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

by Natalie Barelli

  “I want to explain—”

  “Look at me, Carol, tell me the truth. Jim doesn’t know that you’re here, with me?”

  She looks at me, straight on. “I swear it, Emma. He doesn’t know. Right now he thinks I’ve gone to D.C. I swear it. I give you my word.”

  I snap my head toward her. I want to tell her that her word means nothing to me, but I have more important things to figure out right now. I take a breath. “Okay.”

  I know there’s a way out of this somehow. I can fix this. I can make it work. I just need to think.

  “So can I go?” she asks, in her little-girl voice again.

  I look back at her. “No.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”

  “From you? Nothing. But you’re going to stay here a while longer anyway.”

  I groan, putting both hands over my face. I have to think, fast.

  I text Frankie back:

  All set, thanks Frankie, talk tomorrow. E. Xx

  I take the coffee cup and the glass from the table and put them in the dishwasher. Then I go to the living room and retrieve the champagne evidence. I could kick myself for being so stupid as to leave that out in full view. I bring it all back to the kitchen, put the glasses in the dishwasher, empty the rest of the champagne bottle down the drain, and put it next to the garbage.

  I go to the living room where her purse is still lying next to the couch, and bring it back to the kitchen. She watches me pull out her phone. I turn it back on and give it to her.

  “Unlock it,” I say.

  She takes it from me, gingerly, as if it was going to blow up in her face, and a big part of me wishes it would. Then she hesitates, as if she can’t remember her own passcode.

  “Just unlock it, Carol.”

  She gives in and I watch her tap the numbers. Then she hands the phone back to me.

  “It’s not my fault,” she says. “None of this is my fault.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  I leave her there and go to the living room.

  I press the home button on her phone and I send a text, to a number I know by heart. I text Jim that I’ll be staying over in D.C. tonight, but I’ll call him tomorrow. And that he shouldn’t worry. I sign off, Love, Carol, and I turn off the phone.

  I go to the spare bedroom and grab the pillows and the quilt from the bed. I recognize the quilt. It’s a brand we sold in the store when I still owned it. I’d forgotten Frankie came in once. He wanted to buy it, but I gave it to him. I’m glad it’s here, in this house.

  But I need to stop reminiscing and start getting on with the task at hand. I take the pillows and quilt to the master bathroom. It has an old-fashioned door with a keyhole and a key, which fits on either side of it. It’s meant for the inside, of course, and normally that’s where it is, but not today. The other thing I like about this bathroom is that there’s no window as such. It has a narrow opening on the far wall, below the ceiling, with a pane of glass slightly angled to let in some air and light, but even if you could get up there, you’d never fit through. It’s only a few inches tall.

  I make a sort of bed on the tile floor, on top of the bath mat. I don’t even know why I’m trying to make Carol comfortable, after everything.

  I should get a halo.

  I didn’t sleep exactly, because I don’t know if I believed her or not. So I had to keep alert, in case he came for her. I listened for Carol too, all night long, but once she was settled in her makeshift bed, she was as quiet as a mouse. I waited in the dark, but I didn’t hear a peep out of her. I figured it’s because of all the drugs she’d ingested last night. I think she just crashed.

  But now the sun is shining, it’s going to be a lovely day, and I’ll be speaking in front of dozens of people. I pray that I’ll be able to keep it together. I’m on a panel at the Brooklyn Book Festival. It’s something I haven’t done in months, and I need to put my best foot forward.

  Before anything else, I check on Carol. I unlock the door, but keep it closed, wait a beat, push it open an inch, and finally put my head in to take a look at her.

  At first I think she’s still sleeping. She’s got her back to me, lying on the top of the quilt, her knees almost up to her chin, but then I hear her sniffle.

  “Hey, you awake?”

  She raises her head and turns to look at me, her face drawn. If she’s really had some sleep, I can’t tell from here.

  She nods, but doesn’t answer me.

