The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  I follow closely behind Darren as he parades through the crowd, a big smile on his face, returning greetings one after another. Little forced grins greet me. Grins that say, ‘Who’s that? Oh right. The boss’s wife.’ Darren goes to the bar and gets us drinks. I take a gulp. He gives me ‘the look’. I take a deep breath and hold my glass in front of me, sipping intermittently.

  We stand by a group of Darren’s staff. I have a smile pasted on my face, and I try to concentrate on what they are saying. But my eyes stray as a stunning brunette with long, softly cascading curls bouncing gently on her shoulders approaches us. All eyes turn to her. She wears a shimmery white sheath accenting her perfect body; small waist, lovely cleavage, long, muscular legs. Her lips are full, her large, brown eyes almond-shaped. I’ve never seen such beautifully moulded cheek-bones. I feel my chin drop. The woman sidles up to Darren, and her hand brushes his back. Her voice is husky. “Hello, everyone,” she says, ignoring me.

  Finally, Darren turns to me and says, “Jen, this is Kim. Our new accountant. She’s been with us nine months now.” I nod and give her as sweet a smile as I can muster. She looks at me, warming a little. “Hello, Jen.”

  The longer we stand there the more prickly I feel. Sweat beads my forehead, and I feel my belly knotting. I’ve slurped down my drink without even realizing it and hold my empty glass outward, hoping someone will bring a refill. Kim is elegant and cool yet, evidently, very much one of the group. She hovers by Darren’s side, whispering in his ear, laughing throatily at his jokes, leaning into him. And he laps it up. Are they having an affair? Don’t they care that I’m standing right here?

  Chapter 7 ~ Jen

  Monday, April 23

  I’m consumed with thoughts of Darren and his new co-worker, Kim. I replay over and over in my mind the scene when we left the party Friday night. The crowd was dwindling by then, but Kim was still there, by Darren’s side. After several drinks I finally had the nerve to insist we go, and although Darren brushed me off like an annoying fly, he turned to her and said, “I guess I have to go.” She fluttered her eyes at him, glanced at me for a moment, and said, “See you Monday?” I had to clamp my lips shut. Was that a question? Of course you will, you fucking bitch. You work together, don’t you?

  It’s track and field day at school, and I stand in the school grounds watching children do the ball-throw. That’s my station for the day. The students have been distributed into ‘family groups’. Each group has kids ranging from Kindergarten to grade six, and they move from one activity to the other, competing against other groups. A non-competitive day. Parent volunteers oversee the sixth graders, who are team captains. We teachers supervise the activities. In reality, after explaining the rules to each group, we pretty much just stand there. Unfortunately, that gives my over-active brain time to imagine and dwell on things. I feel a kind of sickness thinking about the many evenings Darren works lately. The frequency of the week-ends he is away. His increasing detachment.

  As I gaze around the field I see Sean. He must be volunteering to manage a group. He stands with his arms crossed, legs wide, watching his group run a relay. He has the same crooked smile, head cocked to the side, that he always had. I can see it even from this distance. And he’s Corrie’s dad! I remember wondering if she was related when I saw her name in the fall. Corrie James. A darling little girl with wild brown curls, pink cheeks, impish hazel-colored eyes and a smile that would melt an ice-burg. I adore her. She never mentions her mother. I wonder who his wife is. I wonder if he’s still bitter toward me. I wonder if he’s still seeking revenge.

  When the buzzer rings, signalling each team to move to the next event, the children run to me and gather around to hear my instructions. It’s Sean’s group, so he follows behind them, making short work of the distance with his long legs. He stands back, avoiding looking at me. Does he notice Corrie come up to give me a hug? I hope so. I bend to hug her back. She’s one of the first to throw, and runs to retrieve her ball. As she straightens to stand, another child (one who didn’t listen to the instructions, obviously) throws. “No!” I scream – too late.

  Wham! The ball hits Corrie in the head, propelling her to the ground. My mind is a blur of fear and horror and I run pell-mell down the field to where she lays. Her face is white and beaded with sweat. I bend and place my hand under her head. “Corrie? Corrie, are you okay?” Her eyes flutter open, and she starts to cry. I bend to bury her cheek in my breast. “Breathe, Honey. Just breathe . . .” And then I sense his presence above me. Keeping my hand beneath her head, I shift my body to give him access to his daughter. He kneels beside me. I can feel the hard muscle of his leg against my arm. His eyes are glossy as he looks lovingly at her.

