by Britney King
When I wrapped my hands around her throat, she didn’t protest. Women always put up with things way longer than they should. Maybe there’s a school where they take little girls aside and teach them this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fairy tales. Whatever the case, my hands squeezing her neck…closing her airway. I’m sure she thought this is what he’s into. This is his thing. This is it. This is the money shot.
And it was. In a different sort of way. I didn’t let up, not even when she started to panic and I was forced to slam her head against the brick wall. To her credit, she didn’t stop fighting, not even then. I had eighty pounds on her, easy, and a whole lot more experience. The more she fought, the harder I pressed. I squeezed and I squeezed until we both found our release. Her eyes fixed in place and blood trickled from her nose. Her breathing slowed, before it ceased altogether.
Finally, her struggle had come to an end. It was beautiful, being that for her.
“The answer is seven,” I told her afterward.
For what it’s worth, I let her keep the money. Not that she’ll be needing it, but because it was the right thing to do.
Chapter Three
The day everything changes doesn’t begin particularly different than any other day. My eyes flutter open at 7:00 a.m., knowing that Joni, our housekeeper, will have left a tray with a cup of coffee that will have turned cold, along with two dry pieces of toast on my desk. After I take care of business and wash up, I will shuffle down the hall to my office, twenty-three steps away, where I will plop myself in the chair and remain hunched over my keyboard until 12:30, when I am well and hungry again.
At that time, I will take my lunch in my wife’s room, next to her hospital bed, where I’ll read to her what I’ve sweated out all morning. She’ll nod, and maybe if I’m lucky, and it’s a good day, I’ll even earn a smile.
A smile might keep me going into the evening hours. A smile propels the story forward. They’re harder to come by than they used to be, which is saying a lot. That’s not to say it’s ever been easy. Eve may have folded into herself, but some things remain the same. What lit her up thirty-four years ago are still the things that light her up today.
These days about an hour of me is all she can handle before her eyelids become heavy, her breathing deepens, and I hear the familiar sounds of her slumber. I try not to take it personally. She sleeps most of the time.
The doctors say it’s to be expected, and I suppose it’s probably for the best. “I’m sorry, darling.” Our eyes meet, and for a moment she looks terrified. “I wasn’t able to fill your prescription yesterday. But you’ll never believe—”
I start to tell her about the body, to describe the crime scene the way I would have done in the past, before I catch myself. It’s hard to know what will set her off, and I can’t afford another episode like the last. Not today.
Once she’s drifted off, the routine continues. I head downstairs and shuffle through the pile of mail before returning to my office to drum away some more on my work in progress.
Routine is both a blessing and a curse to any writer. You need it. Too much of it though, and the outcome is dire. Your work and your life become stunted, blurred together. Assumingly, this is how I became acquainted with the bottle.
Not that I’d call myself an alcoholic.
But that doesn’t stop other people from doing it. From my agent, to my editor, to the garbage man, everyone has their opinions.
They may make alcohol the enemy, but liquor is my friend. A few drinks in, my troubles are forgotten and everything good is magnified. But that’s not why I drink.
It allows me to sleep, something I haven’t done much of lately. Not since things got worse.
The doorbell chimes, an alarming reminder that today is the day.
Today, the routine changes.
Joni greets our guest in her normal cheerful way, even though I’ve specifically asked her not to be overly friendly. Not to this visitor. Like any stray cat, if you feed them, they tend to stick around.
While I wait for Joni to show him in, I scan my inbox. Thirty-two new emails from fans await a response, plus two from my agent, and one from my editor. I comb through several emails from fans, most of which want to know when the book is coming, but the others, I leave for later, or maybe never.
It’s a pressure cooker, my inbox. People are angry.
I left them with a cliffhanger and then I ended the series in what was apparently exactly the opposite way readers wanted it to go. Most people, it seems, are unaware that life doesn’t always go the way you want it to.
Carefully, I ingest the latest email from my editor. The last one was a doozy. Sure, maybe I messed up by having one too many before taking on my fan mail. Maybe I was harsh, maybe I did act with a certain ferocity, but I still don’t think his threats were warranted. More than thirty years of my life I’ve given to padding their pockets.
Between a rock and a hard place, they said they were. As though threatening legal action was supposed to soften things.
Given nothing is private anymore, believe me, I didn’t come out unscathed. Some of the gems I wrote managed to make it onto social media, numerous blogs, but the worst of it…well, it made national news. George Dawson Losing It?
I’m not saying my publisher’s frustration is unjustified. It was a mess to clean up, if cleaning up such a thing is possible. I write for a living. So I know better than anyone that words matter. But as I reminded my agent, bad press is better than no press.
Back then, I assumed it would all blow over. Except it didn’t. Sales dropped way down. They’ve stayed that way. It doesn’t help that I haven’t released a new book in three years. Career suicide in this market, with attention spans being what they are, and consumer loyalty being practically nonexistent. It’s no wonder my publisher is ready to drop me. Problem is they want to drop me and sue me.
