After He Killed Me (The Emma Fern Series Book 2) Page 10

He stands up and does something I have never seen him do before: he pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one. At that moment, I think maybe I’m having a nightmare and that I will wake up and everything will be all right. But the smell of cigarette smoke is real.

  “I have spent the past year trying to find a way to get rid of you,” he says. “I still haven’t found the documents you stole from me; your little blackmail stash. Today was my last shot at it. Yes, that was me, the whole ‘Frankie accident’ interlude. I just needed to get you out of the house, Em. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get you out of the house? I don’t know what you’ve done with those documents. I’ve looked. Believe me. I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find them. But I’ll tell you one thing I found. Okay, not found, I stole it.”

  He pauses and looks at me. He’s stopped pacing. He’s smiling, and I’m terrified.

  “I have waited a long time for this moment, Em. All this time, you’ve had something on me, and now I have something on you too.”

  He sits back down. I’m so frightened I’m shaking. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I’m afraid of what he’s going to do to me.

  “Your cell phone. I took it after I tried to kill you and you didn’t die. I took your bag that night. I knew I couldn’t risk trying to kill you again, not that way. I had to come up with a new plan. Anyway, I stole your cell phone and I read all your texts. Every single text.”

  My texts. I already know what he’s going to say.

  “Especially the very interesting texts you exchanged with your dear friend Beatrice.”

  Oh, dear God.

  “The ones where you discuss the publication of Long Grass Running. The ones where she calls it my novel, and I knew. I always knew. Reading those texts just crystallized it for me. You didn’t write a word of that book, did you? After Beatrice read the review—that big review in a big publication, remember?—she texted you: They loved my novel. I knew when I saw it that you didn’t write it. She just gave it to you. I don’t know why. But you know what, Emma? It did make me feel a lot better. I never believed you could write like that, and for a while, I thought you were much smarter than you seemed. But you’re not. I was right all along. You’re stupid, and I wish I’d never met you. Did you like my email to the New Yorker, by the way?” He laughs. “I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when they asked you about that one.”

  There’s sweat trickling into my left eye and I can’t move my hand to wipe it off.

  “To be honest, I didn’t think it was enough proof. She wasn’t explicit enough. It was close. Most people would agree that it was likely she wrote it, not you. But I wanted something else.”

  I did it for you! I scream in my head. The words come out, but they’re garbled moans. Don’t you understand that? I did it so you’d love me more, so you’d respect me more, so you’d want to stay with me.

  “You were never going to come up with another novel, and let’s face it, you didn’t even try, so I set you up. Just to see how quickly you’d take the bait. I think we can both agree you took it lightning fast. I sent you to the dry cleaners, made sure you had no cash or card to pay, and that nice man who helped you out, who just happened to be a ghostwriter, one of the best in the world? Let’s just say Sam wasn’t there by accident. And you—you stupid, imbecilic, worthless excuse for a human being—you fell for it.”

  I’m crying. He’s killing me, slowly so that I can hear all this. I wish it were over. I wish I would die.

  “I have a copy of a contract that was sent to me two days ago, that bears your name and the name of the ghostwriter you hired.”

  He stands up, and I want to recoil, but I can’t. He stubs his cigarette out on the coffee table. Straight onto the glass.

  “But wow! Emma, I take my hat off to you. Even I never thought you had it in you. Killing Beatrice? Oh boy. That’s a whole other level. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  There it is. He said it out loud. I woke up this morning, hung over, confused, tired, but vaguely happy. Then I remembered what I’d said to him, but I thought it had been a drunken dream.

  “Yes, I know, you thought I was asleep, or delirious. Here I was, trying to get something on you that would stick! I thought you stole the novel! I was going to blackmail you about that!”

  He laughs, sits down again, and brings his chair closer to me.

  “It begs the question though. If you killed Beatrice, why did her agent Hannah write a confession? Before killing herself?” He peers at me, eyes narrowed. “Do you want anyone asking that question? Do you want any of this to come out? That you stole the novel from Beatrice? And then you killed her? And now you’re hiring someone to write the next one? I have all the cards, Emma.” His face is inches from mine. “So tell me. Where is it? Where’s the research you stole from me?”

  I shake my head, it barely moves. My lips form the word no, but I don’t know if the sound comes out right.

  “Tell me!” he roars. “Speak! Now!”

  I can’t. I want to scream. I can’t speak. I can’t move.

  “Fuck! I gave you too much. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  He gets up again, runs a hand through his hair. He paces back and forth in front of me, mumbling to himself. He stops, faces me.

  “You won’t die. You’ll just have a nice long sleep, and when you wake up I’ll be gone. But I’ll be in touch, Emma. You got that? Is that a yes? I can’t tell, but it better be. If you say anything to anyone about me, if you show anything in your possession to anyone, I will destroy you. I will go to the police. I will tell everyone what you did. Do you hear me? Everything. You. Did. Do you understand?”

  My eyelids are fluttering. I don’t know how long I can stay awake.

  I’m so frightened. Don’t leave me. Please. I will die here. No one will find me. Please don’t leave me like this. I will give you everything you want. Please don’t let me die.

