by Shari Lapena
The officer helps her—crying, incoherent—into the living room and onto the sofa. “Put your head between your knees,” the woman says. She sits beside Stephanie, solicitous, concerned, one hand lightly on her back.
Stephanie keeps her head down and tries to listen. It’s quiet in the kitchen. There’s nothing they can do for him. More arrive; suddenly there are many people in her house, and she can’t keep track of anything. There’s too much going on, too much noise. She can’t think straight. She has to pull herself together. She must be careful now, not make a mistake. She can hear murmured voices, the sound of photographs being taken.
She’s still slumped on the sofa; she doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there—time has stopped—when she sees them wheel in the gurney with a body bag to take her husband away. It’s sinking in. She’s rid herself of him and all his baggage. He can’t ruin her life anymore. And she’s still here, she and the twins. She still has the house, her money. Everything is going to be fine, as long as she keeps her nerve.
The police officer who has been in the kitchen approaches. He sits down in an armchair across from her, and leans in.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says. He looks weary, and he seems to mean it.
She looks at him and swallows. Her focus is coming back. She’s starting to recover from the shock of what she’s done.
“Can you tell us what happened here tonight?” he asks.
She takes a deep breath. Clutches the tissues in her hands that the woman officer beside her provided her with at some point. “I was in the shower.” She pulls the robe more tightly around herself, as if embarrassed that she is naked underneath. Her hair is still damp and tangled down her back—it has soaked through her robe, and she’s cold. “Patrick was drinking in the kitchen when I went upstairs. I was just finishing my shower when I heard the shot. I ran down to the kitchen and—I found him—” She breaks down, sobbing, and it’s heartfelt, it really is. She’s been through so much, lost so much.
“Take your time,” the officer says, and waits patiently.
Finally she pulls herself together and tells them, “He’s been under a lot of stress lately.” She stops. They probably aren’t aware yet of who Patrick is.
“What kind of stress?”
She says, her voice bleak, “I told him, tonight, after supper, that I was going to divorce him.” And then she tells them everything, who he is, and the same lies she told Hanna and her attorney about his state of mind. When she finishes, the man is watching her as if he, too, is overwhelmed by their troubles. Finally he asks, “Do you know where the gun came from?”
“It’s probably his gun,” she whispers. “He keeps it in a safe upstairs in our bedroom closet.”
“Can you show us?”
She gets up off the sofa and leads them upstairs to the bedroom. She points at the closet—the door is open, and on the shelf, on Patrick’s side, is the safe, wide open, the way she left it. They look at it.
When they go back downstairs, the body is being removed from the kitchen on a gurney, in a zipped body bag.
The officer glances at the empty baby swings, looks at her then and says, “Have you checked on the children, ma’am?”
And suddenly she’s so deep in her own lies, her fantasies, her fears and justifications that she panics about the twins. She feels her face go white. She races up the stairs to the nursery and flings open the door and turns on the light. The twins are there, in their cribs, untouched. Of course they are. The officer is standing close behind her, his breath coming rapidly; she can feel it warm against her neck.
“They’re fine,” he says, clearly relieved.
58
On Thursday, November 1, the medical examiner determines that Patrick Kilgour’s death was suicide. It’s in all the news. Along with a recap of the death of Lindsey, the inquest, the arrest—everything. It’s all fresh in the public mind again, on everyone’s tongue. But that’s fine, Stephanie thinks; everyone believes he killed himself. Soon it will die out for good. It will all die with him.
Stephanie hadn’t really expected there to be any question, but nonetheless, the relief she feels at the official determination is profound. It’s over. She can move on. Still, since she did it, she feels shaky, unmoored, not herself. Her mind is not quite right. She could never have predicted any of this. It’s all bound to have an effect, she tells herself, staring catatonically at the twins. It will take some getting used to.
The evening it happened, the police were in the house most of the night. The kitchen was off-limits. They suggested she go stay with family, but she had no family to stay with. Hanna, like most of the neighbors, had been drawn out onto the street by the flashing lights and emergency vehicles. They finally allowed Hanna into the house. Hanna insisted she gather up the twins and come home with her, and Stephanie was glad to have somewhere to go.
Once they were finished, by the next day, the special cleaners came in and did their job. Stephanie was relieved that she wasn’t expected to clean it up herself.
That night she was back, alone in the house with the twins. She forced herself to go into the kitchen and make herself some tea. Everyone had gone, leaving an unnerving silence behind them. She wandered around the house until the early morning hours like she had before, unable to sleep.
It was the same last night, too, but now she no longer tortures herself with doubts about Patrick’s guilt. She no longer thinks endlessly, obsessively, about what she should do. It’s done. But she keeps seeing it, over and over, the moment she pulled the trigger. The way she shoved the gun into his hair against his skull, and the rain of blood and gore that blew out the other side. She can’t believe she did that. It’s as if it were someone else.