  “I’m okay,” Corrie says quickly, and she sits up. By now the whole group is gathered around. “Are you okay?” ask fifteen different voices. She smiles her beautiful smile, and I feel a gush of air escape my lungs. Thank God!

  I turn to Sean, tears rushing to my eyes. “I’m so sorry!” I blurt.

  He looks at me, his eyes sparking with emotion. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “I appreciate how good you are to my daughter.” And he looks her up and down, making sure she’s all right. Then the corner of his eyes crinkle as he smiles at me before turning and walking back to the start line. “Okay, kids. Who’s next?”

  I feel a warmth spread throughout me.

  Chapter 8 ~ Darby

  Monday, April 23

  Darby roars into the lot on her bike as Mel parks the squad car. He sits watching her pull in, stop, swing a long leg over the seat and jaunt toward him. He rolls the window down, and she bends forward, straight-legged, hands propped on her knees.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  “I’m glad I don’t live in Buckingham Palace!” Mel shakes his head.

  “Almost creepy, wasn’t it?” Darby agrees. “That little girl so perfect and silent. And the feel in that house . . . What a cold fish. Did you notice Mia’s reaction when we asked about yellow roses – or even their friendship?” Darby chews her lip, deep in thought. “Both she and Jen seemed anxious to let us know that they weren’t always with the other two. Why, I wonder?”

  “Their reaction when we mentioned yellow roses was interesting,” Mel adds.

  Darby straightens. “Come on into my office. I need to mind-map.”

  By the time Mel had raised his window and exited the car, Darby is already at the white-board, marker in hand.

  “Okay,” she nods at him as he enters the room, “We have Erin Morgan, thirty-five-year-old massage therapist shot in the chest with a thirty-eight-calibre handgun at approximately three o-clock am. No one has come forward to witness visitors at her home that night.” She draws a large circle in the middle of her white-board, writing ‘Erin Morgan, 35, shot chest, 38 c, 3:00am.

  “Holding a yellow rose,” Mel says. Darby draws a line outward. ‘holding yellow rose’. “I don’t know if this is significant,” Mel ponders, “but yellow roses symbolize friendship and happiness.”

  “Who knows what’s relevant at this point?” Darby shrugs. “Let’s add it.”

  Darby writes, ‘company? 2 filets’ “She had two fresh fish filets, zucchini and salad fixings in her fridge.”

  “On her computer her last post said, ‘I am not who you think I am. I have fooled all of you.’ All her other posts were positive. It was definitely out of character,” Mel adds. Darby writes.

  “In her bedside drawer she had a paper with a butterfly and a note saying, “You will pay.”

  “And she, Mia and Jen were often called the three butterflies.” Mel rubs his forehead with his hands. Darby writes, drawing a line from ‘dead butterfly’ to ‘Erin, Mia, Jen, 3 butterflies’.

  “Two different semen samples in her unmade bed,” Mel says. “Had she gone to bed before the killer came? Was she in bed with the killer? She was shot in the living room. Did something go wrong with the liaison?”

  Darby moves to sit behind her desk, scrolling
through the ‘Erin Morgan’ file. “Let’s see what Jill and our brilliant team has found . . . Aha!” She looks up at her partner. “It appears Miss Morgan had a little side business. She was an escort to a few wealthy men.”

  “A well-paid one, judging by her bank account,” Mel remarks, eye-brows raised. “That explains the fancy house, and the $900 000 savings account.”

  “The trips, the stuff . . . What am I doing wrong?” Darby winks broadly.

  “Did they interview the rich johns?” she murmurs, eyes focused back on her computer. “Here it is. They did. Most of them were discounted as suspects. They knew they paid her for a good time, respected her for it, apparently. She was good at her job.” Darby’s eyes widen. “Aha! One guy seemed bitter. Thought he was special.” She swivels her computer screen to give her partner a look. “Graham Brahn. Let’s go talk to this guy. I’ll print his info and meet you at the car. Debrief on the way there.”

  “Sounds good.” Mel raises his ample bulk from the chair, and heads toward the squad car. He’s barely sat down, fastened his seat-belt and started it when Darby plunks her long body into the passenger’s seat, her eyes darting back and forth across the page she holds in one hand.

