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

by Natalie Barelli

  “I just want to get some things done. Did you sleep well?”

  “I certainly did,” he replies. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck as he puts his arms around my waist. “You hungry?” he asks. “I can make some eggs if you like.”

  I turn and hand him a cup of coffee, smiling at the sight of him, all clean and pressed. “Really? Thanks, Jim, that would be lovely. I’d love some eggs.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I sit at the kitchen table as he fetches the eggs from the refrigerator and goes about the business of beating them.

  “Great success last night. Congratulations again, my darling.”

  “Thanks.” He smiles. “Yeah, I think we met our expectations. I’ll find out more today.”

  “The food was wonderful,” I say.

  “Wasn’t it? Everyone said so. I knew the night would turn out well when I saw Plummer was there. And you know who else . . . ?”

  I’ve stopped listening. I’m busy watching Jim make us scrambled eggs, a smile on my face.

  “Terry must be pleased,” I say when he serves them up for us.

  “I’m sure he is.” He picks up his cell and starts to scroll through his messages and emails, already back in work mode.

  “Everything all right at the Forum?” I ask.

  He looks up. “What do you mean?”

  “Terry mentioned things have been a bit slow, financially.”

  “Really?” He puts his fork down on his plate, attentive. “What did he say exactly?”

  I take a moment, casting my mind back to the conversation. “Nothing too specific. Just that you could use the cash, basically. He said something about an audit too.” I shake my head. “I can’t quite remember, to be honest.”

  “Well, I have no idea what Terry’s talking about,” he says dismissively, and goes back to his phone.

  “Really? He was surprised that you hadn’t mentioned anything to me about it.”

  He looks at me, but doesn’t reply.

  “You know, if you needed some money, to tide you over while things are slow, you could always draw some from the savings account. I don’t mind.”

  I am at the kitchen counter when I say this, refilling my cup from the coffee pot. He doesn’t say anything, and I turn to look at him to make sure he’s heard me.

  He’s staring at me, frowning. Didn’t he think I would do this for him?

  “The savings account?”

  “Yes! That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? For a rainy day?” I smile.

  There’s a pause, before he asks, “When was the last time you checked the account, Em?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I try to remember. I haven’t made any big purchases for a while, so I’ve had no need to check, and I never open the statements. I let Jim do that. “Maybe last December, when we drew on it to go to St. Barts, I think.”

  That wonderful vacation, just the two us. I’d never seen sea that color, somewhere between turquoise and green. And the sand, so pale and—

  “Sorry, darling?” Something Jim says pulls me back to the present.

  “There’s no money left in the savings account, Em. I can’t believe you don’t know that.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, “of course there is. That’s where the royalties from my book are deposited. Every month.”

  “There are no royalties, Emma. There’s hardly anything going into that account these days. You should take a look.”

  And then he laughs. Not a big laugh; more like a chuckle. As if I’d said something silly, when all I’d meant to do was to offer him some money, to help him out, unprompted. He goes back to his phone. He doesn’t even notice how shocked his words have made me. He’s too busy scrolling through his emails.

  “What are you up to today?” he asks, distractedly, as if that other conversation no longer matters.

  “Not much, just—” I was about to say shopping, but that doesn’t seem wise anymore. “A few calls, talk to Frankie, work on my new book.”

  He gets up and wipes the corner of his mouth with two fingers.

  “I have to get going. I’ll see you tonight, darling.” He leans in and kisses me, and I sit a moment longer, sipping my coffee, listening to the sounds of my husband going to work. Coat, keys, door, elevator.

  I wait a little while after he’s gone, attuned to the silence in the apartment. I sit and wait, and listen, in case he’s forgotten something and comes back. It’s nice to just listen sometimes. It can be very relaxing, very settling, to be still and just listen. However, this is not one of those times. I am upset, trying not to let it morph into anger. There’s no money? When’s the last time you checked, Em? I can’t believe you don’t know that. I hate that tone he takes with me sometimes. I really do.

  The first thing I do is go to my office, to my desk, and check if my credit card is there. I can’t see it. Just as I thought, it’s not there. I shouldn’t have listened to Jim. He must have seen it on a different day, and now Lord knows how much money has been stolen before I get to cancel it. The stress is making me clench my teeth. I’m more annoyed at him than anything else. That he stopped me from reporting it.

  And then I see it, just the edge of it, jutting out from under the keyboard. I press my finger down on its corner and slide it out.

  That’s good, obviously, in a way, but it worries me nonetheless. I feel like I’m losing my grip on things. I can’t believe you don’t know that, Em.

  I fire up the laptop and check my bank account online, and sure enough, there’s just under ten thousand dollars in the savings account. Not quite the riches we have gotten used to. This apartment, which I frankly dislike more and more, is costing us so much money it’s not funny. It seemed like a good idea at the time—just like everything else we did together—living through the past year or so as if the money would never end.

  I get up and go to his office, where the documents are kept. Where Jim meticulously files all our bank statements.