  “We’ve got a couple hours before I go. I’m going to take a shower, arrange for a taxi, and then I’ll make us some breakfast. Okay?”

  She nods silently, and lies down again.

  “How long are you keeping me here?” she asks, her back to me.

  “A while longer.”

  I’ll get her to call him when I get back, and say that she’s here. She’ll tell him about the burner phone; that I lured her here and kidnapped her. That she was able to get to her phone, somehow. That he needs to come and get her.

  I lock the door again, and take a shower in the other bathroom. After I dress, I go to the kitchen and make us an omelet. I can’t hear Carol, so I may as well get this done first. I slice an onion, thinly, beat some eggs, grate a little of the Parmesan cheese, and cut up the ham. When I have everything ready to go, I call to organize a car to pick me up, and then I go and get Carol.

  I repeat my little drill: unlock but don’t open, open an inch and wait, put my head in slowly, then I walk in.

  “You need to get up now, Carol.”

  She doesn’t argue. She’s like a robot: pushes herself up, props herself on her knees, and uses the edge of the bathtub to help herself up. I go to her.

  “I’m fine,” she says, a little harshly. I raise my hands. “Okay.”

  She manages to shuffle slowly, and once we’re out of the bathroom, she lets me take her elbow. In the kitchen I help her to the chair.

  “I won’t tie you to the chair, since when I leave you’ll just have to go back to the bathroom.” I heat the skillet with a little olive oil and a dollop of butter. That’s a trick Moira taught me, but I don’t remember why it’s a good thing to mix them. Something about stopping the omelet from burning.

  I divide the omelet between two plates and put a fork on each. We’re sitting across from each other. I’m fascinated to see that she eats it without hesitation. If that were me, after the champagne trick last night, I wouldn’t touch it.

  Neither of us speaks, and when we’re done, I take her back to the bathroom. I watch her lie down on the makeshift bed, and just as I turn to leave, she speaks, in a tone I haven’t yet heard from her.

  “He was right about you.”

  I turn back to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re insane. Just like he said.” She hoists herself up to a sitting position, her features taut with hatred. I don’t know why it surprises me to see her like this.

  “He said the most terrible things about you,” she continues. “About how crazy you are. Sometimes I even wondered whether it was really true. But now I know. You’re so much worse.”

  I’m so shocked that I don’t know whether to laugh or lunge at her. Then she says, “You’d do anything to keep us apart. How long are you going to keep me here? Really?”

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, rocking my head back. It just shoots out of me and bounces against the tiles.

  She flinches at the noise, looks away, and starts to fiddle with the edges of the quilt.

  “You think this is about you?” I sneer. “You think I brought you here to keep you apart? And I’m the crazy one?”

  She snaps her head up toward me.

  “You know it is. You hate the fact that Jim wants me instead of you. I make him happy, and you can’t stand it. You’re vindictive and cruel and all the things—”

  “That’s enough!” I shout into her face. It takes an effort to control myself, but finally I manage, and I say, more calmly, “You c
an have him, Carol. You should have gone away together and not tried to pin it on me.”

  I raise my index finger and point it into her wincing face.

  “That’s what this is about.”

  When I leave, I lock the door. I know I lock it. I can see myself doing it, so I know that I have locked that door, and there is no way that Carol can get out.

  36

  We have a short rehearsal beforehand. It’s not really a rehearsal, just a meet-and-greet with my fellow panelists, to show us where we’ll be sitting, that sort of thing. I’ve missed the buzz of these events, and I’m loving being back on that stage; I am ready to shine. And to top it off, I am to be accompanied by three other women writers—yes, it is the topic of the day—and I’m thrilled that Elizabeth Halloway is also on the panel. She is my new favorite author, although I’m loathe to mention it to her. Beatrice used to be my favorite writer of all time and look where that got her.

