Then I went into the master bathroom. I thumbed open the medicine cabinet. Lydia’s sleeping pills were in there, but not just that. God, they had enough pills in there to kill a horse. I emptied three-quarters of the bottle of sleeping pills into my hand, then grabbed some of the Xanax and a bunch of Vicodin. I doubted anyone would notice when I dropped them into the bottle of wine I brought.
There was, of course, a chance Pete might have finished off the bottle of wine that evening and never woken up. That would be even better—when a husband is murdered, they always look to the wife.
I was surprised by the anger I felt for Lydia as I emptied the pills into the wine bottle. I hadn’t felt this way in years. Not since Francesca.
There are three people in my life who wronged me:
Lydia, Francesca, and Joel.
Lydia saw a few cracks in my otherwise solid relationship with Joel, and encouraged him to end it so that her best friend and sorority sister Francesca would have a shot with a great guy. I believe Joel would have asked me to marry me if Lydia hadn’t intercepted.
Francesca went along with Lydia’s plan to seduce the man who was rightfully mine. I have no idea if she got pregnant on purpose so that he wouldn’t be able to leave her. I suppose not, since she never ended up telling him her news. If she had survived, he surely would have forgiven her and married her.
It was so easy to follow Francesca back then. Easy to swipe her keys from her purse. Easy to use those keys to drop her entire bottle of sleeping pills into the wine bottle she had on her counter, then watched the combination of alcohol and benzodiazepines do their trick. I led her to the bathroom. I found her razor.
She didn’t have a chance.
I didn’t intend it to look like a suicide. I left clues that the whole thing had been staged, and Francesca hadn’t taken her own life. The clues were meant to lead to Joel—meant to send him to jail for a very long time for murdering his pregnant ex-girlfriend. But the police were lazy. Joel was questioned, but the death was ruled a suicide.
Joel was despondent over Francesca’s death. He took a long leave from work, but he didn’t go to prison. He recovered. He went back to work and then started dating Cassie. He fell in love with her. They’re going to get married. They’re going to have children together. They’re going to grow old together.
He never paid. Not really.
And he was the worst one of them all. Because I had loved him.
Cassie
Cassie wonders if it’s a coincidence he brought her here to this sushi restaurant, of all places. It was a good meal and a lovely evening, but somehow, they’d never been here again. She remembers how they had joked about different types of conveyor belt restaurants. Despite everything, she smiles at the memory.
Joel holds the taxi door open for her and takes her hand in his unnecessarily as they walk the ten feet from the cab to the restaurant. As she walks inside, bright lights assault her eyes. Her right temple throbs and she regrets coming here. She should have told him she wanted to go home.
The host takes them to a booth next to the conveyor belt. It could be the very same booth they occupied on their first date. Cassie can’t remember.
“You remember this place?” he asks.
She forces a smile. “Of course I do.”
“Our first date,” he says. “First of many. I knew it would be.”
“Did you?” she asks vaguely.
“Absolutely. I had a feeling about you.”
Cassie looks around desperately for a waiter. “Do you think we could get something to drink?”
He laughs, mistaking her anxiety for something else. “Sure.”
He hails the waiter and they get two glasses of wine. Cassie taps her fingers on the table between them, her heart pounding in her chest. She can still see Anna’s eyes.
End it with him. Tonight.
She has to do it. She doesn’t have a choice. It would be too easy for Anna to go to the police. And if she does, if Joel finds out about this enormous lie she’s been keeping from him, that she’s a criminal, it will be over anyway.
And anyway, there’s always been something missing with Joel—something she could never quite put her finger on. Yes, he did save her life once. Well, twice. It fooled her into thinking she was in love with him, but as she stares across the table at him, she realizes she never really was. He’s not the Heathcliff to her Catherine. He’s not the Marv to her Bea. He’s just a man. A totally ordinary man. There will be other men. The city is full of them.
“Listen, Cassie,” he says. He takes her hand across the table, and the warmth of his fingers only makes her realize how cold her own fingers are. “The time I’ve been dating you has been the best time of my life.”
“Yes.” Cassie lifts her glass of wine.