  “Okay,” she paraphrases as Mel pulls out of the lot and heads toward downtown. “Erin regularly saw five men. Four were married, and three were out of town April 11th. The married guy who was in town has an alibi. This Graham has lived in Rockydale all his life. He’s divorced, fifty-one, has three grown children. He started Brahn and Company Auto Insurance twenty years ago, and has done very well. When questioned, he seemed to think that he and Erin had a special thing going and were planning on getting married!” She turns to Mel, eyes burning. “Do you think he found out about the other semen in her bed?” Did we get DNA from the others? She scans the paper in her hand again. “We did. It belonged to the other in-town guy. We may have a motive here. Whadda you think?”

  Mel nods as he pulls up to the curb fronting the town’s most lavish high-rise. “Let’s go find out,” he says as he unbuckles his seat-belt and hefts his body out of the car. Darby has already pressed the buzzer as he walks to the door. A man’s voice answers.

  “Graham Brahn? Rockydale Police. Can we come up and ask you a few questions?” Darby speaks into the door phone.

  The voice on the other end sounds tired; resigned. “I’ve been expecting you. Come on up.” They hear the buzzer and walk in.

  Graham Brahn is waiting by his open door as they walk down the hall. Everything is grey from his droopy body, lined face, dull eyes and limp hair to the expensive décor in his apartment. He ushered them into a room littered with empty glasses, take-out containers half-full of rancid food, dirty clothes and old papers.

  Graham sinks into a grey, leather-covered chair. He gestures toward the matching couch. “Have a seat,” he says. Brushing aside rumpled clothing to make space, Darby and Mel sit. Graham leans back, looking at them through glazed eyes.

  Mel begins, setting his phone between them. “Mr. Brahn, is it okay if we record?”

  Graham nods dully. “Yes.”

  Mel continues. “We understand you were close to Erin Morgan.” Graham Brahn, nods.

  “Can you tell us a little more about your relationship?” Darby asks, willing her voice and expression to soften. This broken man seems vulnerable.

  “I loved her,” he answers, his voice breaking. “I was about to ask her to marry me.” His body quakes. Struggling to gather his emotions, he adds, “I was supposed to go there for dinner that very day. She knew it was to be a special time.” He pulls a small box from his pocket and holds it out for them to see. When he opens the box an enormous diamond sparkles in the sunlight that streams through the glass windows behind the grieving man.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” Darby says. Mel nods.

  “Thank you,” Graham murmurs. “She was the most alive, vibrant person I’ve ever met. I can’t believe . . . ”. He stops to gain control, dabbing at his eyes with a Kleenex that he grabs from the coffee table. “Every moment I spent with her was exciting.”

  “You travelled together a lot, did you?” Darby asks.

  “We did,” his eyes shine, remembering. “We travelled to India where she’d lived for a while, and to Egypt, Viet Nam, Kenya, Peru . . . Erin was fascinated with different cultures. We went on safaris, visited ancient sites, climbed mountains, swam in different oceans . . . Her whole life was an adventure.”

  “Had you seen her recently?” Mel asks. “Did you notice anything different about her?”

  Graham rubs his stubbly jaw, raising his chin to look at the ceiling for a moment. “I saw her the morning before she was shot. We met for lunch.”

  Darby leans forward, planting her hands on her thighs. “Did you notice anything different recently?”

  Graham hesitates a moment, pondering the question. “Yes. She was nervous about someone who seemed to be harassing her. I wanted to stay with her, but she wouldn’t let me. I asked her to call the police, but . . .” His voice breaks.

  “Did she say what the nature of the harassment was?” Mel asks.

  Graham shakes his head. “Just that some nutter had sent her notes. Her phone rang once when I was there, and when she answered it she could hear someone breathing. They didn’t speak. A crazy ex, she figured.”

  “Were you aware that she had other boyfriends while you were seeing her?” Mel asks.

  Graham clears his throat and looks down at his hands. “Yes.”

  Darby waits before speaking, hoping he’ll elaborate. He doesn’t. “Did she give you any indication as to who the stalker might be?” Darby asks finally.

  “I don’t think she knew,” he says sadly.

  “Did you know who her other boyfriends were? Present or past?” Mel asks.

  “Only by their first names. It was her business, and she was weaning herself from it. She made a lot of money as an escort, and she enjoyed the company of men.” Graham murmurs.

  “Did that bother you?” Darby probes gently.