In a last-ditch effort to avoid the courtroom, an agreement was reached, culminating in appearance of the man at my front door. The manuscript that was due seven months ago? Well, they want it yesterday.
My editors have assured me the man standing in my doorway, staring back at me with intense brown eyes, a sly smile, and large hands, is more than capable of managing this project. This man can apparently solve all of our problems.
He’d better.
To say that I can’t afford to take on my publisher in a court of law would be a massive understatement.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dawson. I’m a big fan. Huge.”
“Wonderful.”
Although his handshake is genuine and his smile friendly, I don’t buy it. Sincerity is a virtue few in this business possess. Still, what a surprise it would be to have them send me someone who was not only an amateur but also not full of shit.
“I know the circumstances are difficult —but I can assure you—”
“These aren’t circumstances, kid. This is business.”
“Of course.” He stares at the floor for a moment before nodding at a chair. Eve’s. “May I?”
With a flick of my wrist, I point to the couch. “You can sit there.”
We sit silently for the better part of an hour, him staring at his dreadful mobile device, me glancing over my notes. Twice he tries to engage me in conversation—I assume about why he’s come—and twice I clear my throat and wave him off. Finally, dusk sweeps over the horizon outside my window, and I realize it’s time for dinner. Eve is very punctual, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.
I stand and motion toward the door. “That’s all for today.”
“It’s okay,” he replies without looking up. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”
“Pity.”
He seems surprised by my response. Even more so when I usher him out. “I could read over your notes.”
“It’s supper time.”
“I don’t mind.”
He follows me down the hall, his footsteps falling in time with mine, too close for my liking. “I do.”
<
br /> “Look—I know this isn’t what you wanted—me being here.”
I turn on my heel, and we come eye to eye. Well, almost. My shoulders hunch a little more than I’d like these days. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said.”
“But,”—he cocks his head—“I’m being paid to do a job and frankly, I could use the money.”
“We could all use the money. That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, but it would be very helpful if—well…uh…you know— if we could get things sorted rather quickly.”
“It’s a novel. They don’t just get sorted.”
“No,” he says. “No. I suppose they don’t, do they?” He looks at me as though he’s expecting something profound. When nothing comes, he fills the silence. “That’s why I’m here. To help you finish the book. And…you see…I really need it to happen sooner rather than later…”
“This seems important to you,” I say. Not because I really care but because it’s important to find out what a person’s motivations are. The sooner the better.
“It is.”
“Why’s that? Why not just write your own book?”
“It’s complicated.”
Chapter Four
He waves once and then he is gone, disappearing as easily and effortlessly as he appeared. I watch his taillights fade and I wonder, is he as glad to go as I am to see him leave? For a young man his age, it must be a relief to go back to his bustling life in the city. But if that’s the case, then why was he so reluctant to go?
Standing in the driveway, the dust settles as the sound of his car fades further in the distance. I take a minute to survey the grounds, to refocus, to breathe in the evening air. Our first encounter went better than I thought, and yet, I could see it in his eyes, he is going to be a challenge.
For one, he is of the impression that he wants this. This being what exactly, I am not sure. The estate? The acclaim? The years of blood, sweat, and on many occasions, tears?
No, I doubt any of that is what he is after. Just the success. The stifling, suffocating success.
If I were a betting man—and trust me—I am, anyone who has been in this business as long as I have is no stranger to risk—I’d be willing to bet that he’ll have it. He has that certain something. Something you don’t find all that often. There’s a quiet hunger about him, a gentle curiosity, the kind that isn’t quick and flaming, the kind that won’t easily burn out.
He has staying power, this Liam character, which is what keeps me in the garden long after the sun has set and a steady chill has filled the air.
His presence worries me. I am in the position to be dependent on him, which is the worst kind of position to be in. It’s not a good look for me.
In fact, he worries me enough to know that change is in order.
There’s something about having a visitor, after all this time, something about this particular visitor, that reminds me I’d better call the lawn guy. He hasn’t come in nearly a month, maybe two. If I had to guess, I’d say his absence has something to do with his invoices going unpaid. A problem I have the power to fix. I am lazy, but not yet completely broke.
While I’m at it, I should probably look into getting a painter out, but before that, a roofer to take a look at the leak. A plumber to fix the guest bath couldn’t hurt either.
This house, like all things, is beginning to show its age. With its steeply pitched gable roof, elaborate masonry chimneys, embellished doorways, groupings of windows, and decorative half-timbering, it’s always felt a bit like something out of one of my novels. Dramatic, out of place, a little larger than life. Sure enough, it’s a big home. Too big, if you ask me. Especially now. I told Eve that when we first looked at it. If memory serves me, I called it a monstrosity. For her, it was love at first sight. For me, it looked like trouble.
But we could afford it, and we needed more space. That was how Eve usually won: by mixing just the right amount of logic with a little emotion. I’d just signed a three book deal with Dunham, my second, and it was worth three times what the first had been. The boys were one and four, and we’d just found out a third was on the way. Eve had barely come out of what she referred to as “the fog” when the pregnancy had surprised us both— perhaps to no one more than me, considering I’d been up at a lake rental for the better part of six months finishing a novel.