“I know it’s a little soon,” he continues, “but sometimes you just get a feeling and you have to go with it. You know?”
Cassie drains her glass in two gulps. “Uh huh…”
“So…”
She glances around. Where’s the waiter? She needs another drink.
“Will you marry me, Cassie?”
The words penetrate through the haze in her brain. Her attention shoots back to Joel and she’s suddenly aware he’s holding a blue velvet box. The hinge of the box creaks as he opens it up, and she’s staring at a huge diamond. Too big for a girl like her.
End it with him. Tonight.
“Joel…”
“Please say yes, Cassie. Please be my wife.”
She doesn’t know he picked out the ring with Anna last week. She doesn’t know it was Anna who suggested bringing Cassie to the restaurant where they had their first date. She doesn’t know Anna assured him Cassie would say yes.
“I’m sorry,” Cassie says. “I’m so sorry, but… I… I can’t.”
His face drops. Suddenly, he looks much older than his age. He could be twenty years her senior. “What?”
“I can’t,” Cassie says again, more firmly this time.
And I can never tell you why.
She stands up from her seat, her legs nearly giving way beneath her. She’s glad he didn’t get on his knees to ask. It would have made it harder, but it was hard enough as is.
“I’m sorry,” she says one last time.
And then she leaves him sitting there in the restaurant where they had their first date, holding the blue velvet box.
Anna
“Anna?”
Dean’s voice above my head jars me out of my almost sleep. I’d never dozed off with Andrew in my arms. I look down at his sweet sleeping face, feeling a spike of terror that I could have dropped him or worse. My baby. My only baby.
I have to be more careful.
“Anna,” he says again. His brows are knitted together. “You need to go to sleep.”
“I’m fine.” I stifle a yawn and Andrew stirs. “I just took a nap.”
“No. You were asleep for like ten minutes. That’s not even enough to get to REM sleep.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Please, Anna,” he says, holding out his arms. “Give me the baby.”
I shake my head and hold Andrew tighter to my chest. “You have to work tomorrow. I don’t. I’ll stay up with him.”
“I’ll call in sick then.”
“It’s fine. Your patients need you.”
“It’s not fine.” Dean sinks down onto the sofa next to me. There are purple circles under his dark eyes. “Anna, I’m worried about you. You never sleep. And ever since the baby came, you’ve been… acting strangely…”
I snort. “Acting strangely?”
“You don’t think so?” He squeezes his knees with his fists. “Like you’re obsessed with thinking our neighbors are trying to steal Andrew. You talk about it constantly, even though they haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You don’t see the way Donna looks at me. She asks a million questions about Andrew.”
“She’s just being friendly. Mark sai
d Donna doesn’t even like children.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Right.” He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t agree. How could he not notice Donna’s desperation when she smiles and tells me Andrew looks cute in his little coat? “And then in the evening when I’m here, sometimes you just… disappear. You just pull on your coat and leave without saying a word. Where do you go?”
“I don’t go anywhere.”
“Obviously you go somewhere.”
I stare at him. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t disappear.
Do I?
His eyes soften. “I know it was hard on you what happened. It was hard on me too. Believe me.”
I look up sharply. It was awful for him, but he isn’t the one who got butchered on the operating table. “Please don’t compare.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.
I shake my head and clutch my abdomen. It’s still sore where they cut into me.
“I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’ve been googling postpartum psychosis and—”
“Postpartum psychosis!” I burst out, loud enough that Andrew’s eyes fly open. “You think I’m psychotic?”
“No, no… I don’t… I just…” He blinks a few times. “Look, you told me you’d consider going to a therapist when we got back from the hospital…”
I fumble with my nursing bra. “I’m not psychotic, Dean.”
“I never said you were. I just don’t want things to get out of control.” He chews on his lip. “Please just get some sleep tonight, Anna. Will you at least do that for me?”
My heart is pounding. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I tried, even though I’ve been awake for… well, a lot of hours. Psychotic? How could he say that to me?
All right, maybe most people wouldn’t break into another woman’s house and write on her walls. But I did it for a reason. A good reason. I wish I could explain it to Dean, but he wouldn’t understand. He never even thinks about that girl who dumped him in Chicago.
