After He Killed Me Page 27

  “Get up.”

  I take hold of the chair leg next to me and somehow heave myself up. Leaning against the kitchen island, my palms behind me on its marble top, I turn to look at Jim. His face is stretched into a strange mask. He grins. He almost looks happy.

  “I knew it,” I say, crying. “I knew you’d come. The police are on their way. I called them. And Frankie. Frankie’s coming.”

  “Oh, Emma. Honestly. You expect me to believe that?”

  “You should go. Just go.”

  “Carol is a mess, Emma! Do you realize that? You’re sick! Thank Christ I found her. I knew she wasn’t in D.C. I couldn’t reach her. All night, Emma! I couldn’t find her! Then I figured you’d have something to do with it. Because you’re sick. All I had to do was ask Dennis where you’d gone. Et voilà!” He opens his arms wide, like a magician at the end of a trick.

  “You have to leave. Frankie will be here any minute.” I gulp.

  “You should pray that neither Frankie nor the police are on their way. Trust me.” He laughs. “How many people did you kill, Emma dear? Were you going to kill her too? Hey! I have an idea: why don’t I call the cops?”

  “Oh God. Oh my God. You’re a monster.”

  “Jeez, Em. Aren’t you happy to see me? Smells good, by the way. What are you making?” He goes to the stove and lifts the lid. The liquid sputters onto the flame. “Ha! I knew it! Coq au vin; my favorite. Were you thinking of me, Em? That’s nice.”

  He pulls up a chair and sits down, takes out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and lights it from the stove.

  “All I want is to be rid of you,” he says, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Don’t you get it? You have been a thorn in my side for years, Emma! Years!” He’s shouting now. “I don’t trust you. Even if you had given me my research back, I still wouldn’t trust you. I’ll never trust you. I need to disappear, and you need to shut the hell up.”

  “I won’t say anything. I swear. I won’t tell anyone you were here if you leave.”

  “I didn’t want to kill you,” he says, dropping ash on the floor. “I just wanted to discredit you; for you to go to jail for a very long time. For killing me, so that Carol and I can start again. God!” He slams the top of the kitchen island with his fist. “It was perfect! We were about to leave, you know that? We were all set to go, start a new life, away from here—and then you go and kidnap her?” He looks at me, shaking his head, and his tone shifts. “I was really worried about her, you know that? I couldn’t bear to imagine what you might be doing to her. Seeing that you’re a murderous psychopath and all.”

  I keep my eyes on him while trying to remember what’s behind me, what I can use as a weapon.

  “I never left Carol,” he says now, almost thoughtful. “We kept seeing each other the entire time I was with you, and thank God for that, because I don’t know how I would have coped otherwise.” He looks straight at me now, cocking his head a little. “It was her idea, did she tell you? To make it look like I was crazy.” He waves his fingers in front of his face, his eyes open wide, and he says, “So you’d believe her when she came to you, all scared, wanting your help.” He drops his arms to his sides, looking away, as if caught up in the memory of it. “She’s a smart woman, that one.”

  I can’t breathe. For a second or two, I forget all of it: why we’re here, everything that happened before. I’m overwhelmed by the feeling of betrayal. It’s slicing at my heart as memories tumble over each other, each one a different moment of love or happiness, of trust and hope. Of what I thought my life was. Even the recollection of running into Carol that first time comes into my mind, and how grateful I felt for her kindness to me. I am crushed by such a deep sadness that I drop to the floor, losing the fight I thought I had in me.

  “So go,” I sob. “I’m not stopping you, Jim. You should go, you and Carol; disappear. Why involve me now?”

  “Because,” he says slowly, looking down at me, “it’s surprisingly difficult to disappear in this day and age. It’s much better to die. Or pretend to die. And by setting you up to take the fall, I’ve killed two birds with one stone!” He raises his arms again in a gesture of triumph almost, then lets them fall back down. “It was brilliant, Emma, and then you went and fucked it up for us. What am I supposed to do with you now?”

