After He Killed Me Page 25

  I bring the cell phone up closer to my eyes and there’s a hand on my shoulder and a voice says, “Do you mind moving?” and I look up at a man whose chin is pointing ahead of me. I realize that the line has moved forward while I stood still. He looks at me as if there is something wrong with me. Have I gone really pale? I must have. I take a step forward. I wish there was something I could hold on to. I look at the screen again, and I hand him the cell phone, my hand trembling, and say, “What does it say, please?”

  “What?”

  I push the phone up as if I’m going to strike his face with it. “What does it say?”

  My hand is shaking so much, he says, “Are you all right? Can I get you something?”

  Am I speaking Japanese? Why doesn’t he do as I ask? I grab the edge of his blue jacket and his face tightens, so I release it immediately, and I repeat myself. “Please, what does the text say? I have a migraine. My vision is blurry. You know how that happens when you get a migraine? Maybe you don’t. Well, I can’t read properly. Please?”

  He smiles quickly, pushes my hand away from him and says, “Just move along, please. Otherwise I’ll get ahead of you.” I notice then the people behind him, necks craning, wondering what’s holding them up.

  I close my eyes. Take another step forward. I try and imagine the words I just read. It went something like: Brad is a great cook, great, we’re on our way. On our way where? Please God, please. There’s been a misunderstanding, and Frankie and Brad are coming to my old apartment because, no, he said the beach house, and—wait! They’ll make dinner? Supper? When I asked him if I could stay there, I told him I needed some quiet time by myself. I remember that. Quiet time, I said. By myself, I said. Then it occurs to me that something is really wrong with me, because I should just call him, but I didn’t even think of that until now. I’m still shaking, but I’m relieved also to have come up with a solution. I’ll tell him to turn back. You can’t come to the beach house. I’ll lie. I’ll say I’m in hospital and he has to come and see me right away.

  I manage to find the right screen and I hit call, but it goes to voicemail, and I don’t understand why. I try again and get voicemail again, and I keep pressing buttons because I have to do something. I look up and people are walking right past me now, and I see a cab. The man I just asked to help me is stepping off the curb, and I run, pushing people out of my way, and just as he opens the door, I climb inside and tell him it’s an emergency. “I’m really sorry,” I say, and I shut the door and he says something I can’t quite hear as I tell the driver the address and that if he gets me there in record time, I’ll give him an extra hundred dollars. Then I lean back against the vinyl seat and get my breath back.

  That’s the problem with staying at someone else’s house. They have no respect for your privacy. It’s a little rude of Frankie to just invite himself like that, without proper warning. I don’t just rock up to his house any time I feel like it without calling first. If he had arrived unannounced, it would have been different, because I could have explained at least. I could have told him that ever since Jim left me, this crazy woman, Carol, has been stalking me, waiting in the shadows outside my building, calling me, and begging me to meet with her. I could have told him how she spun this crazy story about being afraid of Jim; that he was going to kill her.

  “She’s completely unhinged, Frankie. She’s incredibly dangerous. She tracked me down. Can you believe it? I managed to overcome her and tie her up until the police get here. Where are the police? They should be here by now. I’ll call them again. Just to make sure.” That’s what I would have said.

  It wouldn’t be very hard to make Carol look bad. Who would Frankie believe? Me, of course. I would tell him that she tricked me into having a drink with her; that she stole my driver’s license and dressed like me—pretended to be me—all to get Jim for herself and, frankly, I don’t know why she went to all that trouble. She can have him.

  “Are you all right there?” the driver says, and I sit up.

  “Yes, why?” I put both hands flatly by my side, steadying myself.

  “You’re talking to yourself,” he says.

  It’s going to take too long. I am stuck in a never-ending nightmare. The entire trip, I’m on redial. Call back. Voicemail. Call back. Voicemail. What the fuck is Frankie doing? Is he on the phone with the police? Telling them to get there right away because there’s a strange woman tied up in his bathroom? My face is pressed against the glass, scanning for the police cars. I’m expecting the full police-chase experience any minute now. They’ll have the full light show on, dozens of them at least, with their spinning red and blue lights flashing and a megaphone clearly visible above a car roof.

