He looks at me like I’m mad.
I’m not mad. I know he’s not my husband. I know that.
But I also know he is part of the reason I couldn’t stop things. I couldn’t save him now.
He got in the way. I was too late. Again. And this time, it was his fault.
The knife throbs in my hand. It begs to be felt, begs to be heard.
So I listen.
This time, I look into his face as I plunge it into his stomach again and again. Again and again.
Blood flies. I grow weary.
When I’m done, I grip the knife harder, step over the pool of blood – wouldn’t do any good to get my pumps ruined – and head out the door, into the warm March sunshine.
Nobody sees me as I travel across the yard, into the house and back to my rocking chair.
I hold the knife tight as I catch my breath, rocking back and forth, staring at the bay window.
But Stuart isn’t there. He never was, I guess. He’s been gone too long. It’s too late.
And now it’s just me again, alone, with Amos by my side.
I rock and rock and rock for what seems like forever.
And then, as I’m staring, I see a truly fantastic sight.
Jane pulls into the driveway, the car roaring into its spot. She’s hopping out, shopping bags in hand. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe my eyes.
She’s back. It’s too late, though. It’s way too late.
She’s wearing a sunshine-yellow dress, her short hair still beautiful in the sunlight. She’s back. She’s home. She’s here.
She walks up the driveway, staring into the window as she does.
Nothing to see there, dear. Keep moving.
I watch her walk in through the front door and I wait. I count one-two-three-four.
And as if on cue, a guttural scream escapes from her lips. I wish I could see her. I imagine she crumples to the ground. I can almost taste her shock from here.
Her scream sends shivers up my spine. I wonder if he can hear it, wherever he is. I wonder if Stuart hears it.
She screams and screams, but no one comes out to help, least of all me.
Because I know I’m screaming now, too. Her screams merge with my own, until they are one. One long, loud scream for the thing we can’t fix, no matter how much we want to.
A grating scream for the hook in the ceiling, for the window that looks so different now, and for the woman who was too late.
After a long moment, she rushes outside, and within seconds, there is a pounding at my door.
I squeeze the knife tight. It’s too late for Stuart. It’s too late for Alex at 312 Bristol Lane.
But it’s not too late for her to pay. Someone has to pay for these sins that cannot be undone.
Someone has to pay indeed.
I walk steadfast and sure to the door. I know what I must do. The train can’t stop now. It can’t.
I open the door, and she’s a sobbing, bloody mess. She looks at me and I want to feel pity for her. I want to apologise, to say I understand.
But I don’t.
She looks at me as she incoherently mumbles about blood and murder and needing help, but I barely hear her words as I wait for her to rush inside the doorway, until she’s right where I want her.
I barely hear her screams as the knife plunges again, its job not quite done.
‘It’s your fault, it’s all your fault,’ I say, tears only falling after the deed is done, after the sunshine-yellow dress is bright red.
Because it was her fault. It was the fault of her youth and of her prettiness and of her temper. It was all her fault.
But then again, maybe it wasn’t completely. Maybe we are all products of the lives we live, of the circumstances of our earlier days. I can’t tell.
With the job done, I toss the knife down with a clatter, head back to the kitchen and pick up the phone.
This time, my fingers find the right buttons. I dial correctly, my voice trembling without any rehearsal.
As I explain the circumstances to the operator, I take one last glance back at 312 Bristol Lane. And then, despite the emergency operator’s instructions, I hang up, knowing things will be over soon. I sit down in my chair, staring at the house again, a bit of sadness welling.
Why do all good things have to end so soon?
I rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until they come.
There are a whirl of questions. A whirl of answers. A swirling concoction of body bags and police lights and evidence bags. A blanket is thrown over my shoulders and some nice police officer makes me a cup of tea like Jane always did.
His isn’t nearly as good. He doesn’t know how to make it just right like she did.
And then, after a long time, it’s over, just as quickly as it started.
I am alone in my chair, the blackness enveloping me as I drift away, away, away once more.
