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

by Natalie Barelli

  There are no personal photos though, I notice, but books and books and books in tall shelves against the walls. It’s got a nice feeling, this place.

  Sam indicates the couch for me to sit on and he chooses the armchair. On the coffee table is a copy of Long Grass Running with bits of paper sticking out; place markers, I gather.

  “So,” I begin, “how do we do this?”

  “We talk, that’s all. Do you mind if I take some notes?”

  He already has a notepad on his lap.

  “No, that’s fine. But I haven’t decided yet. Not exactly.”

  “I know. Tell me what’s happening. Let’s start with that. How are you feeling?”

  “Did I come to the wrong office? Should I be lying on the couch?”

  “You’d be surprised. But no, not right now.” He puts the notepad on the coffee table and leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

  “You see, Emma, the more I know about what you want, and how you feel, the easier it will be. It’s the consultation stage. You can decide not to go ahead at any time.”

  “All right.”

  I’m very nervous. My chest feels a little tight.

  “I haven’t been able to write, basically,” I say. “My friend, you see . . .” I take a big breath. “She died, but she’s the one who helped me write . . . this.” I point to the book on the table. “Without her, I haven’t been able to finish anything.”

  “That seems perfectly normal to me. You’re talking about Beatrice Johnson Greene, aren’t you.” It’s not a question.

  “Yes.” I feel my eyes water a little, which is a neat trick I’ve mastered. Like Pavlov’s dog. I’ve had to do so many interviews where I’ve been asked about poor dead Beatrice, that I’ve trained myself to think about the day my mother died in response. That always makes me sad. I’m so good at this now, I don’t even need to think about my mother. The trigger works on its own.

  “I imagine her death was very hard on you,” he says gently.

  “So we are having a counseling session.” I smile.

  “We don’t have to. But I just wanted to say that I understand how you must feel.”

  “It’s just that I miss her, and I also feel a little—how can I explain?—guilty. She mentored me, you know.”

  He nods.

  “Anyway,” I sigh, “what else can I say? I’m stuck. I have writer’s block, I guess.”

  “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid.”

  “Of not doing as well without her? Of course I am.”

  “No. Afraid of doing just as well without her.”

  Okay, I did not see that coming. I take a moment to think about this. I like this man. I already like where we’re going with this.

  “Well, either way, I don’t think I’m going to solve the problem by myself, so that’s what I’m here for. I need some help, Doctor Sam.”

  “And that’s what I’m here for. And another thing, Emma. It’s very common to be stuck, as you put it, when you’ve already had one big success, especially when you’ve won a prestigious prize, as you have.”

  “Have you had—what do you call them?—cases like this?”

  “Clients. Yes, I have.”

  “Did they win a prize?”

  “No.” He smiles. “I can write a very good book, but I can’t perform miracles.”

  “Pity,” I say, then I change gears. It’s time to get down to business. “Sam, as you can imagine, I have a bunch of questions. I’d like to start with those if that’s okay with you.”

  “Shoot.”

  It takes a while. I want to know everything, I need to. What about confidentiality? What are the contract terms? How long does it take? When I ask how much it costs, he tells me that in my case, it’s expensive. For a moment I think he’s making a joke, but his face says otherwise.

  “Why?”

  “Because my fee is different depending on who is publishing the novel, how important the author is, that sort of thing.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  I raise my hand to my chest. “You’ve shocked me. There’s no way I can afford that much money.” I stand up, pick up my purse. “If I’d known, I would never—”

  “Sit down, Emma. There are other ways.”

  I look at him, then slowly I sit back down.

  “You can give me a share of the royalties. There are many writers who choose that option.”

  “I see. But everything still remains confidential?”

  “Of course, that’s no different.”

  “How big a share?” Although I don’t know why I ask, it’s not like I have much of a choice, but the number he quotes is not unreasonable. Let’s say that it doesn’t make me stand up and leave.

  I nod. “Okay, I can work with that.”

  “You can shop around, but you’ll find my terms are standard.”

  “I believe you.”

  I sign the contract right there and then. He’s surprised, shocked almost. He says I should take it away with me, show it to a lawyer; at the very least to someone I trust, like my husband. “No need,” I tell him. “I’m here now. Let’s do it.”

  “As you wish,” he says, almost shrugging.

  “Can we begin right away?” I ask.

  “Of course. But first I need some coffee. You want some?”

  “Coffee would be good, thanks.”

  He gets up, goes through a door that I assume leads to a kitchen of some sort. I pull out my notebook but then I change my mind and put it away. I want to tell it, not read it from my notes.

  Sam returns with two steaming cups on a small tray. He settles down in the same armchair as before, notepad ready. He looks at me.

  “Now, I’d like to talk about Long Grass Running, which I’ve read, of course, but I’d also like to get a fresh sense of your style, your idiosyncrasies, so to speak, and I have—”

  “No. Stop right there.”

  “Okay.” He raises an eyebrow.