  Mrs. Emma Fern, come out now with your hands above your head!

  My phone pings. I’m dying. I’m sweating. I’m afraid to look. I put my hand over my eyes and let just a sliver of space show between my fingers before I read it.

  Would you mind picking up some milk on the way? F. Xoxoxo

  I drop my hand quickly and read it again. It really is from Frankie, and the timestamp says it was sent just now. Where the fuck is he? He’s not at the beach house, that’s clear. Did we make some kind of arrangement that I’ve forgotten about? I reread the previous text; the pain between my eyes is excruciating. I scan through dozens of older ones. Was there something else from Frankie that I missed?

  The driver is talking to me.

  “What?” I say.

  “There’s some incident on the Long Island Expressway.” He taps on the GPS screen next to him.

  “So how long is it going to take?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Maybe an hour. I’m going as fast as I can.”

  I close my eyes. Kill me now, somebody, anybody.

  “I still get the hundred bucks, right? I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “Yes. Just keep going. As fast as you can. Go through red lights, I don’t care. I’ll pay the fines. I’ll pay anything you like. Please just get there as fast as you can.”

  Frankie said he was on his way. I just need to get there first. I try to call him again. Voicemail. I’m going to throw this phone out of the window any minute now. I look at the screen again, at the last text.

  Would you mind picking up some milk on the way? F. Xoxoxo

  I don’t get it. Can’t he get it himself? Maybe he hasn’t left yet. Maybe I’m dreaming. My fingers trembling, I hit reply, and write:

  No problem, anything else? Em. Xx

  I wait, leaning against the window and a moment later Frankie replies.

  Just you :) see you soon F. Xoxo

  Oh God. I bury my face in my hands. Is it really possible Frankie hasn’t opened the bathroom door yet? But that’s ridiculous. Carol would be screaming if she heard strangers in the house. Is he tricking me? Pretending everything is fine until I get there so that the cops can arrest me?

  I think through my options. I could ask the driver to take me to the airport—get a flight to somewhere, anywhere. Then I could send a text to Frankie, explaining that I’m on a plane and the plane has been hijacked, and we are all going to die, but I’m thinking of him in my last, darkest moment.

  I can’t get out of the country because I don’t have my passport with me. I didn’t think I needed it, did I? It never occurred to me that I might be the one going to Tunisia.

  Did Carol faint? Is she too frightened to call out? She wasn’t before, when I was on the phone with Sam. Why would she be all shy suddenly? Maybe she’s dead. Maybe she’s asleep again, after all the pills I gave her last night.

  I type another text to Frankie:

  Would you mind not using your master bathroom? I had a little accident in there and I just want to clean up first. Sorry!

  Then I change my mind, delete the text without sending it. Surely it’s best if I plead innocence? Surprise? I wasn’t here and I have no idea who this is. Oh wait, is that you, Carol? What on earth are you doing here?

  I remember to get the milk. I’ve ha
d the taxi stop and wait at a convenience store because I thought it would be useful in case I needed to tell my story about my unhinged stalker, Carol.

  But, Officer, I have no idea how this person ended up here. If I’d done something like that, I would hardly stop to buy milk, would I?

  I ask the driver to let me out a good half a mile before the house. I pay the extra hundred dollars. The last thing I need is a scene. It’s very quiet. There’s certainly no inkling that something shocking has happened in the neighborhood.

  I walk up the hill to the house, scanning ahead all the time, keeping my head down whenever a car drives by. There is nothing but peace and silence. The closer I get to the house, the more I expect to see dozens of police cars waiting for me, TV news vans parked in the street, but there’s nothing.