  “Yes,” he raises his head to look into her face through haunted eyes. “Yes, of course it did. But I loved her. She loved me. She was ready to give all that up.”

  Mel takes a deep breath, then asks the question he needs an answer to, “Mr. Brahn, where were you the night of April 11th?”

  Graham Brahn’s eyes and mouth flew open. His head jerked back. “I did not kill Erin!” he cries. “I would never hurt her. I loved her. I was at home that night. Alone.” He stands. “I’m sorry. I have nothing more to say.”

  Mel gets up, his impressive size intimidating. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Braun.”

  Chapter 9 ~ Jen

  Friday, April 27

  I stand back and take a look at my romantic table. It glows with soft light from the chandelier hanging over it, and the two scented candles placed at either end. The table cloth, napkins, silverware, dishes . . . are all our best. I’ve propped the blue-tooth on the china cabinet, and it’s playing soft mood music. Looking down at my body I sing along with Chris de Burgh, ‘I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight’. I’m wearing a red dress that shows just a little cleavage and has ruffles to the waist, hiding my muffin-top. Shimmying a little, swivelling my hips, licking my lips and batting my eyes, I practice. I’ve bathed in scented bubbles, slathered myself in a perfumed crème, spent the better part of an hour on my hair and make-up and sipped two glasses of red wine for courage. I shall be the femme fatale he married!

  I’ve realized, in my endless hours of reliving Darren’s company party, that I pretty much deserve what’s happened. His obvious attraction to Kim. I’m married to an intelligent, good-looking, desirable man and I do nothing to keep him interested. I wear pajama bottoms and a sweat-shirt at home with no make-up, sticking my hair up in a pony-tail. We eat mostly left-overs; pasta night after night. Then I ignore him except to half-listen when he speaks. I focus all my energy on my job, house and kids. I’m more affectionate towards o
ur dog, Sadie, than I am to Darren! Most nights I’m too tired for sex. I complain about how often he’s gone, about the kids, about the house . . . I’ve turned into a dowdy, boring nag.

  It’s Friday night. Logan is at a sleep-over birthday party, and Lillia is staying at a friend’s overnight. I rushed home from work today to prepare. Beef Bourguignon is ready in the slow-cooker, baked vegetables and potatoes in the the oven. I’ve tossed a cranberry-pecan salad and I spent last evening making a terrific-looking strawberry torte.

  I texted Darren to make sure he’d be home, telling him it was a matter of great importance. It is! He’s gone for a drink with some of the people from work, but promised he’ll be here by seven. I wonder if Kim is there. Are they having an affair? No. I don’t think so. I’ve never smelled perfume on him, never found lipstick on his clothes. Our sex life is sporadic, but we’ve been married fifteen years. It’s normal, I’d say. I’ve talked to lots of women my age who just don’t have the energy for sex. Darren’s a highly moral, very responsible person. A perfectionist who demands respect. An affair isn’t in his repertoire. How many times has he condemned others for being unfaithful? I realize, though, that it isn’t fair for me to remain so unappealing when he’s faced with that kind of temptation.

  I check my phone. It’s 7:10. No texts. He should be here any minute. I pour a glass of wine, and wander around the house, looking out the window, looking at the clock, looking in the mirror. A car pulls up. Is it Darren? No. The next-door neighbour. I pour myself another glass of wine.

  An hour goes by as I pace. I imagine him sitting there with his work buddies. The fun guy. Centre of attention. He won’t even be giving a thought to his promise to come home by 7:00. That ass-hole. Sure, I look like a slob when I’m at home. I’m tired. I work hard. He once said, ‘All you do is baby-sit five-year-olds all day!’. I feel white heat coursing through my body. That is so unfair! I spend hours preparing activities that I think will enhance my student’s learning. I’m running a million different directions at work, trying to accommodate their needs; enhance their self-esteem, plant a love of learning, foster empathy and friendship skills. And I’m good at my job. It’s important. Why have I let him degrade it like he has simply because he makes more money than I do? Why do things always have to be his way? He makes all the decisions here. Our house, the décor, our car, what we watch on TV, the trips we take – everything is of his choosing. He’s refused to do things with my friends for so many years now that I have hardly any relationship with them. Nothing I or the children do is ever good enough. On the rare occasion he compliments us he adds a suggestion as to how we could have done better. His suggestions are really demands, and if things don’t work out it’s always my fault.