  It’s funny really, the power of words. Hearing him say by setting you up to take the fall jolts me back, and when I stand up again, I know I’m not going to let myself be crushed into oblivion by this man. I don’t care what it takes.

  “If anything happens to me, that package will be sent to the right people,” I say surprisingly calmly, brushing imaginary dust off my knees.

  “That package will be sent to the right people,” he mimics, a sneer on his face. “You’ve been watching too much TV, Em. You’re not that smart. Is it here?”

  “Here? No.”

  “I don’t believe you. I bet you keep it close at all times. Your little treasure trove. Give it to me.”

  He stands and comes toward me, menacing, and now I’m really scared and I run to the other side of the kitchen island.

  “Oh, this is fun,” he smirks. He makes a false run to the left, then to the right.

  “You’re crazy.”

  I’m backing away. I feel the edge of the stove behind me, the hot liquid sputtering on my hand, and he comes around the island toward me. I move sideways, feeling my way along the bench. He lunges forward and I reach behind me for something, anything, and I remember the knife rack but I can’t reach it and the flame of the stove is burning at the side of my waist and his hands are around my neck and I’m scratching and clutching at them but he squeezes and I’m going to die and there’s a flash of light at the edge of my eye when the lid from the boiling pot jerks and drops at his feet. He yells and lets go, and all I want to do is hold my throat, but instead I reach behind me, and then there’s a sound, barely human; a guttural scream that comes from me as I plunge the knife into his neck.

  “I did it for you!” I scream. “Everything! I did it all for you!” and I fall to my knees.

  Does three make me a serial killer?

  40

  There’s no one gawking at me. It’s nothing like in my nightmares. There’s a grand jury, and I am sitting at the defense table with my attorney, who is not a woman called Katherine. It’s a man called Emmanuel Solomon, and Frankie got him for me. Frankie has taken care of everything. He was the first person I called.

  I am calm, resigned to my fate. I’ve had enough. Let them send me to the chair. I don’t care anymore. I’m so desperately tired.

  “So, when you discovered the irregularities in the modeling, what did you think?” the prosecutor is asking Terry, who is in the witness stand. Poor Terry. He looks awful. He’s nervous. I feel so sorry that I put him through this.

  “At first, I thought there must be some mistake.”

  “But then, after you reviewed the results?”

  “I knew that Jim Fern had faked the data.”

  “Why did he do that, do you think?”

  “For the prestige of running the country’s foremost economic think tank. For the money. It was a well-paid position. Not at first, but once the contracts came in, he benefited enormously. His salary went up tenfold.”

  Terry doesn’t believe that. He knows as well as I do that Jim didn’t do this for the money. Jim had delusions of grandeur, sure, but he didn’t care about the money. He thought he was smarter than everyone. He thought he could solve the world’s problems. And when he couldn’t, he made it up. He can’t be the first one.

  “How did the defendant approach you?”

  “She didn’t. I approached her. I asked her to come and see me. I explained the situation to her, and she told me that after Jim, her husband, moved out of the marital home, she found some documents he left behind.”

  “Can you tell the court what documents you’re referring to?”

  “The full set of results from the original research. The real data
, before he tampered with it.”

  “And those documents prove that he deliberately misled everyone?”

  “Without a doubt. He edited them to support his original theory.”

  “What happened after she told you about finding them?”

  “I said I wanted to see them. We arranged for her to come back and give them to me.”

  “I see. And why do you think he left them in their apartment? They must have been precious to him.”

  “He meant to retrieve them later. You’d have to ask him why he didn’t take them when he left.”

  “I can hardly do that. He’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “So how do you know this was his intent?”

  “I don’t know directly, but considering he went to kill Em—Mrs. Fern—and get those documents back . . .”

  “Did you ever speak with Mr. Fern after he resigned his position?”

  “Yes, I did. Once, the day after he resigned. He came to see me.”

  “Did he tell you he was intending to divorce Mrs. Fern?”

