by Leah Konen
Fear etched its way through me as I stared at this woman.
It had been Rachel. Always Rachel. Never Vera. Always Rachel.
My heart pounded. What had I done? What the fuck had I done?
My stomach churned. I didn’t want it to be true. But I knew, all the same, that it was.
The knife glinted in the light, twisting in her hand. I had to keep her talking. I had to buy myself time. “But how did you . . . how did you actually kill him?” I asked. “How did you know where he’d be?”
“You think they never made their Van Gogh joke with me around?” Rachel said. “When I saw the three of you head out together in John’s truck, I had this feeling. I drove to the hike, saw his truck there, waited in the parking lot. When the police cars came, it was obvious what you were up to. I headed to their cabin, which was conveniently unlocked, and waited for him to arrive. I knew Vera would never believe me, no matter how much proof I gave her. She was lovesick for John. I knew she’d never let him go, never let me take care of her, be the friend that she needed, unless he was actually dead.”
Rachel laughed bitterly. “You should have seen the look on his face when he walked in and found me, when I stabbed him before he could so much as ask me what I was doing there. He never expected all his lies to catch up with him. He was so surprised, so tired from hiking off the trail for however many miles, he could hardly even fight back.”
My heart ached, and grief flooded my body. So that was it—those were John’s last moments. Death at the hands of a former friend.
It was gruesome. Pointless. Unthinkable.
But I couldn’t break down now. I had to keep her talking. Keep her focused on anything but the knife in her hand. “Why did you break into my cottage in the middle of the night and leave that note for me? Why make it look like Sam did it?”
Rachel bit her lip. “Because you were about to report your break-ins to the police. If they started digging, they’d figure out that the locks were never changed. I needed to point you to Sam, at least long enough for me to get the knife to Vera. Show her that Lucy, her supposed best friend, had killed her husband. I was saving the note and the photos for after you were arrested. I knew, once she saw them, learned that they were kept preciously in your underwear drawer, she’d realize you were never a friend to her at all. That my falling-out with her was just a blip, and I was right all along. Once she could truly see who John was, who you were, once he was no longer around to twist the truth, to gaslight her, she’d come back to me. We’d be friends again. Best friends, like we used to be.” She pressed her lips together, then gripped the envelope tightly. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will, trust me. I’ll find a way to use this, to make the police finally understand exactly who you are, what you did to her.”
“You can’t,” I said. “I won’t let you.”
Rachel laughed. “What are you going to do, attack me like you did her? They won’t buy the whole self-defense song and dance twice.” She studied me. “She loved you, she gave you everything, and you destroyed her.”
“I’ll call McKnight,” I said quickly. “I’ll tell him what you did. I’ll find a way to prove it. I’ll tell him you showed me the note, and you still have those photos somewhere. I’ll tell him it was you who planted my underwear. I’ll tell him everything . . .”
“Will you? If you do, if they for some reason believe your ever-changing story, what are you going to tell them about what you did to Vera?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to— It was an accident.”
“No, Lucy, you very much did mean to. Because I know Vera, better than you ever will. She never got physical. Her words could be cutting enough. No way on earth did she attack you first. It was you, your anger, your inability to control yourself, just like your inability to keep your legs shut. You meant to kill her. Just like I meant to kill John.”
“No,” I said. “No, I didn’t.”
Her voice was suddenly crazed, her grip on the knife even tighter. “I would never have done any of this if I knew you were so unhinged. I never thought you’d find the knife and kill her. At least when my anger boiled over, it was toward someone who actually deserved it. You killed Vera. You killed the best friend either of us ever had. Don’t think it’s over. Don’t think people won’t discover what you’re capable of. I’ll find a way to show them.” Rachel glanced at the knife in her hand, as if remembering it was there. “Or fuck it, maybe I’ll just punish you myself.”
I swallowed, heart racing, as Dusty whined again at my feet. So much had gone wrong, so many misunderstandings, so many destroyed lives, but I wasn’t ready to lose mine, too. I had to do something. Something to knock her off balance, before she killed me, too.
“You were wrong,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You were wrong about John.”
“No I wasn’t,” she said. “He was trash. He didn’t deserve her.”
I forced the words out, even though my heart was pounding, my palms sweating from fear.
“He wasn’t trash,” I said. “Claire told me the baby wasn’t even his. She got pregnant by some guy her age, at a party in Poughkeepsie. She was embarrassed. The guy never called her, and she didn’t know his last name. She was afraid to go to her parents, she was afraid everyone would slut-shame her—”
“And you believe her?” Rachel snapped.
I kept going, forcing confidence into my voice. “She went to the only adult she could trust. She went to John. That’s why he looked up Planned Parenthood. That’s why he found directions to the clinic. He did the right thing. He helped her when no one else would.”
“No,” Rachel said, but already, her grip on the knife was loosening, her hand hovering lower by her side. “No, you’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?” I asked. “Don’t you think I feel sick, knowing this all happened for nothing?”
“John fucked a teenager,” she said. “Vera adored him, and he shit all over their marriage.”