  I never go in there. I have no need to. It’s a nice enough room, with a desk and a small filing cabinet. There are a multitude of books on economics on the shelves covering the walls, and a plush armchair in the corner with a little side table next to it. I put it there thinking he would like a comfortable corner to sit and refer to his books, and read his papers, but I don’t think he ever uses it. Everything he does is on the laptop, which is right there, on the desk.

  I try the filing cabinet. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly, but since Jim can’t believe I don’t know that, maybe I should find out more about the state of our affairs. Except it’s locked, Lord knows why.

  That was actually incredibly generous of me, to offer to help him—yet again, I might add—out of a tight financial spot. It’s all very well starting a business about economics research—how about running it like you know what you’re talking about? Now there’s a novel idea.

  Because, let’s face it, why Jim thought the Forum would ever be successful is anyone’s guess, considering the whole thing is built on a lie. It would have taken a miracle—and here we are, not a single one of those on the horizon. So, no. Jim, Carol, Terry, and the Forum have not set the world on fire. Surprise, surprise. And yet does this knowledge stop me from trying to help? From believing in him? Certainly not. For better or for worse. I didn’t just memorize those words and recite them by rote, I took them to heart and made them my motto. I am always happy to step in and offer to help my husband in any way I can.

  I sit in his chair, trying to remember the last time I did that, without success. I run my hands over the surface of his wooden desk; not a speck of dust. Then I turn on the computer, and I am greeted with a password field. That I can understand. Anyway, since I don’t know the password, I shut down the laptop.

  Then I call Frankie.

  “Well of course, it’s what happens, Emma. You had a good run, but no writer is going to stay on the bestseller list forever—”

  “Did anyone tell J.K. Rowling that?”<
br />
  “—with only a single novel under your belt. Emma, don’t be like that. You should be writing the next one. I keep telling you that. I’ve asked you a hundred times to give me another novel.”

  So it’s true, there is no money left. I wonder how long we can keep this apartment if that is the case. Jim’s salary is substantial, but not enough to keep us in this lifestyle. That part has been down to me. Although I can’t say I’ll be sorry if we have to give it up. I miss my little house in Woodhaven. It was fun playing grown-up and getting this massive, elegant apartment in Midtown Manhattan, sure, but it doesn’t delight me the way that little house did.

  I sigh. “It takes time, Frankie, surely you know that.”

  “You always say that. What’s taking you so long?”

  “Stop saying ‘so long,’ please, Frankie! It’s not that long!”

  “It’s long enough.”

  I love Frankie. He is my publisher, my agent, and most importantly, my friend. He took a chance on me when I brought him my little manuscript, and he took it on and gave it everything he had. And I mean everything. He turned me from would-be novelist to prize-winning author, and I turned him from the brink of bankruptcy to the top of his game. So what we have is a symbiotic relationship. He needs me as much as I need him. But right now, he’s driving me crazy. I need him to stop harassing me about writing the next one. At least he has the decency not to bring up the fact I’m under contract and behind the deadline.

  It’s funny really, but I always forget that I didn’t write the first one. I’m so used to being known as its author, I’ve come to believe it myself. I couldn’t write a novel to save my life. I stole Long Grass Running—accidentally, mind you—but that’s another story.

  I chuckle to myself. Maybe I should have thought of this predicament before I killed Beatrice, the real author. She’s not there to write another one, is she? Maybe that’s why she’s stalking me in my dreams; why she appears wherever she can. She’s probably laughing at me. Oh well, at least I’m still here, and she brought it upon herself anyway. But now I’m stuck with Frankie breathing down my neck about the next one.

  “What about the movie rights?” I blurt out. “How’s that going?”

  There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Why don’t you do some work too? It’s not just down to me, buddy, you’re the agent/publisher, after all. We’ve been talking about those movie rights for long enough. Almost as long as the next one.

  “Progressing very nicely. Still waiting to hear back on a couple things, but we’re close.”

  “Really? So that’s good news, right?”

  “Fingers crossed. I could have a nice surprise for you real soon.”

  “Seriously? Soon?”

  “Maybe. Now go away and write something, Emma, please. Otherwise we’ll both be out of business.”

  It’s not like I haven’t tried to write another novel. I did try, sort of, but it’s no use. I am inspirationally challenged. I can’t think of a story, or a plot, or a character that I would want to spend any time with, so now I don’t bother anymore. I vaguely assumed something would turn up. I have no idea what, or why I’d even think that was a possibility, but I thought I had more time at least.

  “Well, who knows? Maybe the New Yorker piece is going to rekindle sales,” I say, hopeful. I am to be interviewed: they’re doing quite a big profile, in fact, for their Poulton Prize winners series. Next week, I think.

  “Rekindle, probably not. You’ll get a few from that, yes, but it’s not going to solve your problems. Just go and write that book, Emma, okay?”

  6

  Just go and write that book, Emma, okay?

  How am I supposed to do that, Frankie?

  There’s no doubt it was an interesting coincidence that someone in my position should meet a nice ghostwriter. Just like that.

