Heartstopper

by Joy Fielding

“Can I get you something to drink? A Coke or some juice?”

  She plopped herself down on the sofa. “A Diet Coke.”

  That was it. No please or thank-you. No “That would be nice.” I got up from my chair and went to the kitchen. “You know, they say Diet Coke isn’t good for you,” I called back. “Supposedly it alters your brain waves.”

  “Then I guess you have nothing to worry about,” she said, then laughed that awful hyena-like laugh.

  At that precise moment—2:22 in the afternoon exactly, according to the digital clock on the stove—I decided to kill her. Actually, I’d been thinking about it for months, maybe even years, planning what I would do if I ever got the opportunity, thinking of ways to dispatch her with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of pain. At least for her. I wanted her to suffer in death, as she had made me suffer in life.

  “We don’t have any Diet Coke,” I lied, moving several cans to the back of the fridge. “How about a gin and tonic?”

  Did I mention she was a heavy drinker?

  “Now that’s a good idea,” she said, probably the nicest thing she’d said to me in years.

  “Trust me,” I said, removing the bottle of tonic from the fridge and locating the gin in the cabinet below the sink, expertly combining the two.

  There were always lots of pills around the house. I rifled through several kitchen drawers, found an old prescription bottle of Percodan, crushed the six remaining pills, then emptied them into her gin and tonic. Talk about altering your brain waves. Then I returned to the living room and handed her the drink.

  “Took you long enough,” she said. Not “Thank you” or “You’re so kind.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, watching her down half the glass in one gulp.

  “Not bad,” she pronounced, taking another sip, then leaning back, lapsing into silence, seemingly lost in thought. She took another sip, made a face, lowered the glass to the floor.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Tastes bitter.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to?”

  “You probably put in too much tonic.”

  “I can add some more gin,” I offered helpfully.

  She looked toward her almost empty glass, then jumped to her feet. “No, that’s all right. I should get going.”

  “Why don’t you stay awhile?” I urged in my most conciliatory voice. “We don’t get much opportunity to talk these days.”

  “You want to talk?” She seemed surprised, maybe even flattered.

  “How are you managing these days?” I asked.

  “How am I managing? What kind of question is that?”

  “How’s your job at the bank?”

  She made a clucking sound deep in her throat, her mouth folding into a frown. “It’s awful. If Al hadn’t been such an idiot about finances, I wouldn’t be in this position. Anyway, I better go and make myself beautiful.”

  “You already are beautiful,” I told her, almost gagging on the words.

  She smiled, patted her frizzy hair. “Why, thank you. That was very sweet.” She leaned over to kiss my forehead, stumbled slightly. “Oh,” she said, touching the side of her head with the shoes in her hand.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I just got a little dizzy all of a sudden.”

  “Maybe you should sit down.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” She took several steps toward the door, then stopped, her body swaying.

  “Maybe I should drive you,” I volunteered.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly fine. I just stood up too fast, that’s all.” She reached for the door handle, missed it by several inches.

  I was right behind her. “Okay, look. I’m supposed to be meeting somebody in half an hour.” Another lie. I wasn’t meeting anyone. “You can give me a lift as far as your place.”

  She neither agreed nor offered any protest as I reached across her and opened the front door, then guided her toward her dark green Buick. True to form, she sloughed my hand from her elbow and rebuffed my attempt to open her car door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “You can help by keeping quiet.”

  So the drive back to her house was silent. The only sound was the increasingly ragged sound of her breathing. I kept a close eye on both my aunt and the road. One of the reasons I chose to accompany her was to make sure that no innocent people were mowed down along the way. It was my aunt’s demise I sought. No one else’s.

  Of course, that was then. This, as they say, is now.

  Anyway, by the time she pulled into the driveway of her small, two-story, wood-framed house with its bright red door and chipped white paint, she was wobbly, and she seemed almost grateful when I offered to accompany her inside. She even let me carry her shoes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she kept saying. Then, more accusingly: “There must have been something off with that gin.”