  And the last thought I have in my mind, when I see Beatrice’s face floating behind him, is: I’m sorry.

  15

  When I come to, I don’t know where I am or what the time is, or what happened to me. My limbs are cramped, and the pounding in my head is making my vision blurry. At first I think I must have been in some kind of accident, but I’m in my own apartment. I am still on the couch. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but from the quality of the light that is streaming through the windows it must be morning. Gingerly, slowly, I shift my muscles, almost one by one. I manage to hoist myself up, so that I’m in a sitting position. My clothes feel damp; from sweat, I suppose.

  I need water. I manage to stand up, make it to the bathroom, and gulp water from the faucet. I don’t have the strength to turn away before I vomit. I hate you, I loathe you, I will tell everyone what you did. I walk into the shower, turn it on, and stand under the cold spray for what must be an eternity. I only have the strength to cry.

  After the shower and a handful of painkillers, I go to my bed and collapse into sleep. I fall in and out of strange dreams, and when I’m not asleep, I am crying.

  I wouldn’t say it’s a thought I’d had every day since our wedding, but I asked myself often enough: Why did he pick me? We have one framed wedding picture in our bedroom, and in it Jim is looking down at me and I’m smiling at the camera. He’s smiling at me, but it’s not a smile that says, I am so ecstatic I could burst, it’s more of a “Happy?” aimed at me.

  When we were engaged, we used to see his parents occasionally, before they moved to Florida, and I remember one of the early family dinners when I was helping set the table. I went to the kitchen because we were one plate short, or maybe it was a fork, and I overhead his father asking Jim if he was sure I was the right person for him. Not unkindly; more out of a fatherly desire to make sure his son was as content as he could possibly be. Still, it hurt me deeply, and I stood there afraid of hearing Jim’s answer, but desperate to find out.

  “Yes,” he said finally, and my heart sang, but then
he added, “because she will always do whatever I say,” or words to that effect. I don’t remember exactly, maybe it was “because she will always agree with me,” but the gist of it was that I would never interfere with anything he wanted. If he wanted to move abroad, I would do it. If he wanted to have ten kids, I would procreate.

  His response hurt, but it also rang true. I would agree to anything he wanted. I would never challenge him, or demand that my needs be met ahead of his. If that’s what it took, then so be it.

  And me? What did I see in him? He made me feel worthy, that maybe I wasn’t as ordinary as I thought. That there was something special about me. There must be. But as a result, I was always walking on eggshells, because if he left me, should he one day decide that I wasn’t the one for him after all, then I would become unworthy with the stroke of a pen on the divorce papers. I have spent most of my adult life making sure he believed he had made the right choice.

  I sleep again. I wake up. In the bathroom, I am shocked at my own reflection, but there’s a sliver of lightness creeping in. It’s a strange feeling, like taking hold of the edge of a revelation and trying to hold on to it.

  I’m free.

  No, I’m not. Who am I kidding? My psychotic husband is out there with my old phone and those text messages. That’s the part that worries me. The late-night confession? He made it up. Never happened. That’s what I’ll tell anyone who wants to know. Anyway, that case is closed. Beatrice’s agent, Hannah, killed her. Everyone knows that.

  Oh God. If only. The only way I’ll keep him from telling anyone is if I never give Jim his research back.

  “Emma! Hello, did we have an appointment?”

  I step inside Sam’s office and I push him with all the strength I can muster. He stumbles backward, knocking over a potted plant in the process.

  “Hey!”

  “How dare you?” I shout in his face. He’s sprawled on the floor, his arms raised to deflect any blows I might inflict. “Who do you think you are? Is this what you do for kicks? Set people up? You’re a sick man, Sam Huntington.”

  I stand still, get my breath back. He gets on his knees, never taking his eyes off me—to make sure I won’t pounce, I suspect—and slowly, he stands up again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, sullen. I don’t bother arguing with the lie.

  “Why? Just tell me that! What did I ever do to you?”

  His mouth twitches and he runs his hand over his face, and then slumps down on the nearest chair.

  “Okay, sit down,” he says in a tone of resignation.

  “I’m not sitting down.”

  “Listen, Emma, I thought I was doing the right thing, okay?”

  To think I ever liked this man. “I’m going to report you. You’re sick.”

  “He said you were struggling.”

  “You know, Sam, coming here, I wasn’t even sure it was true. I thought there must be some other explanation. You’ve just told me that it is true.”

  I’m shaking. I sit down.

  “Don’t be angry, please.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Sam, it’s a little late for that, don’t you think? Just tell me what happened. How did it start?”

  “He—he called me to set up an appointment.”

  “When?”

  “A few months ago. Five or six.”

  “Six months?”

  “Yes. I’m a busy man, Emma. I didn’t have the time to take the project on right then and there. I needed to clear the decks.”

  “If only you’d stayed busy, Sam. How did he find you?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. But he wanted the best; someone with a proven track record, that’s what he said.”

  “But why? Why would you go along with this—this awful setup? I’ve never done anything to you. I didn’t even know you existed until that day. Why would you do that to me?”

