by Joseph Souza
“How long was that?”
“About twenty minutes. My father dove into the pool and tried to save her, but it was too late.”
“What did the judge give you for a sentence?”
“The court gave me two years, with six months suspended. When I got out of the juvenile correctional facility, my parents shipped me off to finish high school with some relatives in Seattle.”
“That’s such a sad story.”
I nodded.
“Not necessarily the full truth, but sad nonetheless.”
“It is the full truth.”
“I think you’ve conveniently forgotten certain details.”
“You weren’t there, Clarissa. You don’t know anything about what happened that day.”
“Now is not the time to argue about what’s true and what’s not. The important thing is that you’re in the right frame of mind for doing this.”
“I did what I had to do. I only wished I’d killed my father instead.”
“All the more incentive to get rid of Russell.”
“I assure you, I won’t fail to pull the trigger this time.”
“I know you won’t, honey.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “It’s very important that you shoot him as soon as he enters, before he utters a single word.”
“Why?”
“Russell is a very persuasive man. I’ve seen him talk himself out of many crazy situations.”
“He won’t be able to talk his way out of this one.”
“I mean it. Under any circumstances, don’t let him sweet-talk you into letting him go. He’s charismatic and charming when he wants to be.”
“Don’t you worry, Clarissa. It’ll soon be over, and you won’t have to worry about him hurting you any longer.”
CLAY
Monday, October 26, 6:46 a.m.
I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND OF MY PHONE RINGING. MY HEAD HURTS, another throbbing hangover. I look down and see that I’m lying on the cot in my cluttered office. The smell of yeast, fermenting grapefruit, and warm bread fills my nostrils. Usually, I love this particular smell, but today it’s making me sick. How many beers did I consume last night? It must have been quite a few if I’ve got a carpenter banging nails in my head.
The phone continues to ring. The clock on the far wall tells me it’s 6:46 a.m. Someone has sent me a text message with an audio recording attached. I press play and hear the sound of a woman speaking. It takes only a few seconds to recognize that high-pitched voice as Leah’s. She’s telling a story from her childhood, one that I’ve never before heard. In fact, now that I think about it, I know little to nothing about her life prior to our meeting.
I lie back on the cot and listen to her speak, quaffing the remainder of warm beer swirling in my glass. It immediately takes the edge off the table saw buzzing in my head. I wait a few seconds, hoping the carpenter might take a coffee break.
LEAH
Monday, October 26, 7:20 a.m.
CLAY IS NOT BESIDE ME WHEN I WAKE UP THIS MORNING. HOW many nights in a row does that make it? Nothing else matters to me. I don’t care that he gets drunk and decides to sleep on the cot in his office. Not like it’s the first time that’s happened. He’s turning into a lush and I’m starting to wonder if I’m better off without him. I miss home and have arrived at the conclusion that it was a bad idea to move here. Bad for me and bad for the kids.
Of course I want to try and make our marriage work. It’s all that I have. Clay needs to show more interest in me, to love me the way I’ve always needed to be loved, to look me in the eyes and let me know that he truly cares about me. I’ve repeatedly told him that this is what I need, but after a few weeks of good behavior, he typically reverts back to his authentic self. The problem is he’s found his one true love in life—and it’s not me.
I make breakfast for Zack and Zadie, fill Mr. Shady’s bowls with food and water, and prepare their school lunches. The kids sense my ambivalence this morning, my dispassionate efficiency while doing chores, and eye me warily.
“You seem weird this morning,” Zack says.
“I’m fine.” I make an effort to flash them a fake smile. “Now, the two of you get your stuff together and head down to the bus stop.”
“But the bus doesn’t come for another ten minutes,” Zadie complains.
“It won’t hurt you to wait a few minutes.”
“But, Momma—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Go.”
I grab their backpacks and lunches and hustle them out the door. They don’t complain. They sense my urgency, understanding that I’m in no mood to negotiate with them.
Once they’re out the door, I grab Mr. Shady’s leash and race him around the neighborhood. He wants to stop and sniff every rock and stick in the cul-de-sac, but I move him along with an assertive grip on the leash. The Gaineses’ driveway is empty. I stop in front of their house and stare up at it, my entire body trembling at the prospect of what I’m planning to do.
Clarissa instructed me to wait in the living room after I finish my walk. I return home and unhook Mr. Shady. He barks furiously at me, as if he knows something’s amiss. I go upstairs and take the gun out of the bottom drawer. Then I go downstairs and pour myself a glass of wine. If I’m going to pull this off, I need all the fortification I can get.
CLAY
Monday, October 26, 9:58 a.m.
I’M STILL IN A STATE OF SHOCK, UNABLE TO BELIEVE THAT MY WIFE could have done such a horrible thing. Who recorded this crap? Is she reading off a script? If true, why has Leah decided to confess to this crime now? In some ways it makes perfect sense. It’s the reason she never talked about her childhood or enjoys having sex with me.