  The front door opened directly into the living room. The furniture was that ultramodern crap, all sharp angles and strange shapes. Mostly red. She loved red. “I think you should lie down for a while,” I said as we walked through the tiny dining area to the steep staircase beside the kitchen at the back. Upstairs were two small bedrooms and one bathroom. I assumed I’d find what I needed in at least one of those rooms. If not, there was always the kitchen.

  “Just a second,” I said as we reached the top of the stairs.

  “What?” Her look was as accusatory as her voice.

  “This,” I said simply. Then I pushed her with all my might.

  It happened so fast it was almost a blur. I’ve had to learn to slow the fall down, as if I were pressing a slow-motion button in my head, so that I can truly enjoy the sight of her as she flew backward through the air, her feet swooping up toward her head as her arms shot out from her sides like wings, her back crashing against the thin red carpet that ran up the middle of the hard wooden stairs, her body bouncing between the steps and the wall as she continued falling until she reached the bottom, landing with both her hands flung above her head, her legs splayed indelicately, exposing the white panties beneath her blue linen sundress.

  She was moaning and semiconscious when I reached her side. Blood was pouring from her left ear and her eyes were rolling back and forth in their sockets. I couldn’t be sure whether she was about to black out or come to, so I knew I had to work fast. I quickly removed her beige sandals and replaced one of them with one of her black, high-heeled shoes. “Shouldn’t wear such high heels,” I scolded. “Don’t you know they’re killers?”

  I hurled her other shoe against the wall and watched it leave a scuff mark in the white paint before bouncing down several steps, eventually landing five steps short of the floor. Then I raced back up the stairs and put her sandals in her closet. That’s when I found what else I was looking for.

  A large plastic bag.

  It was wrapped around a pair of black silk pants, pants she’d recently gotten back from the cleaners and had probably intended to wear on her date that night. I tore the bag from the hanger, careful to make sure there were no telltale pieces of plastic left lying about, then carried the bag down the stairs to where my aunt lay. Her eyes were closed as I lifted her head into my arms, then began carefully slipping the bag over her head.

  Her eyes suddenly opened wide. “What are you …?” she managed to sputter before I got the bag fully over her nose and mouth. In her already weakened and precarious state, she was no match for me. I think she was probably dying anyway, but I couldn’t take the chance that she might linger until her date arrived and managed to get her to the hospital in time to save her life. And ruin mine.

  So I held on tight, feeling her squirm, watching the breath slowly seep from her body, her eyes growing wider with each agonizing breath. At least I hope it was agonizing. I believe I actually felt her heart stop, but I held on for another five minutes before carefully removing the plastic bag from her head and closing her eyes with my fingers. I knew that e
veryone would assume she’d taken a nasty tumble down the stairs in those ridiculously high heels and died as the result of the fall. Everyone knew she enjoyed a drink or two in the afternoon. No one would be probing any deeper.

  Don’t go looking for trouble. Isn’t that what they say?

  And I was right. They didn’t. Her death was quickly classified as accidental. The sheriff, out of respect for my family, decided against an autopsy. What was the point in cutting her up? It was perfectly obvious what had happened to her. What could be gained by prolonging everyone’s grief? Such are the joys of small-town life. And death.

  We buried her next to my uncle. Everybody mourned. Including me, of course. I believe I even managed a few tears.

  So that’s it. One down.

  Fast forward almost three years later. Two more girls are dead. That makes it three down.

  And more to come.

  I’m feeling better already.

