by Merry Jones
“Was she your girlfriend? Because that’s what Derek said, that she was your girlfriend.”
“Derek’s a psychopath.”
“She said it, too. She told me she was your girlfriend. So? Was she?”
I felt his breath on my face. Smelled Old Spice. “You’re the only woman I ever loved, Elle.”
So. It was true. He’d had an affair with her. Otherwise, he’d have insisted, No. Of course not. She was crazy, obsessed. She made it up. But he didn’t say any of that. Didn’t even try to deny it. Even now, when he was dead, my gut twisted with betrayal. The air got sucked from my lungs.
“Damn you, Charlie.”
“You’re right. If I were you, I’d have killed me. I was a shit.”
Wait. He was agreeing with me?
“You were right about all of it. I lied. I cheated. I did shady business deals, got involved in things that even I thought stunk. I was a skunk, Elle. I didn’t deserve you. I’m sorry.”
He sounded sincere, but I wasn’t convinced, had long since steeled myself against Charlie’s charm. But my shoulders tingled as if enclosed by a soft warm cloud. As if Charlie was there, en-folding me. Embracing me. And for that moment, while he held me, I was comforted. Not afraid of dying. Willing to be dead as long as he would be there with me.
“I wasn’t a good man, Elle.” His whisper was a caress. “I wasn’t always good to you. But I loved you when I was alive. I still love you. I always will love you. That’s really all that matters in the end.”
In the end, he was probably right. But was it the end? I pictured the grassy plot of ground, twin headstones. Charlie lying encased beside me. Suddenly, none of our problems—money, secrets, lies, infidelity, even murder—none of that seemed important. In the end, facing eternity, all that was important was that the two of us would be together.
“I love you, too, Charlie.” I said it out loud. I meant it, too. But I don’t know if he heard me. Because just then, something in the hallway crashed or exploded. Men were shouting. Somebody screamed. Somebody cursed. Footsteps pounded, fast.
Maybe they’d found the forty-five.
It didn’t matter anymore if I made noise. Whatever was going on in my house was loud enough that no one would notice anything I did, chaotic enough that no one would care. I crawled into the storage compartment to grab a nine iron.
“No, not that.” Charlie stopped me. “Take this.”
I looked in the corner, on the shelf. Noticed a small black case.
“Open it.”
I took it down, unfastened the clasp. So, they hadn’t found the forty-five. It was here, in the closet.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” I’d been hiding there all that time, could have used a gun.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t need it.”
But now I did?
Footsteps stampeded down the hallway. Something shattered. Someone yelped. I turned on the closet light, looking at the thing. It was ugly, dark blue, dangerous. Smelled oily. Weighed a ton. I wondered how to load it. Had no idea.
“Hold it like this,” Charlie instructed. “And slide the clip in here, into the grip—”
Clip? Grip? I didn’t know the terms, but he guided me.
“The cartridges are already in the clip—”
“Cartridges?” I thought of ink.
“Bullets.”
Oh. Right. Those kinds of cartridges. There were boxes of them in the case.
“Pull the slide back, that’s right. And release it. Now you’re ready to shoot.”
Was I?
Armed and powerful, I stood tall, stretched my back, took a deep breath. And stepped into the outer closet.
Charlie warned me to stay back. To ignore the commotion and stay hidden. To use the gun only as a last resort.
But I was tired of being passive. I stood opposite the closet door, knees slightly bent, aiming the gun at it with both hands, ready to shoot anyone who opened it.
Something crashed in the hallway. Damn—the table. Grandma’s Wedgwood—What the hell was going on? Did Derek and Joel think that, since they couldn’t find me, they might as well trash my house? Were they turning on each other, frustrated that I’d gotten away? What was wrong with them? Why couldn’t they just leave?
More pounding footsteps, shouting. A grunt, close by.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Joel’s voice seemed to come from the living room.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Damned if I know.” Derek panted, sounded as if he was just outside the closet door.
He was. The door flew open and Derek dove in.
“Stop, Derek.” The forty-five stared at him, maybe six feet away, ready to fire.
He didn’t stop.