I rise from the cot, my head groggy and my knees creaking in agony. I feel old before my time. I pour myself a cold beer. I’m about to take a sip when another text message arrives. It’s from Mycah. Bitch wants to see me again and collect her money. Says she misses me and that I don’t deserve to be married to a woman who drowned her own sister. But how does she know about this? Was she the one who recorded Leah’s confession? She tells me that she plans on having the baby after all. My baby. She’s changed her mind and wants us to be together. To be a couple and live happily ever after. But hell no, I can’t let this happen. I don’t know how she wrangled such a confession from Leah, but then in the next sentence it all starts to make sense.
Mycah claims that she’s holding Leah at gunpoint. She says that if I go over and profess my love for her, she promises to spare Leah’s life. But if I call the cops, she guarantees that Leah will die.
As disgusted as I am with Leah, I have no choice but to save her. She’s the woman I vowed to honor and protect. The mother of my two kids and, if true, the sadistic killer of her disabled twin sister.
Furious, I chuck my phone against the concrete wall and watch as it shatters into many pieces.
I toss on my wrinkled clothes and chug down the rest of my beer. Sporting a nice buzz, I jump into my truck and race over to the address she has given me, praying that Leah is still alive.
After thirty minutes of driving, I pull up to the address. A set of concrete stairs leads to a dilapidated bungalow. I get out and take them two at a time. At the stoop, I ring the bell until the door opens. Nearby, water rushes loudly over some crappy-ass falls.
As soon as I go inside, I feel something smash against my skull. My knees go weak, my vision blurry, and I collapse on the shag carpet. I hear a woman’s voice speaking. Drool flows from my lips. The pain in my head is wicked, worse than I’ve ever experienced. I feel like I’m going to die. Then everything goes black.
LEAH
Monday, October 26, 10:56 a.m.
I SIT QUIETLY FOR OVER AN HOUR, THE GUN RESTING ON MY LAP, TRYING not to think about what I’d done to my twin sister those many years ago. In the ensuing years, I’d managed to convince myself that I’d done the right thing, but now I’m not so sure. My father should have been the one to die instead of Annie. It’s my fault.
I deeply regret not shooting that bastard when I had the chance. I never saw him again after being released from that juvenile correctional facility. We spoke over the phone a few times, out of necessity, but that was the extent of our contact. He died ten years ago, five years after my mother passed. I prayed every day that God would sentence him to eternal damnation for his sins. Even thinking about him now makes me furious.
The sound of a car door slams, followed by a second door. I stare out the window and see Clarissa and Russell walking up the driveway to their home. They’re arguing about something, their voices echoing throughout the cul-de-sac. When they reach the stairs to their porch, Clarissa turns and starts pounding on Russell’s chest. He grabs her by the arms and tries to restrain her. Then he pushes her inside the house. Why would she do such a stupid thing, knowing Russell’s violent temper? The only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that he threatened her. Or maybe threatened to take the children from her. Something must have precipitated her reaction.
I collapse on the couch in panic, wondering what to do now. Mr. Shady stares up at me with consternation in his eyes, ears raised and spine arched. I hate when that dumb dog trains his eyes on me. It’s almost as if he can read my mind.
What if Russell strikes her? Or, God forbid, kills her? Isn’t it my responsibility to save Clarissa from this monster?
But the plan was for me to sit tight and not make a move until he walks through that door.
I call their house and hear Clarissa’s voice.
“Do you need me to come over?” I say.
“No. Stay put and do as I’ve instructed.” The line goes dead.
I gaze out the window, trying to see what’s happening. The lights are on, but I can’t see a thing. I run upstairs and enter the master bedroom. I lower the shutter and peek outside. Clarissa and Russell are standing in the bedroom and arguing. I gently prop up the bedroom window to try to hear what they’re saying, but all I can make out is the muffled sound of their voices.
He pushes her onto the bed and climbs on top of her. They appear to be wrestling atop the mattress. Their hips move in opposite directions as their arms flail about. He’s forcing himself on her. I grip the gun, wondering whether I should go over and put an end to this nonsense. But Clarissa gave me explicit instructions.
Do. Not. Leave. The. House.
They grapple on the bed for a minute before he attempts to rip off her clothes. He’s big and strong, and I can see that Clarissa is having a difficult time fighting him off. She pummels his chest to no avail. His hips begin to grind back and forth. I can see her tortured face up against his shoulder, and for a brief moment it appears as if she’s staring directly at me. I close the shutter and step back in shock, clutching the gun against my chest so that the barrel’s pointed at my chin. I realize that if I pull the trigger now, my brains will splatter against the ceiling. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
I return downstairs and wait on the sofa. Ten minutes pass before I hear someone outside shouting my name. I glance out the window and see Clarissa half naked on her lawn. Her clothes are torn and she’s barefoot and cold. Her long arms stretch across her bare breasts. She sprints past the driveway and heads to my house. Russell emerges out the front door and begins to chase after her, dressed only in his boxer shorts. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. The doorbell rings. I open it and let Clarissa inside. She’s breathing hard and looks scared.
“Are you okay?”
“He’s coming after me, Leah. I’m certain he wants to kill me this time.”
I slam the door shut. “This was not the plan. I thought we were going to stick to the plan.”
“The hell with the plan. He wants to kill me.”
“I saw the whole thing from my bedroom.”