“Only, he didn’t,” I said. “And the truth is—and you must know this, deep down—that if you’d only believed him, if you’d only ignored the rumors, none of this would have happened.”
Rachel stared at me, her grip faltering even more.
“If you’d been the friend Vera needed, if you’d supported her the way she needed to be supported instead of going straight to judging her husband, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have cut you out. She wouldn’t have befriended me. You wouldn’t have killed John, and I wouldn’t have hurt her. She’d be alive today if you’d done things differently.”
Rachel’s face fell, her eyes welling, and I could see it, that a part of her, even one so very slight, believed me.
I could see it, clear as day. This was my chance.
I rushed forward, checking her with my shoulder.
Rachel staggered back, dropping the knife as her hands instinctively braced to break her fall.
I pounced, grabbing it quickly, and Dusty ran toward me. I scooped him up, holding him close.
She struggled to push herself up, but I waved the knife in front of me. “Don’t you fucking move,” I said as I backed away slowly, toward the door. “You’re a murderer,” I said. “You killed him for nothing.”
I expected her to push herself up, come after me anyway, but Rachel only lifted her eyes to mine, and I swear I’d never seen anyone so sad, so broken.
“So are you.”
FIFTY-TWO
I didn’t let go of the knife.
I rushed to the living room, Dusty whining as I held him close, looped my bag onto my shoulder, and ran, quick as I could, out to my car.
I didn’t let go of it until I had Dusty in his crate, until my key was in the ignition, until I was pulling away from Rachel’s house, leaving behind the woman who’d killed John, who wanted to kill me, too.
When I was at the corner, I rolled down the window, chucked her knife out the window, onto the street.
I sped through town, hardly knowing where I was going, but eventually, we were back at my cottage. I rushed inside, letting Dusty free, then slammed the door behind me, so hard it shook the bookshelf. Dusty scrambled away, hiding beneath the sofa, only his tail sticking out.
It was then that it fully hit me:
I had killed Vera for nothing. I had killed my best friend.
She’d done nothing but love me, and I’d killed her.
Deep within me, the hatch split open, only it was directed at me this time.
Me, a monster. Me, a killer.
My nostrils flared as I gasped for breath. I took two quick steps, and before I could think to stop myself, before I could close and lock the hatch again, my hands were on the bookshelf. I jerked it, easily, like one of those moms lifting a car to save their baby, pinned beneath it. It clattered to the floor, wood cracking, its guts, its books, spilling out as Dusty whined. But it wasn’t enough. It was never fucking enough. Pushing the sofa aside, I lifted up the coffee table, letting glasses slip off it, and overturned it so it smashed into the floor. In the kitchen, I grabbed plates, chucking them against the tile, against the window Davis had broken in the back door. I tore drapes from the windows, ripped sheets from the bed. Overturned a desk, knocked framed prints off the walls, breaking their glass as I sent them crashing onto the floor.
I undid it all, everything I’d worked so carefully to keep neat and tidy.
All the work I’d done to make sure I’d know it if Davis ever came here.
Only, it wasn’t him I had to worry about. It was them. All of them.
It was me.
I screamed, grabbing the lamp from my nightstand, smashing it against the wall until the drywall split, filling the room with dust, until my arms were tired, until tears coursed down my cheeks, until I felt glass shards beneath my feet, until my socks turned bloody.
I had killed Vera, the woman who said she’d protect me.
I had murdered her, just as Rachel said.
I was worse, even, than I could have ever imagined. An uglier person than I’d ever known.
I lifted the lamp over my head and brought it, once more, against the wall, and as I did, I saw him.
I saw the look on Davis’s face as I’d lifted that whiskey bottle, bringing it down, crashing, over his head, as I’d fully let the hatch open for the first time in years, decided I wasn’t going to take his controlling bullshit, his mind games, his emotional manipulation, the bruises he left when I was sleeping—none of it—anymore.
I saw him fall to the floor of our apartment. I saw him passed out, unmoving. I saw myself, realizing what I’d done, that the bruises he’d given me had long faded, that I’d been too stupid, too ashamed, to capture any proof.
I saw myself rushing to the bathroom and lifting the bottle, smashing it into my own cheek. Taking a photo of my bruise when it had appeared the next day. I knew I’d broken an unspoken agreement between us. He called the shots, I followed the rules. I knew he’d want to punish me, I knew he’d want to destroy anything I still cared about, destroy me, but I knew that Davis put appearances above all. I knew that if he did find me, that photo would be my only chance to stop him . . .
I let the lamp clatter to the ground, shaking my head.
I couldn’t put it off any longer. I had to leave now, before Rachel made her next move.
I rushed back into the living room, making my way through the destruction until I found my purse, tossed aside near the front door. Dusty was still whimpering, cowering beneath the sofa.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “We’ll go soon.”
There was a knock at the door, jolting me.
Digging in my purse, I pulled out my phone, keyed in 911, ready to dial it if needed. Then I went to the bedroom, grabbed my dad’s hammer, the only thing I had to protect myself.
Pulse pounding, mucus thick in my throat, I crept to the window, nudged back the drapes, expecting to see Rachel, to lift the hammer overhead if I had to . . .