“I swear I’ll shoot.”
He kept coming, wide-eyed, arms outstretched as if to tackle me.
Not this time.
Charlie called, “Elle, wait!” but too late. The recoil knocked me against the closet wall. The bang rattled my ears, pounded my already throbbing skull.
Derek was still staring at me when he went down.
Grasping the gun, shaking, I stared at Derek, confused. He was facedown, dead. A heap on the floor of my closet. I’d just shot him in the chest. So why was there a knife protruding from his back?
I recognized the knife. It was mine. From my kitchen.
Not again, I thought.
Not again? Wait. What?
Déjà vu. Something told me this had happened before. That I’d found this very same knife once before, in someone else’s back.
Why was that? Why couldn’t I remember? And what was I doing in the closet holding a gun? Where were all the coats—I opened the door, saw coats strewn all across the hallway. Loose hangers. And Grandma’s Wedgwood collection, broken. Shards everywhere on the hardwood floor.
What had happened here?
The knife, I thought. I had to find out about the knife in the man’s back. There were voices in the study, and I started down the hallway, stepping over cushions, books. Broken bottles. Shoes. A vase. It looked as if someone had gone through the house throwing things. Confused, I waded through clutter, following sounds.
The study door was open just a crack. I peeked in. Saw the bar in disarray. Bottles overturned. Scotch and beer spilling onto the floor. Voices coming from the desk. I closed my eyes, strained to hear.
“I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
Was that Charlie?
“We’re done.”
It was, yes, Charlie. What was he doing in there? He didn’t live in this house anymore, had no business showing up unexpectedly. He had his own apartment now. And who was in there with him?
I stood in the hall, unable to see them without opening the door. But I didn’t want them to notice me. Wanted to hear what they were up to. I pushed the door just a hair, then another. Trying to see without being seen.
And somehow, I could. I didn’t have to open the door. I simply could see inside the room. Charlie sat at the desk. The other man faced him, his back to me.
“You have so much, damn it. You wouldn’t miss it.” Whose voice was that?
“It will never be enough. If I give you money this time, what about next week? Next month? Do you think I want to support you? Why should I? No one supported me. No one gave me a check every time I messed up. I made my money all by myself, like a grown-up.” Charlie stood, leaned on his desk. “You want money? Grow up. Go get a job.”
“Christ, don’t get self-righteous on me.” The guy stood, too. Faced Charlie eye to eye. “Don’t pretend you sweated and toiled in honest labor. You’re just like me, only you con richer people.”
“In no way am I like you. We share parents. Nothing else.”
Parents? The guy was Ted?
And Ted didn’t give up. “Think of it this way, Charlie. You’re divorced now. You don’t have to support your wife anymore. And what I need has to be a lot less than she cost you.”
“Your point?”
“Even if you help me out, you’ll still come out ahead.”
Charlie shook his head. “My wife fucked me. What have you done?” He huffed off to the bar. Reached for the Scotch—but the bottle was upright. The glasses, too. Nothing had spilled or been knocked over. “I’m not giving you another dime.”
Ted followed him. Stood behind him. “I’m asking one more time. Last chance, Charlie.”
Last chance?
Charlie poured a drink. “Get lost.” Waved goodbye, dismissing Ted without even turning around.
Oh God. I needed to call out—to warn Charlie—I remembered. I knew what was going to happen. The knife. Ted was going to grab it off the bar and stab Charlie.
“Look out!” I raced into the study, shouting. “Charlie—he’s got the knife.”
Both men whirled around, facing me, agog. Neither of them was Charlie.
But one of them was Ted.
Ted. Looking at him, I remembered. All of it. In a flash.
I’d been in the kitchen, making a snack. Cutting an orange. And I heard a sudden shout—the knife slipped, stabbing my hand. Oh God. Who was in the house—prowlers? Burglars? Holding the knife like a dagger, I crept down the hall, following voices to the study. I stood outside, listening. Recognizing who was in there. Charlie and his brother. Arguing again. Ted asking for money again. But this time, Charlie refused. Ted stormed out of the study, irate. Fuming. Not even noticing me there in the corner.