“I specifically instructed you to wait downstairs.”
“Plans are only good intentions, Clarissa.”
“At least now you see what I’ve been up against?”
“I’m ready to do this.”
“Good.” She puts her hand on my cheek. “You’re an amazing person.”
“So are you,” I say. “You better go now. He’ll be here any moment.”
“Be strong. You know I’d do the same for you.”
“I know you would.”
“Thank you, Leah. You can do this, girl.”
She gives me a big hug before sprinting out the sliding door and onto the deck. There’s a loud banging noise and suddenly my front door opens, and I see Russell standing in the doorway. He’s big and strong, muscles padded upon muscles. He seems to take up the entire space. His thighs look as if they’re padded with sandbags. I move calmly to the center of the room, gripping the gun behind my back. He’s wearing a pair of black Nike shorts and nothing else. His arms and shoulders shimmer in the light, and his abdomen is sectioned off like a ladder leading to a three-alarm blaze.
“Where’s Clarissa?” he says, slamming the door shut behind him.
“I have no idea.”
“Don’t lie to me. I saw her run in here.” He starts to walk slowly toward me.
“I know what you did to her.”
“Stop fucking spying on us. What we do in private is none of your goddamn business.”
“Then close your curtains if you don’t want me to see.”
His face wrinkles up in a show of disgust. “I thought I warned you about that last time.”
“After all the harm you’ve done, Russell, I hope you’re not going to stand here and lecture me on good behavior.”
“Harm I’ve done?”
A car screeches out of the driveway. I look over and see Clarissa’s Mercedes speeding through the neighborhood.
“What the hell?” Russell throws up his arms. “That’s just great. She’s taken off.”
“You’re a disgraceful excuse for a man who deserves to be punished.” I pull out the gun and point it at him.
“Whoa. What do you think you’re doing?” He raises his arms and it looks like two softballs have taken up residence on his biceps.
“You make me sick.”
“Take it easy with that.”
“I saw the way you treated her.”
“Maybe you should put that gun down and chill.”
“Maybe I should, but I won’t.”
“You’re the one spying on us.”
“Oh, you think you’re so smart because you’re a worldly professor. Did you really think you could kidnap Mycah Jones and kill her boyfriend?” I know I should follow Clarissa’s plan and shoot Russell, but I can’t. I want him to suffer just a little bit longer.
“You’re crazy if you think I did any of that.”
“She said you’d deny it.”
“Who did?”
“Clarissa.”
“You’re making a terrible mistake.” He takes a baby step toward me.
“Don’t move. And put your hands up where I can see them.”
“Why don’t you call the police if you think I’m the one who killed Cordell and kidnapped that girl?”
“Because Clarissa insisted I not call the police.”
He shakes his head in confusion. “So are we just going to stand here all day?”
“No, I’m going to kill you, Russell. I’m going to do what I should have done many years ago.”
“Many years ago? But the two of us have only known each other for a few months.”
“I’m going to kill you so that you’ll stop hurting other women. I won’t allow you to hurt Clarissa by revealing her secret.”
“What secret?”
A voice in my head is telling me to stop this bickering and just shoot him.
“Stop playing dumb, Russell. You know full well what her secret is. You’ve been holding it against her for years.”
“Seriously, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Clarissa was right. She told me you’d deny everything and play dumb.”
“You going to tell me or not?” He laughs.
<
br /> “No, I’m going to shoot you instead.”
“How do you plan on getting away with it?”
“I’m going to tell the cops that a black man broke into my house and tried to rape me. The same man who wanted to sleep with me after our dinner party the other night. What jury would ever convict?”
“You really believe what you’re saying?” He takes another step closer.
“I’m done talking.” I raise the gun up with two trembling hands.
“I’m begging you to at least hear me out.”
“Clarissa said you’d try to sweet-talk your way out of this.”
“My Clarissa said that?” Another tiny step.
“I said stay where you are.”
Russell shakes his head in disbelief and then sprints head-on toward me. He catches me by surprise, but I manage to fire off a quick shot. The bullet strikes him and he collapses to the floor. He stares up at me in shock, not quite believing that I pulled the trigger. Blood begins to pool along his stomach. He lifts himself up into a sitting position and crab walks until he is resting against the far wall. In his wake, he has left a smear of blood streaked across the oak floor.
The lingering effect of the gunshot reverberates in my ears. Gunpowder residue singes the insides of my nasal cavities, causing a burning sensation whenever I inhale. I can’t quite believe that I did it. I shot him.
Russell’s groaning in pain. I hadn’t anticipated that he’d still be alive after the first shot. I thought killing him would be quick and easy, and that the deed would be done, like in the movies. Now I have to finish him off, which is a lot harder to do when your victim is groaning in pain and pleading for his life. I’m not sure I have the will to shoot a wounded, defenseless man in cold blood.
Russell leans back against the wall and squeals in agony, his hand over the wound on his belly, unable to staunch the flow of blood pouring onto the floor. I walk toward him, keeping the gun trained on his head, wishing I had the courage to put him out of his misery.
“What have you done?” he gasps.
“No one else will get hurt because of you.”