  “I want to write something completely different. I don’t want to revisit the past. And I definitely don’t want to write something that takes place there. In the past, I mean. I want to write something modern and original. That’s why I’ve been having such trouble, in fact.”

  “Okay. But if you’re going to change the style and time and space, then it would still be good to keep your voice in there; the more I can read of it the better. Do you have anything of yours I can read? Other than this?” He points his chin to the book on the table.

  “No. There’s nothing I’m prepared to show you, put it that way.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He looks away, as if trying to decide what the next step should be.

  “But I have a story,” I say.

  “You do? That’s good. Let’s hear it.”

  I center myself, close my eyes.

  “You don’t have to start at the beginning, if that helps,” he says.

  “It’s all right. I got it.” And I do. I dive into my story. My hands fly around as I describe the rain-splattered sidewalks, the windowpanes and glass doorways; how the character easily slips from one reflective surface to the other; how the woman he is following has no idea of his presence. Sam takes notes, nods, and sometimes he interrupts me to ask a question. We talk about the point of view. We discuss the symbolism of the imagery. I come to think that my story is about being madly in love, but trapped, not being heard or seen. Living beside the object of your desire, but being invisible. He talks about surrealism in literature, the juxtaposition of reality and the imagination. I’m not interested in that. I just want it to make my heart beat. I interrupt him. We explore the directions the story could take, talking over each other. It’s exhilarating, so excited are we by the ideas we’re having, and when he leans across and puts his hand over my mouth because he wants me to listen, I fall backward in laughter. His enthusiasm is contagious—or is it mine that infects him? I begin to
really love my little story. It now sounds unusual, unexpected, and engaging at the same time.

  12

  It’s not even five in the afternoon when I get back, and as soon as I open the door, I know something is wrong. It’s just a feeling, like a false note. I see Jim’s bag in the hall. I’m about to call out for him when I hear him whisper.

  “Emma!”

  I gasp, look around, but I can’t see Jim. But I can still hear him.

  “Emma!”

  “Jim?”

  “Ssshhhh! Emma, over here!”

  His head appears through the doorway on the other side of the living room; the doorway that leads to a small corridor, and then to his office. I hurry across the living room, somewhat baffled by his hand signals, which alternate between Come over here! and Be quiet!

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sshhh!” he hisses.

  He takes my hand and holds me close, then he says quietly in my ear, “Can you look inside, but be careful, so they don’t see you, okay? And tell me if there’s a green dot on my laptop screen.”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  “Shh! Shhh, Emma! Quiet, please. Come over here, look inside the office, and tell me if you can see the green light for the webcam! At the top. Is the webcam on?”

  He smells of sweat—and something else, acrid. I realize with a start that he’s not well, but I nod and do as he says, and he takes hold of my arm and makes us swap positions, so we do an odd little dance. Now I’m next to the door to his office, my back against the wall, and I slowly turn my head to peer inside and—

  “OH MY GOD WE’VE BEEN BURGLED!”

  He pulls me back, but I shake him off and walk in, and there’s stuff everywhere. Papers, books, files, boxes open and spilling out, all over the floor, all over the chair, all over the desk.

  “Is the light on? The computer webcam on top of the screen. Is it on?” he asks sharply from the doorway.

  I’m in shock. Everywhere I look there is chaos. “When did this happen? Is anything missing?”

  “Emma!” he calls out again. I look at his computer screen, I can see the dot, but barely. It’s not lit up. I go closer and peer into it.

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I’m sure!” I slam the laptop shut. “Jesus, Jim, what’s happened here? Did we get robbed? Have you checked the rest of the house?”

  He comes in now, shakily. He looks closely at the laptop, even though it’s shut.

  “Jim!”

  “No no no no, we didn’t get robbed. I’m working. That’s all.”

  I wait for the rest of the sentence, expecting something more. Something about coming home to this, or the police are on their way, but he doesn’t say anything else.

  “This is you?”

  “I have a lot on, Emma.”

  I look around the room, and I’m getting scared now, because I really think Jim has lost his mind.

  “You did this?”

  He tries to explain, but falters.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s . . . work. I’m being watched.”

  “What?”

  “They’re filming me, or watching me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why? Who?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that.” He waves a finger at me. “I have a very good idea who’s doing it.”

  “So who?”

  He looks around, as if he’s only just noticed the mess in here, and he bends down quickly to retrieve the files and papers scattered around. I touch his shoulder and he shakes me off.

  “Stop! Jim! Who is watching you?”

  “They want—it’s because of the—oh fuck, Emma, my work is competitive, okay? If someone steals our algorithms, then we’re screwed. Okay? You get that?” He stands and pokes the side of his head really hard and he repeats it: “You get that?”

  “Jim, stop, calm down.”

  I move closer and look into his eyes. Is he on drugs? I can’t tell. I’ve never seen him like this before. My heart is beating fast in my chest, and I take a deep breath, force myself to calm down. If Jim needs help right now, I need to be in control.

