After He Killed Me Page 23

  McDonnell starts to speak. “We—”

  “Is it about my husband?”

  They look at each other. McDonnell starts to speak but I put my hand out.

  “My mother-in-law called me yesterday. She was terribly worried about him. Did she call you?” I already know she did. I knew Moira wouldn’t last long.

  “Mrs. Fern, your mother-in-law called the police with her concerns about your husband’s whereabouts. Because he’s been missing for at least—”

  “I don’t think he is. Missing, I mean. If that helps.”

  “Is your husband here, Mrs. Fern?” McDonnell now asks.

  “Here?” I ask. “No. My husband is not here.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, no, I don’t. I have no idea.” I sigh.

  “Is that unusual?” McDonnell again.

  “That I don’t know his whereabouts? No, not anymore. Unfortunately, my husband and I are having . . . marital problems, and he has moved out for a while. To a hotel.”

  “I see. Which hotel?” McDonnell writes something in a notebook.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

  “When he moved out. Let me see.” I make a show of counting the days on my fingers. “Three weeks ago, give or take.”

  “Why did he move out?”

  “As I said, we’re having marital problems.”

  “And you’re staying here? Permanently?” Detective Murphy asks, looking around.

  The question unsettles me. I’m not sure what business it is of theirs.

  “Sorry, can you remind me of your name?” I ask, just to buy a little time.

  “Detective Murphy.”

  “Thank you. Yes, Detective Murphy, he moved out first, and a couple of weeks after that I decided to go away myself for a few days. I found it too distressing, alone in that apartment, if you must know.” I glare at him. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Your doorman told us.”

  I could kick myself for having left a forwarding address.

  “Did Mr. Fern take his belongings with him?” Murphy asks.

  “Yes, most of them anyway. He left an old desk and some books.”

  “Do you expect him to come back for those?”

  “I don’t know. I’m moving out of the apartment and putting things in storage.”

  “So as far as you know, no one has seen or heard from your husband in three weeks, is that right?”

  I’m about to contradict him, but I stop myself.

  There’s a pause in the air and I know there’s a question I should be asking, but I can’t remember it. My brain is swimming in fog.

  “Have you been on vacation?” McDonnell asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re”—he points to his own face—“sunburned.”

  My hand flies to my cheek before I have a chance to stop it.

  “Am I? I’ve been running. It’s been a hot couple weeks.”

  He writes that down too.

  “How long have you and your husband lived in that apartment?” McDonnell asks.

  “My husband doesn’t live there anymore.”

  He nods.

  “Eight months.”

  “And before that, you were in”—he flicks through his notebook—“Queens, is that right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You were interviewed as part of a different police inquiry. We have it on record.”

  I knew he was going to say that. I am in that place again, looking at those two—same play, different actors. I lean forward and look into his face.

  “I wasn’t interviewed, Detective. It wasn’t like that. The victim was my friend and I was helping the police. I was concerned.” He doesn’t even blink. I lean backward again, my back against the chair. “But yes, that’s right, we lived in Queens, then we moved to Manhattan.”

  He looks at me in an odd way. I can’t quite put my finger on the meaning of his expression.

  “We understand he resigned from his job,” McDonnell says, “three weeks ago.”

  “That’s right. So you spoke to Terry? His colleague?”

  He nods.

  “Was your separation amicable?” Murphy asks.

  “Yes.”

  McDonnell looks up from his notebook. “You wouldn’t say it was acrimonious, then?”

  “No, I just said so, didn’t I?” He makes another note.

  “My husband is not missing, Detectives. He left me, and he’s gone away for a while. He’ll be back.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that’s what he told me.”

  “Did you tell Mrs. Fern that?”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending for a moment.

  “Oh, Moira? Yes, I did. I told her the exact same thing. He’s gone away; he wants to be by himself. I don’t know where he went, but he’ll be back when he’s ready. She shouldn’t have called you.”

  I stand up to show them that the interview is over as far as I’m concerned. They stand up too, to my relief, and Murphy pulls out a card, gives it to me and asks, “Will you have your husband call us, Mrs. Fern? When he gets back?”

  “Certainly. He shouldn’t be long.”

  I walk them back through the house to the front door, when Murphy says, “Are you celebrating something?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady, knowing full well what he’s going to say.

  He points to the champagne bucket and the two glasses on the coffee table. I move to the front door and open it.

  “A neighbor came by earlier. We had a drink, yes. I’m not underage, Detective.” Then I smile, because I am relaxed, joking, with not a care in the world, and I have nothing to hide. It would help if I could stop my mouth from trembling whenever I speak.

  He smiles.

  They thank me again for my time. I close the door after them, and lean against it in relief, before going back out to the deck to watch them go. I look out to the road.

  Where are you, Jim?

  I open the kitchen door just a touch without walking in, just to see if she’s going to lunge at me with a spoon or something, but no, she’s sitting exactly where I left her, her back to me.