  “It’s not like that. He said you were struggling, that it was really affecting you and that he wanted to help you. I told him that you should contact me directly, but he said you’d never do that. You were a professional. It wouldn’t occur to you to contact someone like me.”

  “A ghost.”

  “A ghostwriter.”

  “Did he pay you?”

  “Of course he did, to meet with you. He set up a scenario where we could have coffee and a chat. He said that was all that was required of me. I really like you, Emma. I loved your book, and I understand how someone in your position could be struggling.”

  I jerk back. “Someone in my position?”

  “Prize-winning author. It’s not unusual. I told you that. I was flattered that he’d asked me to help. Sorry, but you’re Emma Fern. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

  “So he said to have coffee with me, and then what?”

  “That I should introduce myself, give you my card. Whether you’d want to follow it through would be up to you. That’s all. He said if you didn’t contact me, that would be the end of that.”

  I scoff. “Of course.”

  “It’s the truth, Emma.”

  I lean and point my finger in his face, so close I could take his eye out. “You don’t get to talk about the truth, Sam. Don’t even say the word.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then nothing, that’s it. You contacted me and we worked together, and it’s great, Emma. It really is. Everything is fine, isn’t it?”

  “You must be joking.”

  “But I—”

  “Shut up. I’m asking the questions. I took the bait—”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “What did he want you to do, then?”

  “Just to send him the contract.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he wanted to go over it, to make sure the terms were favorable to you. He said that since he instigated the transaction, he felt a responsibility to protect you.”

  I laugh. Then I remember Jim’s little spiel about how proud he was of me, all those lies that night. How I should never give up being a writer, blah blah blah.

  I stand up.

  “Emma, please stay. Let’s talk.”

  “I never, ever want to see you again.” I extend a hand. “Give me my contract.”

  “Don’t. Emma, listen—”

  “I said, give me my contract. All the copies you have.” My jaw is trembling. I will hurt this man if I have to.

  He stands, deflated. He walks over to the filing cabinet and pulls out a file. Hands it over to me. I flick through it quickly. There are notes, and the copy of the contract I signed. I take them out of the folder, and drop the rest on the floor. Then I proceed to tear up each page, one by one.

  Sam just looks at me, his eyes pleading—for what, I don’t know. I wonder if he’s going to cry. I hope so.

  “Our agreement is null and void. You are never to reveal that you ever even met me. Do you understand?”

  “I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing, Emma.”

  “You should have told me the truth.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  And just as I’m about to slam the door behind me, he says, “It’s worth a shot, you know. We did good the other day. I think we could work together. I really think—”

  I turn back.

  “Fuck off, Sam.”

  I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I don’t care. I’m so angry, I go straight to the Forum. To tell Jim he won’t get away with this. I don’t care what he says to the world about me. I will never, ever return his material. I am going to ruin him, even if it ruins me in the process. He will regret the day he met me. No, he will regret the day he crossed me. This abuse ends here and now. I am running through the conversation in my mind, and when I push the main entrance door to the Forum open, I do so with such violence that the glass door almost bounces off the joints.

  I rush up the stairs to Jim’s office, and there’s a woman at the reception desk.
It’s not Jenny. I don’t know what happened to Jenny. Jim probably fired her because she wasn’t pretty enough, or young enough, or didn’t look up to him enough.

  “Excuse me? Can I help you?” she asks, a little alarmed.

  I don’t answer. I go straight for the door of Jim’s office. You want to spill the beans on me, Jim? Go for it. Be my guest. I don’t care. I won’t be the first person to hire a ghostwriter, and I sure won’t be the last. No one will believe your tale about Beatrice after I publish what I have about you. Jim thinks he’s won, he thinks he’s got me backed into a corner. He’s wrong, and he’s about to find out.

  I shove the door open, and it slams against the wall. It’s only two long strides to the desk, and I’m already there by the time the man on the other side has stood up, almost knocking his chair down behind him.

  I’ve never seen him before.

  “Where’s Jim?”

  He jerks his head, as if he’s looking for an escape. “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Emma!”

  I turn and see Terry standing in the doorway, the receptionist craning her neck behind him. Safely behind him, I might add.

  “Emma, what are you doing here?”

  “Where’s Jim?”

  “He’s not here.”

  I spin back around to the man standing behind the desk. “Who are you?”

  “Jim’s not here, Emma,” Terry says again. He’s standing beside me now. I feel his hand on my elbow. I shake him off.

  “Where is he? When will he be back? I’ll wait. I don’t care.” I sit in a chair. The man behind Jim’s desk is still standing. He looks from me to Terry and back to me again.

  “Come to my office, Emma,” Terry says. “We’ll talk about it.”

  “No thanks, Terry. I’d rather wait.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “So you said.”

  “No, you don’t understand. He’s left. Jim doesn’t work here anymore.”

  16

  “Come in, please. Sit down. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  Terry sits at his desk and I take the only other chair, on the other side of it. I give him a moment to gather himself because he seems a little nervous. Anxious, even.