Hanna comes over to check on her. No need to stay away now that Patrick’s gone. She has Teddy with her in the stroller, and lasagna she’s made herself. She stands on the doorstep with her offering, obviously concerned about Stephanie’s well-being. Stephanie hesitates, because she’s keenly aware of her kitchen right behind her. The professional cleanup team has scrubbed and scoured and it’s perfectly presentable. You can’t even tell something awful happened in there three days ago. But still, it’s going to be weird, having Hanna in the kitchen.
“I can come back,” Hanna says, “if this isn’t a good time.”
But Stephanie shakes her head and says, “No, come in. I’m glad to see you. Nobody else has come.”
Who was she expecting? Niall? His wife? They’ve stayed away. So have her friends from work, where she’d spent four years of her life before going on maternity leave. Really, there’s no one but Hanna, and right now she’s grateful for her.
“I’m so sorry,” Hanna says awkwardly, once she gets inside with Teddy. She stands there with her baby on her hip, as if uncertain what to do, what to say. Stephanie has the tray of food in her hands and turns and takes it into the kitchen. Hanna follows tentatively. She knows he did it in the kitchen; she was here, that awful night, sitting with Stephanie in the living room. Stephanie turns to find Hanna staring, uncertain where to sit.
“You can put Teddy in the living room with the girls,” she says. And Hanna pivots as if relieved and goes into the other room. Stephanie starts making coffee. She finds her hands trembling slightly as she measures out the coffee grounds. It’s important what Hanna thinks. She worries now: had she been too obvious when she told Hanna that she was worried about Patrick, that he might harm himself? Had she laid it on a little too thick? Should she have said nothing, allowed it to be more of a surprise? She’s glad, now, that she hadn’t mentioned Patrick’s gun.
She takes a deep breath and tells herself to relax. Hanna isn’t going to suspect the truth. She was here that night, saw how distressed she was. She’s not going to think Stephanie is capable of holding a gun to her husband’s head and blowing his brains out. Hanna is perceptive, and she might suspect th
at Stephanie is secretly relieved—even glad—that her husband has removed himself from her life this way, but she’s not going to think that Stephanie pulled the trigger herself.
She brings the coffee through to the living room. They sit in silence for a bit, neither one of them knowing how to begin. They talk about the babies to break the ice. Finally Hanna gets up the nerve to ask, “What happens now?”
Stephanie exhales. Puts her coffee down. “There’s the funeral, tomorrow morning. It’s going to be private. Please don’t feel you need to come.” She’s going to have him cremated.
“I’ll come if you want me to,” Hanna offers.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says. “In fact, I was hoping you’d watch the twins for me.”
“Sure.” Hanna is obviously relieved not to have to go to the funeral, and eager to do something useful to help. “You know I’m here for you, right?” she says, putting out a hand and laying it gently on Stephanie’s arm.
Stephanie nods gratefully. She doesn’t need to worry about Hanna. Even though they both know, now, that all of Stephanie’s problems are solved.
59
Erica did not attend Patrick’s funeral. But the following day she sits in her car outside of the house on Danbury Drive. None of this has gone the way she planned. You can never really predict how things are going to go. There’s always a wild card in the pack somewhere.
She knows Stephanie is home. It’s lunchtime, and the double stroller sits empty on the front porch. She’s inside, probably in the kitchen, feeding the twins. Erica gets out of the car.
She walks purposefully across the street and rings the doorbell. She doesn’t have to wait long before Stephanie answers the door. When she does, Erica can tell that the sight of her on the doorstep is a shock. Stephanie looks awful, besides—her hair is limp, she’s not wearing any makeup, and her clothes are unwashed. She looks exhausted, wrung out. Erica hopes she’s taking better care of the twins.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Stephanie says.
“Can I come in?”
* * *
• • •
STEPHANIE LOOKS BACK in dismay at Erica on her doorstep. She never wanted to see her again. “Why the hell would I let you in my house?” she says, her voice strident. “You’re nothing but bad news.” Her heart is beating fast and she moves to close the door in Erica’s face. But Erica is too quick for her and blocks the door with her body.
“Calm down. I only came to talk,” Erica says.
Stephanie glares at her, breathing rapidly; she can’t get Erica out of the house without becoming physical, and she doesn’t want to do that. She suspects Erica is much stronger than she is. She silently considers calling 911, but something stops her.
“So, that’s where it happened?” Erica says, looking over Stephanie’s shoulder into the kitchen and gesturing with her chin to where the twins sit in their matching high chairs.
Stephanie says nothing as Erica brushes past her and makes her way into the kitchen. She closes the front door behind her and follows.
“Just like that,” Erica says, turning around to face her, “all your problems are solved.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Stephanie says acidly.
“I’m just speaking the truth, and you know it,” Erica responds. “You’re rid of your cheating, murdering husband.”
Stephanie averts her eyes. Erica makes her nervous. She has a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Personally,” Erica says, “I don’t care. Good riddance to Patrick. He got what was coming to him, the bastard. The world is better off without him in it, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stephanie can’t read her. Why is Erica here? “What do you want?”
Erica says, “I just came to say well done.”
Stephanie feels her stomach drop. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she smiles a little smile, “if you killed him, you have my blessing.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Stephanie says. “He killed himself. I’d told him I was going to divorce him and take the twins and my inheritance with me. I’d already seen a divorce attorney.”