What were they doing in there? In my house? Indignant, I flew into the study. “What the hell is going on?” I reminded Charlie that we were separated, that he had no right to barge into my home, much less to bring his drugged-out junkie brother with him. I demanded that he leave. That he give me his keys. That he respect my privacy. That he stop drinking my liquor.
Charlie swallowed Scotch, watching me, waiting for me to finish. When I did, he put the glass down on the bar, held out a cocktail napkin. “Elf, your hand is bleeding.”
I looked. Lord. It really was. Blood ran down the knife I still held, dripped onto the carpet. Charlie took the knife, set it on the bar, pressed the napkin against my hand. But I pulled away, hurried across the hall to the powder room. Rinsed the wound, wrapped it in a towel.
I was coming out of the powder room when Ted ran out of the study. Wait. He’d already left. Had he come back? Why? I watched him run down the hall, heard him slam the front door.
And then I went back into the study.
Charlie dropped his glass of Scotch. Stood facing the door, eyes meeting mine.
“Elle—”
I was still angry. Didn’t care what he had to say. “You better go.”
His eyes were too steady. Intense. “Elle—”
Why did he keep saying my name? He took a step toward me, awkwardly, sloshing his drink, spilling some. He steadied himself, took another unsteady step.
“Charlie?” Something was wrong. Was he drugged? Had Ted slipped something into his drink?
His eyes were fixed on mine. Didn’t waver.
“What’s wrong?” I got to him just as he fell into my arms, knocking me backward. We both fell, tumbled to the floor, me under him, a pile of legs and arms. I called his name, examined his face. Was he having a heart attack? A stroke?
Charlie tried to get up. Pulled himself onto all fours. I scrambled to get out from under him, and he held onto my shoulders to push himself to his feet. I put an arm around him. My hand was bleeding. At first I thought it was my blood that had soaked his shirt. I twisted to look at his back.
And that’s when I saw the knife.
My knife. The one he’d taken from my hand. The one I’d cut myself with. But, what had happened?
Ted. Of course. He’d come back, seen the knife on the bar and, when Charlie dismissed him again, stabbed him. That’s why he’d run away.
Charlie squeezed my arm. A death grip.
“Charlie, let go. I need to call 911.”
“Why?” Charlie looked baffled. Maybe he didn’t grasp what had happened. Was in shock.
“You’ve been stabbed.”
“Why?”
“Come, sit down.” I helped him to the sofa, aware that the wound was deep, near his heart.
“Was it money?” His voice was raspy.
Probably it was. Money was what Ted always wanted from Charlie. “Sit, Charlie. Be careful. Here, lean this way so you don’t move the knife.”
“Why would you do this?”
Why would I? “I didn’t—it was Ted.”
“No. Ted left.”
“No, Charlie. He came back—” Hadn’t he seen him? Ted must have come from behind, stabbing him in the back without saying anything. Not even asking for money again.
“Elf. Why? Tell—”
Again why? “We’ll figure it out later.” I started to pull away, but his hand clutched my wrist. “Let go, Charlie—I have to call—”
“No. Please.”
He pulled at me. His eyes begged.
So, God forgive me, I didn’t call 911. I sat beside Charlie on the sofa, cradling his head against my chest, holding him until, a short time later, he let out his last breath.
They were staring at me. Frozen, wearing twin expressions of alarm.
It took a moment to realize that it wasn’t me they were alarmed about, but the gun. I was still holding it. In fact, I was holding it up, aiming it at Ted’s gut.
“Thank God, Elle.” Joel started toward me. “You have to help me—”
“Shut up, Joel.” I moved the gun, pointing it at him.
“Elle—” Ted smiled at me. He looked like a younger, scruffier, skinnier Charlie. “Who are these guys? Did they hurt you? Because, I swear—”
“I mean, shut up both of you.”
“Wait, Elle.” Joel was suddenly my best friend. “I don’t know who this creep is, but it’s obvious he came here to rob you. He has keys—”
“Of course I have keys.” Ted was indignant. “I’m family. I have a right to be here. Who the hell are you?”