  “Yes, he said she had something of his; that he needed to get it back and it was still in the apartment. He wanted me to help him.”

  “I see. Did you know what it was?”

  “He said something like, ‘If it became public, it would ruin me.’ I told him I wouldn’t help him. It was a matter between him and his wife.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was livid. Furious. He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t help him. Then he said, ‘Trust me, Terry. I’ll kill her before I let those documents become public.’”

  “Did you tell Mrs. Fern about that?”

  “No, I did not. I didn’t believe him, and I’ve been losing sleep over that. I’ve told her how very sorry I am; that I should have said something, so she could have gone to the police about it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mundy. No further questions.”

  My lawyer stands up. “If I may, Your Honor, one question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Mundy, do you, in your conscience, in the truth of what you know, believe that Mr. Fern went to the beach house with the intent of killing my client, Mrs. Fern?”

  “Without a doubt. That’s what he said. He wanted to kill her.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  They’ve let me go, the Grand Jury. They took no time at all to decide that there was no case for me to answer. Self-defense, they said. Which was true. Just this once, it was true. Although the other times were also self-defense, as far as I’m concerned. But I couldn’t explain that. And anyway, I wasn’t on trial for the other murders I committed, so what do I care?

  I’m free. I’m innocent. That’s what they said, and I could never have proven it without Terry.

  He lied for me. On the stand. He took the oath, laid his hand on top of the Bible, swore to tell the truth so help him God, and then he lied.

  I did give him the documents. I gave him the sealed envelope, and I said that if anything ever happened to me, he was to open them and do with them as he saw fit. He didn’t know what was in them. But the way he described it in court, it didn’t happen that way. I didn’t find the documents he “left behind,” obviously. Even to my ears that sounds so far-fetched. But let’s face it, I was the aggrieved wife. I was famous, and everyone loved me—those who hadn’t forgotten about me, that is. Jim, on the other hand, had been outed as the cheating, thieving, philandering, murdering, lying husband who had tricked his way into getting government agencies to hand over a lot of money. They don’t like that, government agencies, as it turns out.

  With Terry’s testimony, no one looked too closely after that. No one was interested in restoring Jim’s good name. Which means that they didn’t even go near the whole boat business. What difference would it make, since we didn’t kill him? He was not meant to die that night. No one cared whether I rented the car, or the boat, or Lord knows what.

  The day they let me go, my lawyer gave a short statement on my behalf to the journalists gathered outside, while I stood silently next to him. When it was over, I looked around and saw her watching me from a few feet away. She waved at me. A small wave, her face inscrutable. But I know what it meant: a kind of warning. As if she were saying, Remember me? I’m still here. I stared back at her. Go burn in hell, Carol, I thought. Then I looked away.

  I ignored Sam sufficiently enough that he stopped contacting me, but I saw him again, just once. He was standing on the subway platform, his arm around the shoulders of a petite brunette with a pretty, dimpled smile. I was relieved they were back together, he and Barbara. He saw me, standing a few feet away, but he didn’t acknowledge me, and I just walked away.

  But there is one thing I did in all those months to while away the time. I thought of Frankie, the only person who believes in me, and I wanted to make him proud. So I sat down, pulled out my leather-bound notebooks, opened my laptop, and achieved something I didn’t know I had in me. I wrote a novel. I threw away everything Sam and I did, including that stupid backward first paragraph, and I started again.

  It’s the story of a woman who wakes up in a hospital after being hit by a car in an accident she can’t recall, and the only memory she retains of her life is that she murdered someone, but she doesn’t remember who or why. It’s a tale of obsession and guilt, and it spilled out of me as if guided by the hand of God. I dedicated it to Beatrice.

  I don’t see her anymore. Not since that last time, and I don’t even know if I dreamed it, or whether it really happened. But when Jim had his hands around my neck, I saw her, in the light that flashed for a fraction of a second. She was standing at the edge of my field of vision, smiling, and as my world turned to black, I watched her lift a finger, just a quick flip, before the burning lid fell to the floor.