  I take both his hands in mine. “How did it start?”

  “They’re—it’s our research, you know? Someone is trying to mess with it; with me. That’s why I have to work from home.” He looks around, fast and furtive at the same time, he’s like a trapped animal.

  “You’ve been here all day?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Okay, listen, let’s tidy this up. I’ll help.”

  “No!” He quickly gathers some of the papers on the floor, haphazardly. Piles them up in a mess on the desk.

  “Jim, stop. Come with me. Let’s go in the living room.”

  I crouch and take his arm, but he flings me off. I do it again. “Leave it!” he says. But I won’t leave it, and eventually, after a few tries, he lets himself be coaxed and I gently guide him to the couch, holding his hand. We sit down and it’s as if he can barely see me.

  I pull him to me and we sit a while, his head resting against my shoulder. I stroke his hair until finally I feel his breathing slow down. My thoughts tumble over each other. Is Jim being paranoid? He certainly shows all the signs, but maybe it’s true what he’s saying. He’s being spied on. That would explain why he’s been spending more time working at home. Still, something isn’t right.

  “I’m going to make us something to eat, okay?”

  He pulls himself away and nods, runs a hand over his face.

  I help him lie down on the couch, and put a cushion under his head. I look at him. His eyes are closed, and he seems comfortable. When I look up, I catch her in the window behind the couch. Beatrice. One side of her mouth raised in a half smile; a smirk. I turn and go to the kitchen.

  I put both hands on the rim of the sink and bow my head. In the past few days, Jim has been acting more and more strangely. I did believe him, when he said it was work that made him stressed. Maybe it is about the money, what Terry said that night. Could it be? Even that wouldn’t explain what I’ve just seen. I’m scared that he’s having some kind of nervous breakdown. I run the faucet and pat some cold water onto my face.

  I get some eggs and ham from the refrigerator. I’m going to make us an omelet. He needs to eat, that’s the problem. He’s probably got a bug of some kind. Terry said everyone was falling ill at the Forum; that’s undoubtedly part of it. Jim hasn’t been well, but he hasn’t stopped working—the opposite in fact—and he hasn’t been eating enough.

  I reach for the milk and spot the bottle of white wine in the refrigerator door. I pull it out and pour myself a glass. I deserve it. I need it. It will calm me down.

  I cut the ham, beat the eggs. I force myself to concentrate, watching the butter sizzle and foam in the pan. A small hot spurt lands on my hand and I lick it off. Surely he’s concerned about the data; the fake data. He must be going out of his mind about it. What are we going to do? I can’t get my thoughts in order. By the time I serve the omelet on our plates, I’m surprised to see the bottle of wine is empty.

  “You don’t know what I’m going through, Em, the pressure I’m under,” Jim says, as I put our plates down on the coffee table. His tone is gentler now. He sits up, runs a hand over his face.

  “I know, darling.”

  “You don’t. You have no idea.” He sighs, and says something I never expected to hear from his lips. “Maybe I should move on. Give up the Forum. We could start again, you and me, move, do something different, together. You and me.”

  My heart makes a leap. I stare at him. He still has a hand over his eyes. He moves it across his face to wipe what I see are tears.

  “We can, darling. We can do anything we like. I’m here for you. We can do this together.” I’m slurring my words.

  “You don’t know what it’s like. The pressure, the secrets . . .”

  I don’t quite catch the last words, but I think it’s “the fear.”r />
  Neither of us says anything. All I can think is that Jim has no idea what I’ve been through. None.

  “Won’t you eat something?” I ask, but when I look back at him, he’s asleep, his breathing slow and regular. I lean back, put my head on his shoulder.

  “I know about secrets and fear. And guilt,” I murmur. “You think I don’t, but I do.”

  I’m drunk, I shouldn’t say it, but I can’t help myself.

  “I was there, you know, when she died. God. It was awful.”

  I wait, expecting some kind of indication that he heard me, but he’s asleep, his hand over his eyes, snoring softly.

  “Beatrice. She’s everywhere. She scares me. She haunts me.” And then softly, very quietly, I put my lips to his ear and I whisper, “I killed her, you know.”

  “Hey.”

  I open my eyes. Jim is gently touching my cheek. He’s smiling at me. His hair is still damp from his shower. He’s freshly shaven and his clothes are neat and pressed, and for a moment I believe that I dreamed the whole “Jim has gone crazy” thing.

  No, I didn’t. I sit up in bed.

  “Hey yourself. What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty. You don’t mind that I woke you? I have to go to work, but I wanted us to talk.”

  “No, of course. I’m so glad you did!”

  I take his face in my hands and look into his eyes. They’re a bit red, a bit bloodshot, but I think he’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.

  “I’m sorry, Emma, I really am. Here.”

  There’s a tray on the bedside table, with a steaming cup of coffee, a fried egg on toast, a glass of orange juice, and a cutout paper flower balancing in a small glass.