by Britney King
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HER: A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER
BRITNEY KING
WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM
COPYRIGHT
HER is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact http://britneyking.com/contact/
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Hot Banana Press
Cover Design by Britney King LLC
Cover Image by Britney King LLC
Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Service
Proofread by Proofreading by the Page
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Copyright © 2019 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.
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First Edition: 2019
ISBN 13: 9781797040912
ISBN 10: 97817970409
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britneyking.com
This is not for you.
CONTENTS
HER
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Epilogue
A note from Britney
Also by Britney King
Sneak Peek: The Social Affair
The Social Affair
Prologue
HER
BRITNEY KING
“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” — Joe Klaas
PROLOGUE
Now
I wish someone had told me: worry is a waste of time. The real troubles of your life will be things that never even bothered to cross your mind.
Nine months, three days, and nineteen hours, I’ve lived down the street from her. If you really think about it, a person can do a lot in nine months. They can gestate a fetus and deliver it safely into the world, and they can also plant roots and create an entirely different life altogether. That’s what she did.
Not that I realized it at the time, but in essence, that’s what she helped me to do, too. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, as they say. Only she isn’t a bird. She can’t just fly away, the way she thinks she can.
She thinks she can migrate, start a new life elsewhere, someplace where she can be whatever she wants to be. But she’s forgetting two things: wherever you go, there you are. Also, there are people like me.
When I moved to this boring, homogeneous, monotonous little town, I did so with one intention and one intention only: to have a nice life. A quiet life.
That’s not how it played out. Not even close.
First, it was good. And then it got bad before it got good again.
I met her and life changed.
What can I say? I got swept up in it. She makes it easy. Her, with her impractical shoes and her perpetually sunny nature. For me, she always has felt a bit like spring in the middle of winter. She was then, and still is to me now, just about the most wonderful thing in the world.
But there’s something to be said for that. Something I hadn’t realized at the start. It was a new experience for me, and I felt dizzy for a while. Like most things, dizziness fades. And then, it dawns on you, the relationship you have in your mind is profoundly different from the one you actually have.
Of course, it takes precious time before you figure this out. Only by then, it's too late. By then, desire has already taken you to the darkest edges of humanity. It’s a special place in the deepest recesses of hell, let me tell you. That’s when you realize what they say is true: Every love affair has its rituals—and you always kill what you love in the end.
On so many occasions, this could have taken a different route. She could have proven me wrong, and yet so many times she took exactly the route I predicted. We all make choices. She made hers. I made mine. Those choices have consequences. I’d like to think I’ve been lenient with her, far more lenient than I should have been.
So, that’s how I’ve found myself here, at the end that’s really a beginning. Here, in her kitchen, sitting at her bar, turning the knife over in my hands. All the while knowing that what awaits me upstairs will not be easy.
It’s okay.
No one ever said revenge was easy. Just sweet. One of her favorite sayings. She was wrong about a lot of things—me, for one—but that, well, that she was right about. Revenge is surprisingly sweet. It’s clear in the steadiness of my breath, in the clarity that has washed over me. My hands don’t even shake.
There are eleven steps to the top of the stairs. I’ve counted.
Her death will not be random. A crime of passion, they’ll call it. Although it will not be done in the heat of the moment, the way one might suspect. No. This is a scene I’ve played out in my mind, hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. She is my friend, my only friend. She prefers it that way.
Yes, I am aware of how pathetic this sounds. I wish I knew how to make you understand. It’s just…well, I’ve never been very good with words. That’s her gift. Mine is asking questions. Maybe I should start there. Have you ever met someone you know is absolutely terrible for you but for whatever reason, combined with all the mysteries of the universe, you just can’t help yourself? Well, for me, that person is her.
I can’t help myself. She’s black magic and at the same time the air I need to breathe. Which is why I was careful to prepare for any and all setbacks. Setbacks have always been our specialty.
I finish off my Danish, careful to savor it in the way that she would appreciate. Next, I slip off my shoes, and leave
them neatly by the door, just as I have countless times before, on more pleasant visits.
To outsiders, her death will come as a shock. Obviously, not for long. I’ve accounted for this. Which is to say, I don’t plan to stick around. Statistics show most victims know their perpetrators. Murder is astonishingly predictable. Since the beginning of time we’ve been sleeping, eating, having sex, and murdering each other. And not necessarily in that order.