  Forgive me, I almost wrote in the dedication.

  Traces in the Water, that’s what I called it. And it has done very well, my novel, after everything. Killing someone and getting hauled up in front of a Grand Jury is a fine publicity technique, as it happens, even if you don’t get indicted. They can’t print it fast enough. And everyone thinks the Twitter campaign was a stroke of genius.

  “There you are.” My handsome fiancé grins as he gets up to greet me. I’m filled with a wave of affection as I kiss him on the cheek. He takes my face in his hands and puts his lips to mine. I feel a shiver of pleasure down my spine.

  “Have you been waiting long?” I ask.

  “Not long,” he says, pulling my chair out for me to sit.

  “Emma Fern?”

  I’m still standing as I turn and look at the elegant woman standing by my side, smiling.

  “Yes, hello,” I say, extending a hand.

  “It’s lovely to meet you. I heard you moved to Port Jefferson. I’m so pleased. I just wanted to tell you how much I loved Traces in the Water.”

  “Thank you,” and as I gesture to introduce my fiancé, she turns to him and says, “The eminent economist. Of course. My husband and I are very familiar with your work.”

  Terry shakes her hand, all smiles, and for a moment it’s as if I’m not here, and I don’t mind one bit. I’m left out of the conversation as they talk policy and economy. I sit down and look out the window, at the waves gently slapping against the boats.

  I love it here. Most people think I’m crazy, after what happened. But in fact, it was my release, that night. I truly am free now, and I love this place. I love it so much that we bought a little house just down the road from Frankie’s.

  After Traces in the Water was published, I decided to retire from writing. Tend a vegetable garden, maybe. I’m still young enough to have children, and Terry and I want to start a family.

  We’re working on our house, renovating it together. We look like an ad for a bank loan, with paint in our hair, pastel colors on the walls, and the view of the bay in the distance. I saw myself in the future. Three children around us. In the kitchen, of course. I’m making them breakf
ast. Terry, my talented, intelligent husband, with his attaché case ready to go to work, kissing me goodbye, and I’m laughing in his hair because the dog has jumped up to get the children’s toast with strawberry jam. This is me now, I decided. It was always me. I’d just forgotten.

  But then, something incredible happened.

  The New York Times

  Emma Fern shortlisted for the Poulton Prize, again.

  By Pushpa Sharma

  Most of our readers are familiar with Emma Fern and her first novel, Long Grass Running. Three years ago, Ms. Fern won the prestigious Poulton Prize for this novel, and since then it has sold over four million copies all over the world. Being chosen was already a feat, since she’s only the second author to win the prize for a first novel. But now Ms. Fern has gone one better: she’s been shortlisted a second time, and should she win, she will be the only author to win twice.

  Already on the New York Times bestseller list for fiction, Traces in the Water is an unusual love story that promises to engage and delight even more readers in months to come.

  Ms. Fern’s husband, Jim Fern, the disgraced economist who himself has featured a number of times in the pages of this publication, died tragically eighteen months ago. Ms. Fern was subsequently presented in front of a Grand Jury, although not indicted.

  Frankie Badosa, the publisher of both Ms. Fern’s novels, has announced that the film rights for Long Grass Running have been acquired by Carmody Productions, with the main role rumored to be played by Jennifer Lawrence.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My heartfelt thanks to the lovely people at Thomas & Mercer, and especially to their editors, whose patience and sharp eyes helped bring this novel to life.

  To my dearest friends and family. You are always supportive and enthusiastic, and it means the world to me.

  And a massive thank you to my husband, who always ensures I am fed and watered while I plot my way into killing fictional ones.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Natalie Barelli can usually be found reading a book, and that book will more likely than not be a psychological thriller. Writing a novel was always on her bucket list, and eventually, with Until I Met Her, it became a reality. After He Killed Me is the second and final book in her Emma Fern Series.