Chapter 43
Wearing a hot-pink top and tight jeans, the redhead walks hand in hand with her husband behind the realtor. As the realtor in a pantsuit talks about equity and square footage, the redhead pats her bulging belly, glancing at the view from the porch of 312 Bristol Lane.
‘And check out this view,’ the realtor says, pointing towards the open fields near the lot. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Such a private little lane. Only one other house, and she’s just a lonely, sweet widow. No noise, no one to bother you.’
‘I don’t know,’ the redhead says anxiously, looking at her husband. ‘I mean, after everything that happened here. It kind of gives me the creeps. Bad vibes and all.’
They walk into the entranceway and the realtor edges them towards the kitchen, talking about cabinets and lighting and floor plans, probably hoping to skirt around the topic at hand.
Murder isn’t quite the best selling point, after all.
‘Darling, we talked about this,’ the husband says, stopping in the middle of the open kitchen. ‘You know our budget is tight, and look at this place. A nice backyard, three bedrooms. It’s a steal. And you can’t even tell anything happened here.’
The woman sighs, her hands instinctively feeling the countertop as she studies the marble pattern.
‘But it’s creepy. A man was killed here. Right here on the floor. Stabbed to death by his own wife. Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say it makes me happy. But come on. These things happen, right?’ the husband says, looking to the realtor for help.
In a small town like this, everyone knew everyone’s business anyway. But a woman murdering her husband? That was front-page news for a long while. It was still the talk of the town, even though it had been a year.
‘The newspaper made her sound like she was so sweet, too,’ the redhead says, walking towards the window now. ‘Who would’ve thought she had it in her? All those stab wounds. Crazy, huh? Almost everyone who knew them said they seemed so happy.’
‘And then to think she went after the sweet lady next door, too. God, the poor thing must be frightened. And after losing her husband to suicide all those years ago. Honestly, how much suffering can a woman go through?’ the husband asks, wrapping his arms around his wife as they look out the window.
‘Oh, and look at that beautiful hardwood floor in here, guys,’ the realtor says now, still animatedly trying to turn to the conversation to architecture and real estate trends. It wasn’t working. The couple basically ignore her, staring out the window. The husband puts his hands around his wife’s belly.
‘Just think how happy she’ll be to see us, a happy new family, raising up our little one here. Poor woman could probably use a friend after all she’s been through.’
The redhead stares out, the sun shining down. She puts her hand to the window, her eyes growing misty as if she can see their future, can see all the dinners and movie nights here. She stares out into the yard as if she can see their little one playing catch.
‘I heard that the widow’s statement to police talked about h
ow the woman here was pretty abusive. That she felt terrible for not speaking out sooner, that she always suspected the woman was dangerous. Sad story, huh? If only someone had known. They could’ve stopped her.’
‘Well, at least she didn’t kill the sweet old woman next door. Crazy, isn’t it? She was able to wrangle the knife from the younger woman and save herself. Golly, must be some firecracker of an old woman.’
The redhead smiles. ‘You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is the right kind of place for us. I think we could really build a good life here. And who knows, maybe we could help out that sweet old lady next door, bring some joy back into her life. Maybe we could change the reputation of 312 Bristol Lane, bring some positive karma back. You know?’
The realtor tries to keep a poker face, as she reassures the couple of things like market value and resell value.
But in that moment, neither of them hears. The young couple sway in the window, staring at the house next door, imagining all sorts of picture-perfect moments that they will experience in this new stage of life.
And they couldn’t be happier, a bright future gleaming in the distance as they make the decision that will change everything.
Epilogue
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Sometimes in life, it’s the simple things that bring joy, that bring meaning.
Like a new cutlery set.
I do miss that old knife I had, but this new one is nice. It’s bigger, sturdier. It fits in my hand just right.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The blade clinks against the windowsill as my chair rocks back and forth, back and forth. I stare out the window, watching the scene unfold, a smile spreading on my face, the knife feeling so cold and so right in my hand.
It’s a Thursday when they move into 312 Bristol Lane, a blazing June sun gleaming off the white picket fence as if everything is about to change. Amos jumps into my lap, and I stroke him with my free hand, glancing down only to see the sunlight gleaming off the blade. It’s so new and so shiny.