  I walk over to her. She sees me and starts to jerk a little. She’s frightened. I can see it in her eyes.

  She’s half asleep, but she’s fighting to stay awake. I remove the dishtowel from around her mouth.

  “You’re okay? Yes? Good.”

  I’m glad I didn’t have that Scotch. I fill the kettle and set it to boil.

  I hear her hiccupping behind me as I spoon ground coffee into the French press.

  “Can I have some water, please?” she asks timidly.

  I don’t want to give her water. I don’t want to give her anything. I want her to suffer.

  I sigh, grab a glass from the top cabinet and fill it up. I set it in front of her and she moves her hands forward, but she won’t be able to lift it. Not the way I have her tied up to the chair.

  “Hold on a second,” I tell her.

  I walk around her.

  “I’m going to untie you from the chair, okay? For now, anyway. You move, I shoot. You understand?”

  “I understand,” she replies quietly.

  I remove the ropes. She stretches her back slightly, then lifts the glass to her lips.

  “You have to believe me,” she says after a moment.

  I turn around, set the cup of coffee I’ve just poured onto the kitchen countertop, and put both hands flat on either side of it.

  “Believe what, Carol?”

  “It’s—it’s not my fault.”

  I slam one hand hard on the marble surface. “Shut up!”

  She flinches, and I slam it again and again until my palm hurts. I’m shouting. “How could you? What did I ever do to you? He’s a monster Carol! Why would you do this? To me?” I want to tell her, I thought you were my friend, I th
ought you were kind, but I’m too busy shouting, “Why? You could have gone overseas, you could have reported him missing and gone ahead with your stupid plans, but you involved me!”

  And all the time she blinks, blinks, and blinks, and the tears are running down her cheeks, and my coffee has spilled all over the marble counter and my cell rings in the living room. What now? I go and pick it up because frankly, at this point, if I don’t leave the room, I’m afraid I’m going to kill her.

  34

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  I know it’s him. I saw his name on the screen before I picked it up. I wish he wouldn’t say “me,” as if we were that kind of couple.

  His tone is sad, not in the way of “I’m really sad because I just watched the news and what a horrible world we live in,” or whatever; no, it’s more of the “I’m sad because you make me feel sad” variety. All I really want to say is: Sam, we made a mistake. We should never have become intimate. I take full responsibility for that mistake, but I was in a strange place. Can we be friends instead? Can you please go away?

  Except, of course, I can’t do that. I can only deal with one crisis at a time.

  “Hi, how are you?” I say, softly.

  “I’m okay. Thinking about you.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Is it?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Of course.”

  “I miss you,” he says.

  I peer around the kitchen door, just to make sure Carol is okay, that she didn’t fall over or Lord knows what. I see from the movement in her shoulders that she’s crying, still.

  “Can I come over?” Sam asks, jolting me.

  “I miss you too,” I say, as if he hadn’t spoken that last part. Then I laugh. “I really do, but I have company, so maybe not as much as I might.”

  “Oh, is it male company?” His tone is completely different. Abrupt. Maybe even angry.

  “No, no, we’re just having a cold drink, girl talk, making plans. She’s a good friend. I’ll introduce you one day. You’ll like her.”

  “That’s nice,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that the moment has passed. “So when will I see you again?”

  “I told you, in a few days.”

  “I don’t know if I can wait that long, Emma. I could come over? Tonight, maybe?”

  “Please don’t,” I say, sharply.

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t want to intrude.”

  Now he’s back to being brisk, and if I’m going to have to watch what I say all the time, and how I say it, I’m going to have to finish this book in record time.

  “You’re not intruding,” I reply gently. “I have too much to do. It’s stressing me out a little.”

  “Don’t stress too much, Emma. You should be looking after yourself. Meanwhile I’ll keep working on your behalf.”

  “Thank you, scribe.”

  He chuckles. I notice some of the rope has fallen under the coffee table. I bend down to pick it up.

  “Will you call me when you have a little time?” he says. “Let me know when you want to come over so we can go over the new chapters.”

  “Of course.”

  I go back into the kitchen, carrying the bit of rope, the phone cradled in my neck. Carol sees me and winces. I put the rope back in the bottom of the broom closet.

  “I can’t wait to do that. I really look forward to it,” I tell Sam. I lift an index finger toward Carol, as if to say, I’ll just be another minute, and just before I leave the room again, she screams at the top of her lungs, “Help! Call the police! Help!” with all the pent-up fear she has in her.

  I pull the phone away and jab it with my finger to end the call.

  35

  “I cannot believe you just did that.”

  I stare at Carol in complete and utter disbelief, like she’s an alien that has slid out of a webcam and materialized in my kitchen.

  “What am I supposed to do now, Carol? Christ!”

  She does that blinking thing again. Blink blink blink blink, and I really want to slap those eyelids shut.

  “Do you think that was smart?”

  My phone rings in my hand. I look at it, then look at her.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell her.