Why no one ever sees these things coming is beyond me.
She really should have seen it coming.
Trust is a slippery thing though, isn’t it? Intangible, I’ve come to find. It doesn’t matter how smart your brain is. The heart is a different organ entirely. At least, this is the only logical explanation I can come up with as to why the truth so often remains elusive even when it’s dangled right in front of us. It isn’t logical at all. For so long, I thought if I just tried hard enough, I could make this work. There’s a price for that kind of stupidity. And believe me, I paid it.
Now, it’s her turn.
You live and you learn, I suppose. And let me tell you, I have learned…
At the top of the stairs, I will find her in her bed, third door to the right. By this time of night, she will be sleeping on her side, covers pulled halfway up. Her expression will be slack, but peaceful, for even in sleep women like her know only ease.
On the left side of the four-poster bed, is a nightstand. On top of the nightstand rests her Bible, the cell phone she’ll never reach, a glass of water she’ll never drink, the reading glasses she doesn’t want anyone to know she needs.
I will attack from the right, stabbing her six times. I’ve mapped it out. Six stab wounds, one for each of the ways she has wronged me. In reality, it doesn’t take that much to kill a person. She probably knows this better than anyone. And if not, just in case, I want to make sure.
CHAPTER ONE
SADIE
Then
Bone slams into pavement. The thud reverberates between my ears for several seconds before I see what caused it. Not that I have to look to know what has happened. What I hear is loud and clear. It’s vertebrae pouring into the asphalt, breaking one by one at first, and then at last, a final crack.
First, a whooshing sound is registered. Afterward, gasping. He isn’t breathing, someone calls out, and I feel myself being drawn in the direction of the mess, until I’m near the center. Stepping over a trail of blood that oozes down the sidewalk, I perch upward onto my tippy toes to get a better look.
Despite the flurry of activity, no one panics. All around me people continue on with their day. Bizarrely, most of them don’t even stop what they are doing to see what’s going on. The ones who do, do either one of two things: they pull out their phone to capture the moment, or they look to the person next to them as a cue for what to do. At the heart of it all, a man lies on the ground. A woman is hunched over him. She’s performing CPR.
Upon closer inspection, I realize that the man sprawled out on the pavement is Creepy Stan. I know Stan. Everyone knows Stan. He works here. He bags groceries and has a penchant for saying wildly inappropriate things to female customers. Everyone overlooks it on account of his disability. Most of us avoid him all together.
But not her. She pumps Creepy Stan’s chest as though her life depends on it. Although her hair shields the majority of her face, what I can see of her profile seems somewhat familiar. Mentally, I try to place her but can’t.
Another bystander checks Stan’s pulse. His expression causes the woman to work harder. “Help is on the way,” someone says.
He just went down, a man says.
I think he tripped on the curb, an old lady says.
I saw him clutch his chest, someone else says.
This is why you can never trust eyewitness accounts.
I wonder if Stan can hear them. I assume not. His eyes are fixed straight ahead on the cloudy gray sky. It’s almost poetic the way he watches the heavens. He doesn’t blink. Blood pools around his head in a kidney-shaped pattern before flowing outward onto the pavement. My stomach barrel rolls. Blood and death and emergencies are not my strong suit. Too many memories. It’s scary how fast the mind can travel.
Finally, paramedics arrive. Three men and one woman spill out of the fire truck. They move with purpose, almost in formation.
Stan isn’t dead. He isn’t breathing, but they bag him, and the good news is, at least he has a pulse. We all watch in unison as they deftly log roll him onto a spinal board before securing him onto the stretcher.
The crowd breathes a collective sigh of relief when the ambulance doors close and then they clap for the woman. When she turns in my direction, I realize I know her. It’s Ann Banks. Internet celebrity. Best-selling author. Self-help guru. The kind of woman that puts all the mixed up puzzle pieces of the world in a neat little row. She has the ability to make you see the big picture. This is what they say each week, anyway, on her number one podcast. The book reviews. Her followers. They say she can change your life. As for what I think…well, the jury is still out.
A woman pulls her into an embrace. Cheers erupt, growing louder. It’s a fucking moment, to be sure. “You’re a hero,” the old lady tells her. She smiles and says it was nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
HER
You’re going to want to know who I am. You’re going to want to know a lot of things about me. I don’t want you to worry. We’ll get there. In time, I assure you, you’ll know everything there is to know.