  When I get there, the lights are on in just about every room as far as I can tell from here. Frankie and, I presume, Brad, are standing by the window, facing each other. I watch their silhouettes as Frankie puts one arm around Brad’s shoulders, and Brad lifts a glass to his lips.

  They certainly don’t look frantic. They don’t look like they just discovered a dead woman in the bathroom. They don’t look like anything other than two people having a leisurely conversation near the window.

  I stand rooted to the spot for another five minutes, watching them chatting, and when they move away from the window, I walk up the steps to the front door. The outside sensor light comes on as I put my ear against the heavy wood, but I can’t hear anything from here.

  The house and its occupants are a tableau of blissful peace.

  I brace myself and let myself in.

  37

  “Emma! There you are, dearest!”

  Frankie must have heard me, he’s standing right at the door. He holds it wide open, grinning from ear to ear, and he pulls me inside by the arm.

  “Come, come! Brad! She’s here! Come and be met!”

  “Hello!” Brad’s head pops out of the kitchen doorway. “Sorry I can’t shake your hand, I’m elbow deep in cornstarch.” He lifts both his arms, his sleeves rolled up to show me, although I can’t see any cornstarch, but then again, what the fuck do I know? “Can I get you a drink?”

  “We got some champagne,” Frankie says. “I thought we should celebrate. We have so much to celebrate, Emma, wouldn’t you say? And, Emma dearest, the silver champagne bucket does not live under the sink, for future reference.” They both laugh.

  My face is frozen, smiling. I nod, a lot, just like Carol did last night. I too am stuck on a nodding loop; my eyes darting to the master bedroom. Frankie must have noticed, because he says, “You don’t mind, do you? I put your things in the guest room. It’s just for a couple nights. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  I nod some more, then I move my head sideways. “No, no, I don’t mind in the least. Of course not.”

  I missed my calling as a ventriloquist. That I managed to say that many words through my tight smile is nothing short of a miracle.

  Brad is all smiles as he hands me a flute of champagne. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Emma. I’ve heard so much about you.” He smiles at Frankie as he says this last part.

  “Thank you, it’s great to meet you too. I’ll just take off my jacket now, shall I?”

  They both laugh heartily. “God! Sorry!” they say, in unison, as Frankie helps me take it off. I don’t know what’s so amusing.

  Frankie hangs the jacket up for me. “It’s funny, you know, when we arrived, I thought you were already here.”

  “You did?” I say over the beating of my heart.

  “I thought I heard something.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what made me think of that.”

  “Can I pop in to your bathroom to get my toothbrush?” I ask, and I’m stunned no one can hear my heart thumping in my chest.

  “Oh, I already moved your toiletries to the other bathroom. You don’t mind, do you?” He puts a hand on my shoulder, looks at me, head slightly cocked. I don’t know why, but I mirror him, I cock my head too, smiling, glass in hand, frozen. “You did?”

  “But yes, please see if there’s anything of yours in there. I’m starving! We’ve been waiting for you. Oh, did you get the milk?”

  As I brandish the brown paper bag, it occurs to me that life is a funny thing, isn’t it? One minute you think you’re going to die, the world has ended, and life as you know it is over, and the next, you know with complete certainty that you will never be this happy again. Ever.

  “Yes, here it is! And no! Of course I don’t mind you getting your room back! Don’t be silly! God, it’s good to be back! I’m just going to put this”—I lift my bag in the air—“in my room, and I’ll be right back. Brad, what is that heavenly smell wafting out of the kitchen? I’m starving!”

  I arrange my things in the guest bedroom, listening for the two of them. They’re in the kitchen, laughing and chatting. I open all the closets, all the time expecting Jim and Carol to pop up like a jack-in-the-box. I check the master bathroom, then I go to the master bedroom. The door to the bathroom is ajar; the key still on the outside, just as I left it.

  I go in, half expecting to find Carol slumped over the edge of the bathtub, but no, she’s not here. There’s no one here. There’s no rope either. No evidence whatsoever that she was ever in this room. Back in the master bedroom I check the closets. Then I check for the gun. The gun that I put back in its carrying case, right at the back of the closet. The gun that I thank the Lord is still there.