I stare as she pauses from her work, wipes sweat from her brow. Her red hair is tied back in a ponytail, one hand on her bulging belly. I like that she has red hair. It’s a nice change.
Despite the excitement, I’m tired this morning. I feel like I ran a marathon actually – ridiculous, since it’s been several decades since my feet have run fast. I never was much of a runner, in truth, even in my younger days.
Still, my bones are aching. Did I fall asleep in this chair last night? My back and neck ache like I did. Maybe I did. Who knows. Amos’s not telling if I did or not.
I get up to feed him, setting the knife down on my chair before I walk away. I trudge to the bowl, the gloppy food falling on the plate with a squishy sound as the huge cat plods over to his bowl. I decide to make myself a cup of tea and then return to the window, my favourite spot. I slide the knife to the windowsill, just for safekeeping. You never know when the need could arise. After all, you can never be too careful when you’re all alone, and some habits die hard.
It’s so comforting to see the young couple, so obviously in love. You have to be in love to be skipping under the stifling heat, carrying box after box like that. I remember when Stuart and I were in love, so long ago. I remember when I, too, was smiling and happy.
But sometimes things change, I think. Sometimes a woman’s true colours shine through, even if no one suspects a thing.
I shove down the memories, the swirling moments of sadness and arguments and of all the hard times. I look at the knife, the new knife, the new start.
I notice the new neighbour’s bulging belly. I wonder what the nursery will look like. I wonder if it will be a boy or a girl.
I watch as her husband strolls over to kiss her forehead before unloading another box. He says something to her, motioning towards the steps of the front porch. She shakes her head, but he shakes his, grabbing her arm and pointing to the stairs. She apparently relents, hands in the air, as she smiles, shaking her head and taking a seat. He winks at her, and I smile.
This is what love looks like, love in its truest, purest form, love ready to take on life. I know it.
Staring out that window, though, a feeling of dread creeps in, just a little.
I hope they can make it last, can hang on to the sweet moment. I hope they can find happiness, can find peace.
But an icy panic takes hold of me because, deep down, I know the truth. I know how this ends, even though it’s just beginning.
Despite my silent prayers, I get the feeling that before long, the joy will fade, and the couple’s dream house will become a prison not much unlike my own.
After all, a woman has a way of knowing these things.
Acknowledgments
First, I want to thank Katie and the entire team at Avon for believing in my story and for giving it a place to call home. I am so fortunate to work with an amazingly supportive, dedicated, and talented team. I feel truly blessed to call myself an Avon author.
Thanks to my husband, Chad, for challenging me to chase my biggest dreams and for supporting me along the way. I am so thankful we met at such a young age. I am so lucky to have you in my corner. I love you so much.
Thanks to my parents for stirring my love for reading and writing at an early age. You have always encouraged me to go after my biggest goals, and I am so lucky to have both of you in my life.
I want to thank all of my family and friends who have supported my writing from the very beginning. Thanks to Tom, Diane, Jamie, Christie, Kristin, Alicia, Kay, Lynette, Ronice, Deborah, Grandma Bonnie, Kelly, and Maureen for being there for me since the beginning of this journey. Thank you also to Audrey Hughey for helping me find my confidence as an author. I couldn’t do this without all of you.
A special thank-you goes to Jenny for being one of the first to read and believe in this story. You’ve been such an amazing friend throughout this process, and I don’t know where I’d be without all of our treadmill gossip sessions.
Thank you to all of my readers for taking a chance on a small-town writer with big dreams. I am so grateful to every single one of you.
Last but not least, thanks to my best friend, my mastiff Henry, for showing me what unconditional love looks like and for being right by my side on all of the days I’m writing away.
About the Author
L.A. Detwiler is an author and high school English teacher from Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. During her final year at Mount Aloysius College, she started writing her first fiction novel, which was published in 2015. She has also written articles that have appeared in several women’s publications and websites. L.A. Detwiler lives in her hometown with her husband, Chad. They have five cats and a mastiff named Henry.
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L.A. Detwiler, The Widow Next Door
The Widow Next Door Page 21