Well, perhaps not everything. There is beauty in the ambiguous. You should keep that in mind.
If you ask me, there’s far too little mystery left in the world. It’s something I’ve often found interesting in my line of work. Everyone wants answers. So few want to work for them. There’s something equally pleasant and terrifying in the unexplainable isn’t there?
It makes sense, I suppose. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for? A little bit of magic. Something that sweeps in and takes us over. That is, until we find it and it terrifies us. We can’t help ourselves. We pick it apart. We run it into the ground. Tell me about yourself, we say—to lovers, to friends, to everyone. I need to understand. I need to see if who you are fits in with how I need you to be.
It’s a shame we feel the need to know every little thing. Because, and this is where I’d like to warn you, knowing every little thing is dangerous. Knowing every little thing is like asking for a cup of poison and drinking one tiny sip at a time. It’ll kill you slowly. But it kills you nonetheless.
So, before I tell you about me, first, I should probably tell you about her. It’s impossible to know me—to truly understand me—without knowing about her. She is the reason for everything I do, after all. From the get-go, from the first time I laid eyes on her, my whole life became about her. This is what happens when you love a person; when you truly love them.
Shakespeare said: Love is smoke and is made with the fume of sighs. A madness most discreet. Smart fellow, he was. Love makes me do things. Mad things. Bad things. Morally corrupt things.
It’s all for her. This time was no different…
The way he looked at her as she spoke was unnerving. That in and of itself was nearly enough. But no, he couldn’t stop with his eyes. He had to go and touch her. Not just her cart, but her things—her person. He rested his hand on her shoulder. He was so close that she could feel his hot, stinky breath on her face as he spoke. He told her she was pretty. Pretty. Not beautiful. Not stunning. Just pretty.
He didn’t stop there. He made the mistake of letting his hand trail lower. She isn’t the kind of woman that allows that. No funny business with her. He should have known better. I have a feeling now he does.
CHAPTER THREE
SADIE
It is the Friday before Thanksgiving. I’ve packed my cart full of items to make a traditional meal, the one I’d made every year since Ethan and I’d become engaged, the one I no longer need to make anymore. It’s just another thing taken
from me. The list as long as the one in my hand.
It was sort of a last minute decision, coming here. A real recipe for disaster. But you never quite know these things beforehand though, do you?
If I had known I was going to meet someone, someone that would change my life, I would have dressed better and maybe combed my hair. I certainly wouldn’t have thrown on yoga clothes, clothes too small and too old for such an occasion. To be honest, I’m only one step above leaving the house in my pajamas. I didn’t, of course. I’ve lost a lot of things—I revel in the fact that at least my pride is only halfway out the door.
Still, cooking was a bad idea. I can see that now. But without a job, and with nothing to do other than twiddle my thumbs, it’s not like I have a ton of other options.
I read a quote on Instalook this morning that said it’s important to hang on to things that mattered. To act “as if.” Fake it till you make it, or something like that.
I am working on it. Believe me. I’m possibly halfway there. I managed to get out of bed. I managed to put the key in the ignition, to open the garage, to put the car in reverse, and to drive to the supermarket. Baby steps.
Of course, I understand at the level that one understands these kinds of things that life has to go on. I understand there are things to live for. Or rather— at least if I hang on, there will be.
Revenge being one of them. The best revenge is living well. I have plans for that. Or I plan to have plans for that. Someday soon. Maybe tomorrow. Like I said, baby steps.
Today, I have plans to cook. Because knowing what you want and doing something about it are two different things entirely. The book on my nightstand says you can fake emotions outwardly, but only a true master can do it internally. It says: You can fool everyone else. But rarely yourself.
I’m not sure I buy that. I’m certainly not fooling anyone in this grocery store, that’s for sure. I see the way they look at me. Which is why I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing in the same place. Maybe I’ve been in aisle four consulting this list for five minutes. Maybe it has been five hours. I have no idea. This is how life is now. Not that it matters. With nothing to break up my days, no one to be in a hurry for, no one to be accountable to, time expands into forever. I can do whatever I want now that it’s just me, myself, and I. Ah, freedom. It’s not even half as lovely as I’d thought it’d be.