Erica looks back at her through cold eyes. “Let’s not kid ourselves,” she says. “Patrick was not the suicidal type.” She lets the silence lengthen, enjoying herself. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything. Not yet.” Then she smiles again and says, “I’ll let myself out.”
After she goes, closing the front door behind her, Stephanie turns to the kitchen sink and throws up violently until there’s nothing left in her stomach. Then she rinses her mouth, and ignoring the twins, who have begun to fuss and cry in their high chairs, she starts to pace back and forth across the kitchen floor.
Erica knows. Erica knows. Erica knows.
She stops in her tracks. She should have foreseen this. Why didn’t she foresee this? She’d thought Erica was out of their lives—Patrick released, Erica discredited. She had done her worst and failed. Stephanie had been so focused on getting rid of Patrick. . . . The babies are crying loudly, but she continues to ignore them.
Erica wants her money. Erica will try to blackmail her. She will do to her what she did to Patrick. Erica dealt drugs, she sold her own baby for money. Of course Erica will try to make her pay.
Finally Stephanie wears herself out. She slumps in the chair in front of the twins—the chair Patrick was in when she pulled the trigger—and picks up the spoon that she put down when Erica arrived at her door. Emma and Jackie are both red-faced and squalling from being ignored, their distressed faces covered in tears and snot and baby food. She lifts the spoonful of pureed carrots to Emma’s eager, open mouth. But then her eyes go past Emma’s face and fix on the white cupboard behind her. She remembers the blood spattered there. She closes her eyes. The babies clamor.
Then, with a great strength of will, she opens her eyes again and focuses on her babies. She takes some wet wipes from the table and wipes up first Emma’s face, then Jackie’s. She puts on a cheerful expression and uses her singsong voice. She must be a good mother. She must be there for her girls. She will figure something out. “There we go! Time for carrots! Yum-yum!” She spoons the pureed carrots, a lurid orange, into their open mouths. They’ve stopped crying now and both of them have fixed their big round blue eyes on her face. They’re like plump little birds in a nest, mouths open, waiting.
“Your Daddy loved us very much,” she tells them, in her high-pitched voice. “He loved you both so much. People said terrible things about him, but they were all lies. He was a good man. He didn’t do anything bad. It was all made up by an evil witch.”
She spoons the food into the babies’ mouths as they smile and gurgle back at her. She remembers how she’d tried to run down Erica with her car that night. After Erica left the gift for the twins and Patrick had been so unnerved by it—she knew she had to stop Erica from going to the police in Creemore. That night she’d told Patrick she couldn’t stand the crying anymore and was going to the movies for a break, and left him on his own for a while to cope with the twins. She drove to the theater and bought a ticket, but left again. She told Patrick later that she’d slept through the whole movie. But she drove to Newburgh. She knew where Erica lived—Patrick had told her earlier. She had no plan; she was too stressed and sleep-deprived to come up with one. She was sitting in her car, dithering about whether to press her buzzer and what to say to her, when she saw Erica come out of her building. When Erica started to walk toward the road, Stephanie followed in her car at a distance.
She acted on impulse. Erica was walking alone, on the side of a dark road. There was no one around. Stephanie found herself gripping the steering wheel, flooring the gas pedal, all her rage trained on the lone figure in front of her. She never meant to hit Erica, only to scare her away, but it was a close call—in her fury, Stephanie had almost not veered away i
n time.
She’d driven home, shaking all the way, shocked at herself, at her almost fatal loss of control. But what she’d done had the opposite effect from what she intended. Erica went straight to the coroner.
But at least Stephanie now knows the truth about Patrick. And she is grateful, really. Just like Erica said she would be. Better to know.
The twins smile and gurgle back at her. But Erica has become a problem again.
Stephanie will figure something out. She has to.
60
Erica drives back to Newburgh, rather pleased with herself and with how things have turned out. She couldn’t have predicted this turn of events, but she knows how to roll with the punches. She goes where the opportunities are.
Patrick had never meant anything to her. They slept together, that’s it. She’d never cared for him in the least, and he’d never cared about her. It was purely physical, the selfish satisfaction of needs, for both of them. But when Lindsey died . . . that had surprised her, and made her think. She thought about how convenient Lindsey’s death was for Patrick. She thought it might have been the perfect murder.
There had been no look of triumph, no silent glance between the two of them at the scene of the accident that day. But she’d watched him and wondered. She thought he was acting a part. He’d never told her he was unhappy with his wife, but she’d deduced it on her own. If he was so happy with his wife, why was he sleeping with her? And why did he seem so unenthusiastic about the baby? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.
She didn’t know for sure, but as soon as she suspected that he might have killed his wife deliberately, she decided to snub him and keep it in her back pocket for the future when he would have money. Patrick was smart and ambitious, and she knew that one day he would be successful. That he happened to marry a rich woman was simply a bonus. She shouldn’t have been surprised—he wasn’t that different from her. He was every bit as much of an opportunist as she is. He just had better luck. Well, until his luck ran out.