  Elizabeth Halloway writes nonfiction—biographies. But they’re so good, I can’t put them down. Her style is so personal and so riveting, it’s better than fiction. She wrote a biography of Simone de Beauvoir, and I don’t mind saying normally that’s not my thing. But it concentrated on her relationships, and frankly, after reading it, I had to wonder how she could have been such a feminist, considering what a wet rag she was in her personal life. Sitting next to Elizabeth Halloway makes me feel like I’ve joined the big leagues, even though I’m the Poulton Prize winner. That says something.

  We start by introducing ourselves, recounting our histories, and I have slotted right back in there with the best of them. I talk about Long Grass Running, of course, but also about my new novel, and I can talk for a long time about it. The audience is wonderful and attentive, their faces uplifted toward us. They take notes whenever we say something, which always makes me laugh. What if I say something really stupid, like, I find the best way to get inspiration is to hold your breath for a minute or two before writing anything. Would they then do that? I don’t know why I think like that. Maybe Jim was right and I am a psychopath.

  Questions are flying from the audience, and my throat constricts a little when I hear his voice. I’d know it anywhere. I’ve heard it often enough lately. I wasn’t paying attention. I was filling my glass of water again, and my eyes were not on the audience.

  “This is a question for Emma Fern.”

  I snap my head up and there he is, standing, looking very genuine, as if he had never met me before.

  My fellow panelists are all looking at me. I realize I haven’t said anything yet.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hi, Sam Huntington. My question is this. Your first novel, Long Grass Running, which won the Poulton, as we all know—”

  There’s a murmur of assent in the room, and a few scattered claps.

  “—did you write it by yourself?”

  I don’t believe my ears. Everyone at our table chuckles, but I’m frozen; my face feels taut and my mouth is set. I try to breathe slowly and concentrate on relaxing my muscles.

  “I was fortunate to be mentored, if that’s your question, by Beatrice Johnson Greene. She helped me greatly.”

  “I understand. I’ll rephrase my question: Did she write any part of the novel?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I can feel the shift in the room. It’s such a strange and particularly offensive question, they’re waiting for me to be outraged. They’re probably wondering what’s taking me so long. I have to say something, but then Sam adds, “With you, I mean? Did you write the novel together? I’m wondering how you found the experience of being mentored.”

  I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  “She didn’t write it with me, no, but she helped me. I wrote a memoir about that.”

  “I see, thank you.” He sits back down.

  Is that it? His tone made it sound like I was on trial, as if I was facing the jury and Sam was the prosecutor. What an awful man he is. He’s sabotaging my event.

  “It’s surprising how often some readers question the authenticity of authorship,” Elizabeth says next to me, but in the general direction of the audience. “Because it is an interesting question, and people believe it happens much more than it really does.”

  They love this sort of conversation, of course, because they are for real. They are the real deal; they wrote their books, and it’s such fun to talk about people who pretend. People like me. But I suspect Elizabeth is trying to deflect the attention away from me, and I am touched by that.

  “It is, indeed,” I say, but that’s all I manage to say, because I’m shaking, and my mouth is trembling, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I lift the glass of water to my lips, but a little of it spills onto my notes.

  Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you okay? and I nod quickly.

  “It’s just that—” Sam is on his feet again and I’m going to die, I just know it, “—it was touched upon in the New Yorker article, that possibly you are not sufficiently crediting Beatrice Johnson Greene for her contribution. That’s all I mean. I wasn’t suggesting you plagiarized the novel! I assume you wouldn’t!”

  Now the panel is laughing out loud, as is the audience, and I force myself to join in. I’m paralyzed. The edges of the room have blurred slightly, and I focus on the door at the back to steady myself. I feel lightheaded. Maybe I should faint, blame the heat in here; tell them I’m pregnant.

  Sam sits back down, smiling crookedly at me. He makes me feel ill. I can’t believe I once thought it was a charming smile. One of my fellow panelists starts to tell a story about an author who was caught out stealing a book, and another who pretended to write an autobiography that turned out to be nothing like the life he lived, and everyone agrees these are really stupid things to do, since invariably people will get caught doing them. Someone will know you made up that existence, or you didn’t write the book. I nod throughout, and I pray that no one is looking too closely, because I can’t stop the tension from creeping through every fiber of my being, and I’m convinced I must be bright red.