  It’s like I’m a different person. I’m Emma Fern, but I’m not Emma Fern. There’s another parallel universe somewhere, with the other Emma Fern in it, and she’s been arrested, for sure. She came back to the beach house and Frankie shook his head at her in disbelief and disappointment, and Carol was taken somewhere in an ambulance, and the policeman put his hand on the top of Emma’s head as he put her in the back of the squad car. The TV news crews were there also, lots of them, filming her downfall in all its tragedy, and Nick the Prick was probably there too, snickering from the sidelines, and Emma in handcuffs is going to jail for a very, very long time.

  But in this universe, the one I’m inhabiting, I’m having a really lovely time with Frankie and Brad. We’re drinking too much, me especially, and we’re laughing a lot. I’m a little over the top, a little too loud, but it’s all in good fun, and when I see her reflection beyond the sliding doors, my heart stops, because I think it’s Jim, but it’s not. It’s Beatrice, and amazingly, I’m pleased to see her. We look at each other, and then I turn my gaze away.

  I’ve never seen Frankie with a partner before, and it makes my heart drip with affection to watch him now, sitting at the dinner table, his eyes flicking up to Brad, who is stirring the sauce, his back to us.

  “It’s nice to see you, Frankie. It makes me happy.” I’m starting to slur, but it’s a pleasant feeling, coming as it does with a wave of tranquility. The kind of tranquility that comes from looking in every corner of the house, under the guise of just making sure it’s tidy, Frankie, I’d die if you thought me a messy guest! and finding nothing amiss. Nothing at all. Carol was never here. I dreamed the whole thing. I’m sure of it.

  His hand reaches over to take mine. He’s looking at me now. “I’m glad, and I’m glad you’re here, Emma, after everything with Jim.”

  I take an audible breath and he apologizes for bringing it up.

  “No, I’m fine, really,” I hasten to say. I don’t want him to worry about me. This is too nice. I want to be a part of this. We’re a little family, the three of us. I love them both so much, even though I only met Brad half an hour ago. I wink at Frankie, a wicked wink that says, How lucky are you! and he chuckles in his shy way.

  “Tell me about today,” he says.

  I look away, getting my thoughts together. “It was fine. Some of the questions were a bit hard to answer, but you know how it is.”

  He nods, solemn almost.

  “Elizabeth Halloway is very nice. It was g
reat sharing a panel with her.”

  “Great! I’m glad it went well then.”

  And I smile, because what else am I going to say?

  “How’s Nick?” I ask.

  Frankie looks down. “Nick isn’t very happy.”

  Do I detect a note of displeasure?

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say that the reception so far is not what we expected.” His smile is tight and determined at the same time. “I’ll leave it at that.”

  Can one die of joy? I guess I’m about to find out, because my heart is overflowing. I give him an “oh, I’m sorry” look. It takes all my power not to jump up and down with glee.

  “I don’t understand, you seemed so, how shall I put it?” I’m about to say enamored but I stop myself. “Enthusiastic?”

  “Yes, well, I was! I am, I mean.”

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  Tell me more! I want to beg. How bad is it? Go on! Tell me!

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seriously, Frankie? I’ve felt like you’ve been pushing this guy down my throat ever since you met him. That lunch! God! I thought you were in love!”

  Brad pops his head out the doorway of the kitchen.

  “No no, that’s just an expression,” I assure him.

  Brad gives me a toothy smile and pops his head back inside.

  “Hey, I had to do something to get you writing.”

  I turn back to Frankie. He’s grinning.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Were you jealous?”

  “Yes! Are you joking?” I cock my head sideways. “So you don’t think he’s the brightest star in the universe? The voice of his generation?”

  “He’s a writer under contract, Emma. I have many of those. Badosa Press and its imprints publish many books.” He smiles.