  “Wh—where are you going?” she stutters.

  “Shut up.”

  I rush out the door through to the living room, and answer the phone as I go out to the deck.

  “Christ, Emma, are you okay?” Sam says. “What just happened? You’re okay? Should I call the police?”

  I laugh. “Lord, I gave myself a heart attack! I had the TV on in the living room. I forgot, I didn’t realize it was so loud! Sorry, darling”—I throw in the darling hoping to ease the tension I can hear in his voice—“I was unpacking things in the kitchen, and I walked into the living room just as some poor victim was screaming. It gave me a hell of a fright! God, I hate those shows, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Emma! You don’t know what you just did to me! I think I just had a heart attack too! Oh, let me recover here. I can’t tell you the horrible visions I just had. I thought someone had broken in just now. I swear if you hadn’t picked up, I was going to call the cops!”

  I laugh again. “Well, if I’m ever kidnapped, I’ll be sure to call you first.”

  “Seriously, my heart is still racing. God!”

  “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry. You’re okay? You want me to call an ambulance?”

  He chuckles. I don’t tell him that my heart is also racing, that my hand is pressed on my chest as I try to take a steady breath again.

  “I don’t even know where you are, Emma.”

  “I’m not in hiding, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m suggesting nothing of the sort. Just that I would feel better if I knew where you were, that’s all.”

  “Look, Sam, I need to go, but I’ll call soon. Okay?”

  He doesn’t reply, and the silence at the other end goes on for longer than I’m comfortable with. I sure don’t want Carol to start screaming again.

  “You’re still there?”

  “I am, Emma. I feel a little weirded out by all this.”

  “All this what?”

  “Mystery stuff.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that with my marriage ending, I want to have time to think about my future. Whatever dreams it may hold.”

  “You’re not breaking up with me?”

  I want to say, No, because I’m not twelve years old and I don’t break up with people.

  “Don’t be silly, you’re my scribe. I need you. You know that.”

  “Just for that?”

  But I can hear the smile in his voice, and frankly, the insinuation is irritating me. Nevertheless, I know I should play along and end this call. So I giggle. “Stop it. You’re making me blush.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “And you will. I miss you, Sam, very much. I’ll be back in town in a few days. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too,” he says. “Tell me where you are.”

  “Don’t, please.”

  “You’re running away from me, Emma. I can feel it.”

  I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. “This has nothing to do with you, Sam.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “It has to the extent that I want time to think. About my future, with you in it, of course.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I start to say something else but he interrupts. “I know you’re with Jim, Emma. I can tell.”

  “I doubt it, that you can tell, because I’m not. I need to go, Sam.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t be like that. Please.” I close my eyes, listening to his breathing, and for a moment I wonder if he’s crying.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk,” he says, and I breathe out in relief.

  “We’ll talk about it when I see you, soon, okay?”

  When I get back to the kitchen, after we’ve
exchanged sweet goodbyes, it’s with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I stand across from Carol, my hand on the top of the chair closest to me.

  “Does it ever happen to you? You sleep with someone once, and they behave as if you’re now joined at the hip? They need to know where you are, who you’re with, when they’ll see you again—is that normal? I’m not very experienced, but it feels a little premature to me, to be so attached. What do you think?”

  “I want to go home,” she whines.

  “Yeah, well, don’t we all.”

  There’s a ping on my phone. I assume Sam is being sweet in his own relentless way, sending me a kiss or something. But it’s a text from Frankie. Does no one go to sleep anymore?

  All set for tomorrow? Call me if you need anything. Sorry I can’t be there, but you should have all the info. Call me after. F. xoxo

  Tomorrow? Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow . . .

  Oh God. I forgot. How could I forget? I put the phone down and close my eyes, pushing the heels of my hands against them.

  “What is it?” Carol asks nervously.

  “I’m losing my mind, is what it is.”

  I can’t believe I forgot about the book festival. It’s such an important event for me. Frankie is working hard to get me back on the circuit and I can’t pass this up. I sit down. I put my fingers against my temples, close my eyes, and cogitate. For a moment I consider canceling, but I can’t. Frankie would be furious with me if I did that. He’d give up on me. He really would. Then he’d dedicate himself to Nick’s career instead.

  I look at her. “Tell me the truth, Carol. Does Jim know you’re here?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I told you. He doesn’t know.”

  “But that makes no sense, why wouldn’t he?” Am I really wasting my time here? After all this?

  She sighs. “Because I didn’t tell him you had the burner phone.”

  “Why not?” I ask, even though I don’t believe her, not exactly.

  “Because he would have been furious, Emma. What do you think?”

  “Are you saying he doesn’t know it’s missing?”

  “No. I mean yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Christ.”

  But maybe that’s not so bad. In fact, that could be good. If it’s true.

  “I want to explain—”

  “Look at me, Carol, tell me the truth. Jim doesn’t know that you’re here, with me?”