue eyes, and I know what lies ahead. I picture him seeing his dead sister’s body on the ground, lifeless, cold and dressed like a common prostitute. I picture him standing beside her casket, his arm around his mother. Ben checks his watch, then glances at me, his brows lifted as he waits for my answer. The circles under his baby blues tell me he had very little sleep last night, if any at all.
“Fine. Okay.” I exhale. As much as I don’t want to do this, I know I owe it to him. “Let me go talk to Daphne. I’ll be out in a few.”
I close the door, turn on my heel, and stop in my tracks when I see Daphne standing at the top of the stairs.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“My boyfriend,” I say, fingers intertwined. “There’s been a family emergency.”
Her brows lift.
“I’m so sorry, Daphne.” I place my hand on my chest. “I have to go. I’ll try to be back later.”
I make a promise I know I can’t keep. If we go there and Marnie is dead, I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll be expected to remain by Ben’s side every waking minute of every hour of every day, at least until the funeral.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, a dumb question from an intelligent woman.
“We think his sister is missing,” I say. “No one’s been able to reach her for days. The police are going to her house now, and we’re going with.”
Daphne pulls at the pearls around her neck. “My goodness. That’s awful. Yes, go be with him. And keep me posted.”
I’m not sure whether she means to keep her posted about Marnie or to keep her posted as to when I’ll be returning, but I nod, and promise to, and head toward the kitchen to tell the children I’ll see them later.
Grace whines and Rosie asks where I’m going, and Sebastian doesn’t seem to care either way.
I grab my purse and pass Daphne in the foyer. She’s on the phone, cancelling something, and she waves as I leave.
A moment later, I’m climbing in the passenger seat of Ben’s car. His knuckles are white as his hands grip the wheel, and we back out of the long driveway and head east down Linden street under a picturesque canopy of ancient oaks.
He’s unusually quiet.
“Have the police said anything?” I ask. “Are your parents back?”
He shrugs. “They’ve pinged her phone. It’s at her place. So either she left it or . . .”
His voice trails, and he doesn’t finish his thought, and I don’t blame him.
“Maybe she went on that singles cruise, after all?” I can’t believe I’m making light of this situation. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism? A distraction? My stomach twists harder with each turn we make, leading us closer to Marnie’s street. “I doubt they have cell service in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Autumn,” he silences me.
“We’ll find her,” I say, reaching for his hand. I try to pry it off the wheel, but he won’t let go.
This isn’t him. This isn’t Ben at all. I don’t know this man. He’s sick with worry and fear and doubt and his body is tense, like he’s expecting the worst. And he should. His entire world is about to change.
What is it about someone dying that makes people forget that they were deplorable assholes? It’s like someone dies, and you only remember the good, even if there wasn’t that much good to begin with.
I don’t own many pleasant memories of Marnie, but in this moment, my mind is blank. I’m not fixating on how much I hated her or how much she deserved what she got. I’m not ruminating on what a home-wrecking little whore she was or how entitled she felt to Graham or how she blamed Daphne for everything.
My mind is void of a single thought, and it’s as if reality is temporarily suspended. I’m not sure how many minutes pass or what songs have been playing on the radio or if the radio was even on. The second we pull into Marnie’s parking lot, we see two lit squad cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance.
Marnie’s door is wide open.
Two EMTs wheel a stretcher inside.
Everything happens so fast, and before I can stop Ben, he’s already out of the car, sprinting toward the door, and he screams. And then I know for sure, one hundred percent, that Marnie’s dead.
And I killed her.
Forty-Four
Daphne
“Oh, god. What do you think happened to her?” I mute the TV as Graham crumples on the edge of the bed, his eyes rimmed in red. He’s distraught over the death of his mistress, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she was the sister of our nanny’s boyfriend. “Did you know she was connected with Autumn?”
“I tried to end it with her several times, and every time she threatened to kill herself. I went there that night, trying to calm her down.”
I don’t believe him.
“When I left . . . she was fine. And then Autumn was there.”
“So Autumn’s the last person to see her alive?”
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.” His eyes are bloodshot and he watches the TV, replaying the same segment over and over again.
“Are there cameras in her complex?”
“Why would that matter?”
“If they check them and see your vehicle leaving her townhouse the night of her death and if anyone finds out you were screwing her, you’re going to be a suspect. You know that, right?” I hold zero sympathy for him.
He hides his head in his hands. I doesn’t know whether he’s mourning Marnie or mourning the life he’s about to give up the second he’s named the suspect in her murder.
“What about that guy, the Corvette guy,” I say. “You think maybe he did it?”
“I think she killed herself,” he says, jaw set. “She always said she was going to do it. Guess she finally followed through.”
“Anyway, you need to pull yourself together,” I say. “As soon as the police find out you two were together and she was seeing other people, that gives you motive. And as soon as they review the security footage and see you leaving, the case practically solves itself.”
“And they haven’t even said how she died. We don’t know anything yet, but I swear to you, Daphne, I didn’t do it.”
I say nothing, folding a basket of clothes on the bed. I secure a pair of socks together and toss them in the top left drawer of the dresser we share.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” There’s a rush to his words, a sheer panic.
My mouth hangs, and the truth falls out so easi
ly. “You’ve told so many lies lately, Graham. I don’t know what to believe.”
Forty-Five
Autumn
The Gotliebs’ perpetually warm Victorian is filled to the brim with people that evening. Someone has placed an 8x10 photograph of Marnie on a coffee table in the living room. She’s smiling, clear-skinned, white-smiled, and blonde-haired, and she looks peaceful and young and carefree.
I imagine she’s happier now than she was here. Her earthly existence was sad, when I think about it. She lived a self-serving kind of life. In a fucked-up way, maybe I did her a favor.
Anywhere has got to be better than this place.
“Debra, did you want some water?” I offer Ben’s mom. She’s seated on the sofa, her sister’s arm around her, and she glances up at me with bloodshot eyes and a red-tipped nose.
“Please,” she manages to say.
I squeeze between the friends and neighbors, past the pastor from the Methodist church and the Gotlieb family doctor, and maneuver through a string of other family members.
Everyone came the second they heard about Marnie. Everyone is crying, saying how they can’t get over how tragic this is. How unfair it is that her life was cut so short. And the ones who aren’t crying are waxing poetic about all the wonderful times they had with their dear, sweet Marnie.
I wonder if she was ever nice. Maybe she was a nice girl once upon a time? Maybe life turned her bitter and angry and jaded?
Guess I’ll never know.
I pour a glass of filtered water for Debra and pass through the dining room on my way back where Ben sits with his father. His father’s hasn’t been able to look at anyone all day. He doesn’t do well with emotions, Ben says. And Ben, the dutiful son and now only child of Darren and Debra, has yet to leave his side.
“Can I get either of you anything?” I stop to ask, my eyes falling on a pile of crumpled tissues. I’m not sure if they’re Ben’s or Darren’s or both. Ben glances up at me, the rims of his eyes red and watery, and he shakes his head no, so I carry on and bring his mother her glass of water.