  Finally someone else raises their hand, and we’re no longer talking about people stealing books. I breathe again slowly, gently, meditatively, and I pray that Sam will not stand again and ask another question. Or say something. But I’m going to sue this man when I’m done here. For slander. And hardship.

  When it’s over, we all stand, but I leave through the back exit before anyone has a chance to stop me. I almost race out of the place, but I feel someone catching my sleeve and I turn with as much force as I can muster, ready to punch him in the face.

  “That went really well, I think, don’t you?” Sam asks.

  He is standing right in front of me, looking wounded, as if it is me who has done wrong by him.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I always visit the book festival. This is my business, Emma. You know that.” He leans closer. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “You’re crazy.” I stare at him, then I look around me. There are people everywhere.

  “Why did you do that? Back there?” I ask.

  “I was trying to get your attention.”

  In spite of myself I let out a laugh. He puts a hand on my forearm, but I snatch it back.

  “Hey, don’t be like that. I saw your name in the program and I just came to see you. You can understand that, can’t you? How else can I see you if you don’t tell me where you are?”

  I just want to punch him. “I have to go,” I say.

  He grabs hold of my elbow. “I miss you.”

  “Don’t, Sam, please. Not here.”

  “Then where?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I just want to spend some time with you. I miss you. I miss what we did together.”

  “Cut it out, will you? We talked last night, for Christ’s sake. Are you stalking me? Are you a fake? Are you really a ghostwriter?”

  “That’s funny! You’re asking
me if I’m pretending to be a ghostwriter? That’d make me a ghost-ghostwriter, wouldn’t it? Of course I am. I wasn’t going to ask about that, back there. I’m a professional. I’d never tell, you know that. And I don’t just mean about us fucking.” He laughs, a jolly, loud laugh, and I make my decision right then and there. There will be no second novel. I have to get away from this creep. It’s like everyone is out to get me. I just can’t get a break. I’m going to tell Frankie. I’m going to tell him that I hired a ghostwriter to help me, but then I changed my mind, and I have to start again. I’ll think of another way.

  “It’s not working with you on the book I miss,” Sam says, “it’s you.”

  He’s crazy. He talks like we’re dating and it’s charming and How about dinner? I know this little romantic restaurant around the corner. You’ll love it; my treat, and all I can think is: This man is dangerous. I’m surrounded by dangerous men. And Carol.

  “I have to go,” I say, as I think to myself, If you kill three, and you promise to stop there, would that still make you a serial killer? No. Not if you promise. To stop there.

  I’ll stop there, I promise.

  I’m exhausted.

  I really feel like I don’t have my usual resilience. I could have handled this better, and normally I would, but there’s so much going on. I can’t wait to get home and get this whole Carol/Jim business out of my life.

  On my way to Cadman Plaza to find a taxi, I send a text to Frankie to tell him it went fine, and that I’ll call him when I get back. I’m sure that once I’ve had a Scotch or ten, things won’t seem so bad.

  There’s a line at the taxi stand, but I can’t be bothered to walk away and find one quicker. I’ll just wait my turn. There is a text alert on my phone, and I see that Frankie has replied.

  Great! And guess what? Change of plans. Surprise! We’re on our way, almost there, did I say Brad is a great cook too? Dinner’s on us, see you at the beach house. F. Xoxoxo

  My stomach doesn’t just lurch, it flips, then my heart stops beating, and my vision blurs and I’m going to be very sick. Right here on the sidewalk. I’m very sick now. I have to reread the text, but I can’t because the words are fuzzy and the letters are jumping, and I can’t make sense of it, but it can’t be what I think it is. It just can’t. I look around for somewhere to sit down, but I’m in a line waiting for a fucking cab that’s going to take hours to even show up because guess what! It’s rush hour. It’s always rush hour in this city.