“No, Ted, I never gave you keys. You have no right to be here.” Why was I even responding to him?
“Charlie gave me his. They were Charlie’s.”
No. Charlie hadn’t given keys to Ted. “Cut the crap, Ted. You took them when you killed him.”
“When I—what? You’re saying I killed my own brother?” He squinted at me as if I’d gone out of focus.
“You think he killed Charlie?” Joel tried to ally himself with me. “Why?”
“I wasn’t even here the night Charlie was killed.” Ted’s hands were up, protecting himself, making a wall. “I was home.”
“No, Ted. You were here. I saw you. I saw you stab him.”
“No, you couldn’t have. You weren’t there.”
Silence. At first, he didn’t realize what he’d just said. Gradually, the stupidity of his reply dawned on him. How could he have known I wasn’t there unless he was? Essentially, he’d confessed.
Joel looked from Ted to me. “So, Elle, you didn’t do it?”
Wonderful. Even Joel had believed I’d killed Charlie.
“Nice try, Elle. Blaming me.” Ted tried to look smug. Failed. “But the cops—they already know it was you.”
Joel watched Ted. “You piece of shit. You were going to let her fry for what you—” Before I could react, his fist landed on Ted’s jaw. Something cracked, probably a bone. Maybe teeth. Blood spurted from Ted’s mouth as he sunk.
“Joel, stop—” Was he seriously trying to make up to me by knocking out Charlie’s killer?
Except that Ted wasn’t out. He reached for Joel’s leg, grabbed it and rolled, taking Joel. Joel yelped, thudded.
“Okay, enough!” I yelled, waving the gun. “Keep your hands to yourselves!” It was as if I was talking to my second graders.
Blood dribbling down his chin, Ted pummeled Joel in the face, punched his throat. Joel was larger, more muscled, but the throat jabs winded him. Coughing, red-faced, he walloped Ted in t
he belly and, as Ted doubled over, he got him once more in the jaw. Blood spattered on my new carpet. I smelled it, heard grunts, groans, fists colliding with flesh.
I yelled at them again to stop, but they didn’t care. I threatened them, but they didn’t hear. Finally, bracing myself, I closed my eyes and fired the gun into the corner.
They both looked up. Twin expressions, frozen in alarm. Only this time, bruised and bloodied.
The police were on their way. So was Susan.
Joel sat beside Ted on the floor of the study, leaning against the bookcase beside the door. They’d already bled onto my new carpet. I didn’t want them to ruin my new sofa, too.
Joel eyed Ted. “This ugly prick is Charlie’s brother?”
“Mind your fucking business.” Ted cursed through swollen lips, missing some teeth. I saw one lying near his foot, didn’t pick it up.
Joel tried sweet talk. “Elle, really. This has all gotten out of control. Come on, put the gun down.”
I didn’t answer.
He waited a moment, asked, “Where’s Derek?”
I didn’t answer that, either. The gun was heavy. My hands ached from holding it.
“You heard that shot before she came in here.” Ted touched his jaw. His toothless “s”s were “th”s. “That’s where he is.”
“You shot him?” Joel looked at me wide-eyed, feigning disbelief.
Again, I said nothing.
“Of course she shot him. We both heard the gun—”
“He was dead before the shot. Somebody stabbed him.” I leered at Ted. “One of you.”
“You fuck—you fucking stabbed him?” Joel twisted his body to face Ted, his hands tightening to fists.
“I swear if you hit him again, I’ll shoot you both.” I didn’t mean that. I needed Joel to testify that Ted had killed Derek, needed Ted to confess to killing Charlie. Which meant they had to stay alive.
“Elf, you got to listen to me.” Joel tried to bargain. Still thought he could get to me. “I told you before. I had no part in Derek’s mess. I wasn’t involved in any of that kiddie stuff. All I did was book trips for your husband’s business. Honest.”
The gun weighed a ton. My ears were ringing, and I felt unsteady. I moved to the bar so I could support my elbows on the counter. Any minute, I told myself, the police would storm in. They’d arrest Ted and Joel. I’d be exonerated. It would be over.