But the phone, the hammer, clattered to the ground.
It wasn’t Rachel.
It was Detective McKnight.
FIFTY-THREE
The cold air snapped at me as I stepped onto the porch and quickly shut the door behind me.
My heart beat furiously—had Rachel called McKnight so quickly, told him what she knew? That I’d killed Vera? That self-defense was a tenuous excuse, that Vera wasn’t the type to attack? Not physically, at least.
McKnight nodded to the door.
“It’s a wreck in there,” I said, spitballing. “Dusty’s been sick and, well, grief, you know.”
He shrugged. “You’re not cold?”
I finished buttoning my coat, which I’d slipped on quickly before opening the door. “I’m fine. How can I help you?”
He cleared his throat and leaned against the side of my cottage, taking me in. It had stopped snowing, but the sun was on its way to setting soon, the air getting even cooler.
Finally, he stood up straight, pulled a folder out from beneath his arm. “I hate to have to do this . . .”
My mouth went dry, any security I’d had quickly slipping away.
This isn’t over.
I swallowed, knowing that these were the last moments of freedom I’d have. I thought of Dusty, inside, probably still hiding beneath the sofa. Who would take care of him when I was gone? Who would love him like I did?
McKnight sighed, sending a plume of steam into the air, before shifting the folder to his other hand. “See, the thing is, it always bothered me, when it turned out there was no record of you having ever lived in Brooklyn. Your reasoning made sense, but it was one of those things that stuck out to me. Like a rock in your shoe. Drives you nuts.”
I swallowed, hardly knowing what to say, how to defend myself now. It was too late. He knew too much. Knew I was a liar. Knew it all.
When I didn’t speak, McKnight went on. “Believe me, it took some time to figure it out. I thought I was being paranoid, but a lead came through, clearing up a lot of the questions I had. The truth always comes out eventually. Doesn’t it?”
I licked my lips, waiting for the rest of it. Get it over with, I wanted to tell him. Just put me out of this misery. Take me away.
McKnight nodded to the folder. “Before I give you this, I want to tell you that I understand why you did what you did. I’ve been on the force going on twenty years. I know that there are some things—some people—who are impossible to put behind you.”
My eyes narrowed, because I didn’t understand. Why was he being kind, empathetic, even? Was it all just an act?
Just do it, I begged again. Finish me.
He shifted his weight. “I really don’t think anyone would blame you, if they knew the whole story.”
I looked down at my feet. I didn’t understand him. I didn’t understand any of this.
“Miss Williams,” McKnight said, only the tiniest hint of a question in his voice. “Olivia Williams.”
I looked up at him, then blinked slowly, confirming. I took a deep breath, waiting for the rest, for him to slide all the pieces together . . .
“I know your ex was abusive,” McKnight said. “And I know that’s why you didn’t want to give me your real name.” He squeezed tighter at the folder in his hands. “And look, I’m going to edit the official reports, but I’m not going to make a thing of this in the press. My supervisor is already breathing down my neck after we bungled it with Mr. Alby. But even so, the law is the law, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t give you this.”
He pressed the folder into my hands and I slowly opened it, my eyes flitting over the paper, trying to make it make sense.
“Legally, you can’t give a false name
to an officer, but you’re lucky. ‘False personation’”—he pointed to the official charge, printed in blackest ink—“it’s only a misdemeanor. Class B, which means it’s up to my discretion whether to arrest you or allow you to wait out your court date at home. I spoke with Jennifer Moon—she says you’ve elected to extend your rental agreement another month, so I don’t believe you’re a flight risk. But it is a criminal charge. You’ll want to procure a lawyer. The court date is printed there at the bottom.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“My best advice? Plead out. Explain your situation. Collect any evidence you have of the abuse. Come down to the station when you’re ready, and report the break-in by your ex. With all the extenuating circumstances, most likely scenario is going to be a fine and community service.”
I looked back up at him, searching his face, waiting to see if there was anything more. I could hardly believe that, after everything, there wasn’t.
McKnight offered me a weak smile. “And don’t ever do it again. If you’re in danger, if you’re afraid to give your real name, tell an officer that. We’ll do everything we can to protect you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “Goodbye, Miss Williams.”
I lifted my chin. “Goodbye.”
Calm as I could, I went back into my cottage, shutting the door behind me. “Dusty,” I called, and after a minute, he came out from under the sofa.
I looked around at my destroyed home. “I’m sorry about that,” I said to him. “I’m sorry about everything.”
I lifted up my purse and retrieved my wallet.
Stilling my hands, I pulled out my New York State ID. Lucy King. Born October 12, 1992. Brown hair, brown eyes. Five foot six. Organ donor. Address not all that far from here, in Poughkeepsie.
I fingered the ID, then shoved it into my back pocket, zippered the wallet shut, and headed to the bedroom. Kicking shards of glass out of the way, I pushed the bed aside and, using a piece of wood split from the remnants of my dresser, worked to pry up the floorboard.
Splinters had pierced my fingers by the time I got it open.