The boys were young. Caring for them was demanding and relentless. Without family around and with me writing nonstop, worried about the next novel, and with touring and whatnot, Eve had her hands in the clay by herself, so to speak.
It’s yours, she said, of the baby. Of course it is. We both knew it was a lie, but once a thing like that is done, it’s hard to go and take it back.
Obviously, in retrospect, it’s impossible to understand what a constant reminder that thing will be once it manifests.
So, I did what I always do when it comes to Eve. I put it out of my mind. Maybe I thought I could pretend; I am a writer after all. But more than likely, I was simply too focused on work to be bothered.
That mishap, not unlike so many others, lies buried beneath the dirt in the garden.
It’s one reason we’re still here in this once-charming, now tired, larger than life, godforsaken house.
Chapter Five
‘The Book Doctor’
Journal Entry
Consequently, I looked ridiculous. Dressed for sport, in runner’s wear—it was a joke. I’ve only ever known one good reason to run, and that’s if someone were chasing you. Thankfully, they weren’t. And at least…well…at least I didn’t look as ridiculous as he did.
Bent double, he was down like a sprinter, his nose inches from the humid earth. At length, he let out his breath in a long sigh and opened his eyes. Maybe he was down for the count. Maybe he was playing hot and cold.
They do this sometimes.
His jet-black hair glistened in the early morning light. I could smell the fresh scent of his shampoo. It smelled like apples.
“Get up,” I said, kicking him in the ribs. Not too hard, just enough to get my point across. He curled inward, folding into himself like a wounded animal. He was dressed well, in his expensive running Lycra, and it made me smile. I wondered if he thought about it that morning as he stretched the clothing over his tanned skin. Is this how I want to look when I die?
I’m going to go with a negative. That’s likely not what he was thinking. Men like Nick Golding only think of death in the abstract. Men like him believe they are untouchable.
As I hauled him up by his hair, I pressed the gun firmly between his shoulder blades. It was a feat, and then some, just getting him off the ground. He was not weak, at least not in this regard. Muscled and lean like a prized racing horse, he is also worth a fortune.
Not that he’ll be missed. Nicky-boy was not a good man. Nothing more than a common swindler with an Ivy League education. An infuriating combination, if there ever were one. He made his fortune ripping off the vulnerable. The elderly. The incurably sick. Anyone at all, but especially anyone with no fucks left to give.
As I lead him to the edge of the cliff, he pleaded. He’d give me anything, whatever I wanted, he’d do anything. He has money.
When the bargaining failed, he moved onto the good stuff. His connections. Threats. I’d never get away with this. Do I know who he is?
Cute, this one. “Of course, Nick,” I said. “Everyone knows who you are.”
For just a moment, his breath switched up. It’s always a bit of a blow when they find out it’s not random. It’s easier to accept an accident than it is the opposite.
“Jump,” I told him, gripping the back of his neck the way a mother cat mouths her offspring. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”
“This is crazy,” he stammered, trying to gain his footing.
“Would you prefer a bullet, or shall we see if you can fly?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I do not kid.”
&nb
sp; “If I jump, I’ll die.” His voice came out pathetic and shaky.
“That’s right.”
If you really want to kill a person, it’s not so hard. There are endless ways. Some quick. Some not so quick. Nick, ever the opportunist, knew that. It was such a bummer then that my options were only two. I still think of all the things I’d like to have done to him: Bind his wrists and his ankles. Take a machete and slowly peel back his scalp, carve into his brain matter, slicing little by little, peeling the meat off in layers, savoring it like you would a tender, hearty barbecue rib.
“Fine,” I told him at last. “If you don’t want to die…tell me…what planet is farthest from the sun?”
“Is this a joke?”
“I just told you, I don’t joke.”
“I don’t know. Jupiter?”
An Ivy League education, to end up with this. “Jump,” I said again, but he didn’t budge. I could feel it. I could feel that he was running out of patience, that he was going to put up a fight. He wasn’t the only one whose patience was running thin. The gun pressing at the base of his skull, I asked him once more which manner of death he preferred.
But this time, he was done talking. Nick reared back—he was trained for this, but also lazy. He swung left, as I expected him to. I went right. It took me a second, but eventually I regained control of the situation, clotheslining his skinny little neck.
As I held him over the edge, he teetered precariously. Mentally, he folded. I didn’t have to see his face to know. It was an energetic conversation. His shoulders slumped and he went limp. “Go on,” he said. “Shoot me.”
Placing his feet on the earth, I gave him a playful shove. “You aren’t worth the bullet.”
He started to turn then, whether to fight or to force my hand, I can’t say. As his feet found only air, I watched his eyes, honing in on the way they bulged as he fell to his death.
They closed only when he hit the earth, but just for a moment, or maybe it was my imagination. When I looked down at his twisted, mangled body, his eyes were open, staring, as blue as the morning sky he faced.