  Until now, the only idea I had was to steal another novel. And how would I do that? That’s the question that has been occupying my mind these past few months. There was one possibility that I thought “had legs”: I could get a job teaching. Not to become a teacher, obviously, but because I figured that creative writing courses teeming with bright young minds writing bright novels would love someone like me to give them a hand. I even researched the various colleges and writing centers in the area. I had no doubt I could teach a summer school and that I’d do very well at it. I may not be able to write, but I know what makes good writing.

  Anyway, I didn’t get this far, because I didn’t think I would need to so soon. I thought I’d have more time. But apparently not.

  My evil plan was to offer a creative writing course. Something like “Dust Off Your First Draft with Emma Fern, winner of the Poulton etc., etc.” I figured there’d be lots of sign-ups, and I would keep my fingers crossed that one of my students had a masterpiece tucked up his or her sleeve. Then I’d steal it, and give it to Frankie. Et voilà. Problem solved.

  Of course, the weak link here is the student, and that’s the part I hadn’t quite figured out. If I killed them, which at one point in the not-too-distant past would have been my first reaction, then that would mean snuffing out a young life, and, frankly, I’m not a monster. Also, I was concerned it would make me a serial killer. I’ve killed two people in my life already. Does that make me a serial killer? I don’t know. I don’t think it should, but it probably does. It’s like those languages you hear about, Inuit or something, where they only have words for “one” and “many,” but never just “two or three.” So I guess killing is the same. You kill one, or you kill many, but there’s no in-between.

  But killing a young person—I assume all students are young, which is stupid of me, but never mind—who has done nothing to harm me, whose only crime is to have written something I want for myself? I don’t think murder is justified there, try as I might.

  No, I thought money might be the answer. But therein lies the slight problem—that I don’t have much money anymore, so that’s out now, isn’t it? Surely young Hemingway is going to want a piece of the pie, and that slice is going to have to be significant before they’re prepared to part with their baby. And I know what I’m talking about, when I say part with. It’s what got me into trouble in the first place.

  So no, I haven’t put that plan in motion, for all the reasons stated above. But God is my friend, the Lord is my savior, and I am blessed. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me Sam. I know that now. The timing is too good. It’s perfect. This is the hand of God at work. Which is why I call Sam.

  “Hey, Emma Fern,” he says brightly after I’ve told him it’s me. “Are you calling me to meet up? You realize I don’t want your money for the dry cleaning, but maybe if I don’t tell you that, you’ll meet me again for more coffee and conversation. What do you think?”

  I laugh. “What happens when I try to repay you?”

  “Oh, I’ll make sure to distract you, then by the time you get home, you’ll have to call me again to set up another meeting.”

  “Well, let’s start with coffee and conversation and I’ll see where it gets me.”

  “You have a deal,” he says. “What are you up to right now?”

  “I’m looking at your website, as it happens. Very informative.”

  “Is it?”

  “Definitely. Eleven New York Times bestsellers in the past five years!”

  “Thank you for noticing. And of those eleven, six are fiction by the way.”

  “I saw that. Very impressive! Which titles would these be?”

  “Now, now, Emma Fern. That would be telling.”

  “Still, it says here your books have been published by HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, Random House, and the list goes on and on!”

  “Wow, Emma, I’m really flattered. You’re reading my website back to me. I don’t think anyone has done that for me before. Except maybe my web designer.”

  I laugh.

  “What do you think of my ‘About Me’ page?” he asks.

  “Let me take a look. Ah! I knew
it. It says you’re forty-one years old.”

  “How old did you think I was?”

  “Forty-one years old.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t look a day over forty.”

  “It says here you were born in Austin, Texas, and that you studied Literature and Business.”

  And that his office is in Midtown. Which is where I live, so that’s an added bonus. Or another divine sign.

  “Okay, stop it,” he says. “You’re embarrassing me now. I’m going to take my website down if you keep going.”

  “Sorry. I’m impressed, though.”

  “Thank you. So when can we meet for coffee?”

  I sigh. “I’m a little busy at the moment. Can we say in a couple days?”

  “That long? You owe me money, remember?”

  I like this man. He really makes me laugh. I hope we can be friends.

  “I’m good for it, Sam, trust me.”

  “All right, I believe you, Emma Fern.”

  After I hang up, I google other ghostwriters and it’s amazing. It’s becoming clear to me that ghostwriting is not the realm of the loser, the would-be writer who can’t string a sentence together, the pseudo-intellectual who can’t do his or her own research; the untalented, the unwanted, the great literary unwashed—i.e., me.

  No, this truly is a revelation. There are statistics out there that point to fifty percent of books in one’s local bookstore being ghostwritten. That seems high to me, so let’s halve that, and we still have a nice twenty-five percent.

  I am elated. Thank you, Lord, for the helping hand you have given me.

  But should I find someone different? The fact that Sam knows I am Emma Fern worries me. Maybe I should work with someone else, under a pseudonym. But then I wonder, can people do that? Sign a contract under a pseudonym?

  While I’m pretty close to making a decision, I decide to sleep on it. Next time I see him, I can find out more about the process. Under the guise of “just talking” about his work. And if it does feel comfortable, then I think I would like to work with him. That’s what it is: working together. People do it all the time, work with a ghostwriter. People on the New York Times bestseller list. At least eleven of them in the past five years.