  NINETEEN

  Megan was feeling sick to her stomach. And not because she’d eaten something disagreeable, which she hadn’t, because she had absolutely no appetite and was seriously considering never eating again, or because she’d had too much to drink, which she hadn’t because she didn’t like the taste of alcohol and so had never felt the slightest temptation to get drunk, or even because she’d smoked too much weed, which she hadn’t, because all she’d had were a few puffs, and besides, everyone knew that marijuana didn’t upset your stomach. No, she was feeling queasy because she’d made a fool of herself with Greg Watt in front of half the school at last night’s wake, and then he’d ditched her, also in front of everybody, and she still had no idea what she’d said or done wrong. One minute they were having a nice conversation about his mother, and the next minute he was walking away, and that was the end of it. He’d avoided her for the rest of the night. Or at least for the next hour, which was all the neglect she could stand, and so she’d gone home without telling anyone she was leaving, left without Tim, whose side she’d promised to stick to like glue, and snuck out of the park and walked home. Alone, at night, in the dark, with a murderer on the loose, as her mother had reiterated—how many times?—after Tim had shown up at their door at almost the same moment their mother had arrived home in a taxi. And now Megan was grounded. No going out for the next month, except to school and for rehearsals, which her mother insisted she attend, ostensibly because she didn’t think it fair to deprive poor Mr. Lipsman of his leading lady, but more probably because Megan had been so willing to forgo them. And now her cell phone had been confiscated and her computer removed from her room. Which was probably a blessing in disguise, Megan thought, considering the gossip that was probably circulating right this second in chat lines throughout America, and that, more than anything, was what was making Megan feel sick to her stomach. That and what her mother would say if and when she found out about Greg Watt.

  Not that her mother was one to talk, Megan decided. She hadn’t exactly looked all that great when she’d arrived home at just minutes before midnight. Megan had watched Sandy slowly extricate herself from her taxi and teeter toward the front door as if she were sidestepping pieces of broken glass. She’d only had a few seconds to wonder what had happened to Rita when to her horror she saw Tim rounding the corner. “Mom?” he’d called out. “Is Megan home?”

  “What? What do you mean? Isn’t she with you?” And then the front door was opening and closing, and the hysteria was rising, before crashing down around all their heads. “What do you mean, you don’t know where she is? What do you mean, you couldn’t find her? Did you look? Did you look everywhere?”

  And stupid her. Stupid for thinking that simply by announcing her presence, her mother would be so glad to see her, and so relieved to know she was safe and sound and not in the clutches of some slavering maniac, all would be forgiven.

  All was definitely not forgiven.

  After the initial euphoria, the frantic kisses on her cheek, the trembling fingers clutching proprietarily at Megan’s sides, Sandy’s face had grown dark and angry. “What do you mean, you left without telling your brother? You were supposed to stick together. Why weren’t you together? Where were you? Who were you with? What do you mean, you walked home by yourself? Don’t you know there’s a killer out there? I can’t believe you’re that stupid. What aren’t you telling me?” And then, without waiting for an explanation: “You’re grounded.”

  Of course Megan had tried to change her mother’s mind, but each protest of innocence had served only to cement her guilt. Sandy, while clearly not herself—even a mouthful of Altoids hadn’t been enough to disguise the alcohol on her breath—was perceptive enough to know when her daughter was hiding something from her, and she would not be coddled, mollified, or thrown off course. Ultimately, Megan had fled to her room in tears.

  When Sandy had knocked on her door some fifteen minutes later, Megan had assumed she’d had a change of heart and had come to apologize. Instead, her mother had unhooked her computer and unplugged her phone, as well as seized her cell phone from her purse. Instead of an apology, she’d announced, “I’m very disappointed in you, Megan.” Which meant that she was expecting Megan to apologize to her.

  Apologize and explain.

  How can I explain? Megan wondered now, picturing herself in Greg’s surprisingly gentle arms, his fingers twisting around her hair, his tongue teasing the inside of her mouth. She could still taste the beer and cigarettes on his breath, could hear the hurt in his voice when he talked about his mother. She’d felt so close to him. Was that it? Had she strayed too close? “I’m such an idiot,” she moaned, falling back on her bed and staring up at the quietly rotating ceiling fan.

  “Okay, sweetheart. Have a good time. And be careful,” she heard her mother telling Tim as the front door opened and closed.

  She should go out there and apologize, Megan decided. Get it over with. Act suitably contrite and hope her mother would relent or, at the very least, give her back her cell phone. Sandy would ask a few questions that were none of her business and Megan would flatter her with a few well-placed lies—“You were right, Mom. I never should have gone to Liana’s wake. I didn’t realize how upsetting it would be. Of course I should have said something to Tim, but he was talking to some boys in his class, and I know how concerned you’ve been about him not having any friends, and I didn’t want to interrupt them—you know how easily embarrassed he gets and I knew he’d insist on walking me home—and, yes, I realize now how stupid it was, and I’m really very sorry. I promise I’ll never do anything that stupid ever again. Can you forgive me?”

  Oh, and by the way, what were you doing last night that you came home in a taxi, and why did you smell like liquor, and where was Rita? Answer me that before you take anything else away from me.

  Okay, so maybe not in those exact words, Megan was thinking as the phone rang, then rang twice more before Sandy finally picked it up. Megan stood still, waited for the sound of her mother’s voice.

  “Rita, hello,” her mother said, although she didn’t sound too glad to hear from her friend. “I’ve been meaning to call you all day…. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry you were so worried.”

  So, her mother’s behavior had caused Rita concern. What had she done?

  “I would have called you last night when I got home, but it was late and … No, it didn’t go exactly the way I’d hoped.” Sandy paused. Megan could almost feel her sneaking a peek over her shoulder, making sure no one was listening. “Actually, it turned out I didn’t know him,” her mother continued, raising Megan’s interest even further by lowering her voice. Megan took several baby steps into the hallway. “Yes, I know what I said, what he said, but he wasn’t a former neighbor after all. In fact, I’d never seen him before in my life.”

  Seen who? What was her mother talking about?

  “Yes, I know it was reckless. Trust me, I know. I’ve been kicking myself all night.”

  What had her mother done?

  “I know. I know.”r />
  What did her mother know?

  “You don’t want to know,” her mother told her friend.

  Yes, we do, Megan answered silently. We most definitely want to know.

  “Well, we drove around for a little while,” Sandy obliged. “Did I tell you he drove a Porsche?”

  Her mother had gone for a ride with someone who drove a Porsche?

  “Yes, I know that shouldn’t mean anything, but what can I say? I’m shallow and I was impressed.”

  Me too, Megan thought, inching closer, trying to picture Sandy in her red-and-white print silk dress in the passenger seat of a Porsche.

  “And then he said something about being hungry, and I assumed we were going to a restaurant, but then he said he had some chicken at his apartment…. I know it’s the oldest line in the book, you don’t have to tell me that, but it’s a book I haven’t read in a very long time. And he was being so sweet, and he made me feel, I don’t know, as if he was completely innocent and that if I didn’t come up to his apartment, then I was the one with the problem.”

  Megan released a deep breath of air. For the first time in a long while, she understood exactly what her mother was talking about.

  “Yes, I went,” Sandy continued. “And, no, of course there wasn’t any chicken. At least none that I saw. But, no, nothing happened. I mean, he tried, and when I refused, he got a little insulting, more than a little actually. I think ‘pathetic’ was one of the kinder words he used.”

  Megan gasped, then threw her hands across her mouth. How awful, she thought. Her mother was hardly pathetic.

  “And he threw me out of his apartment, and then I threw up in the lobby…. Yes, I guess you could call it poetic justice, except it didn’t feel that way at the time. It just felt awful. So I took a cab home…. No, of course I wasn’t going to call you. After abandoning you the way I did? Not a chance. I may be shallow and stupid, but I’m not totally insensitive. Besides, I didn’t have a clue where I was. How’d the rest of your evening go, by the way?”

  So, let’s get this straight, Megan thought. Her mother had ditched her good friend to run off with some stranger in a Porsche, then risked her life for a piece of chicken, then thrown up in the lobby of a strange apartment building, then climbed into another stranger’s cab? Her mother? The same one who’d lectured her about walking home from the park alone when there was a murderer on the loose? The one who’d taken away her phone and computer privileges and grounded her for a month? That mother?