“I’m going out,” I say as I hook my bra back up and thrust Andrew into Dean’s arms. “I need to get some air. You can take the baby if you want him so bad.”
Dean watches me, his eyebrows still bunched together. He’s worried, but he’s worried over nothing. I’m fine. Better than fine. I’ve been thinking so much more clearly than I have in a very long time.
“It’s cold out,” Dean points out. Andrew is wailing in his arms. “Why don’t you stay here?”
“I need some air,” I say again.
“Where are you going?”
“I haven’t decided.”
New York is a big city—I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to go. I could walk around the park. I could see a movie. I could visit Francesca’s restaurant.
Or I could go to Joel’s apartment. Maybe he and I need to have a little talk. Cassie was panicked enough by my threats that she’s surely dumped him by now. I want to see his face—see him crumble the way he made me crumble when he broke my heart. And if Cassie hasn’t managed to destroy him, maybe I need to pay a visit to her. Convince her. One way or another, there will be retribution.
Because I lied about one other thing.
I absolutely did mean to kill Francesca.
And I’d do it again.
THE END
(Keep reading for an excerpt of my new book, The Perfect Son)
Acknowledgments
It is incredible how much help I get from the point I finish my first draft to the final version. There are times when things happen in my life to make me realize how lucky I am to have the support I have—friends and family who are always there to give me an opinion or more.
First, I want to thank Melanie. She didn’t read this book, but she will probably tell you that she’ll throw up if she has to give me her opinion on one more cover. Thank you to my mother, for reading the book three times, twice on her phone, in spite of never actually understanding it—that takes real love. Thank you to Kate, for the awesome and thorough editing job. Thank you to Jess, for the eternally harsh criticism. It makes my stomach sink, but it always makes the book better. Thanks again to Rhona for cover advice.
Thank you to new friends. Thanks to Jen, who helped me work through the tricky ending. Thanks to Rebecca, for your great advice. Thanks to my new writing group—yes, you only read the first two chapters, but sometimes that’s enough.
Thank you to my father, for teaching me the correct spelling of the word “acknowledgments.” Apparently, the preferred spelling in this country is without the extra “e.” I didn’t double-check, but I trust his judgement.
And finally, thank you to my husband. For listening to me whine and rant and gush about my book without getting too annoyed.
Did you enjoy reading The Ex?
If so, please send me an email at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you. Or consider leaving a review on Amazon!
Check out my website at:
http://doccartoon.blogspot.com/
In the meantime, please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, The Perfect Son…
The Perfect Son
Transcript of police interview with Erika Cass:
“Can you please tell us what happened, Mrs. Cass?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“I know what you found. I know what you must be thinking.”
“What do you think we found, Mrs. Cass?”
“A… a dead body.”
“And can you explain how this happened?”
“I…”
“Mrs. Cass?”
“Am I under arrest? Please just tell me.”
“At this time, no, you are not under arrest. But obviously, we need to know what happened.”
“He was… stabbed to death.”
“And who did it?”
“…”
“Mrs. Cass?”
“I did it. I killed him, Detective. And I would do it again.”
About one week earlier
Erika
You’re not supposed to have a favorite child.
If you ask most mothers, they’ll say something along the lines of “Sammy is really smart, but Nicole has a great heart.” They refuse to choose. And some of them are sincere. Some mothers genuinely love both their children equally.
Others, like me, are lying through their teeth.
“Good morning!” I say as my fourteen-year-old daughter Hannah pads into the kitchen. She’s in her bare feet and an old pair of gym shorts, and her reddish brown hair in disarray around her face. She’s supposed to be dressed and ready for school, but clearly she’s not. She always waits until the last possible second to get ready. She likes to keep me in suspense over whether or not she’s going to make the school bus. But I’ve learned from experience that nagging her doesn’t help at all—in fact, it only seems to slow her down—so I turn back to the eggs I’m scrambling in a frying pan.
“Mom!” Hannah can’t seem to say that word anymore without the whiny edge to her voice that draws the word out for at least two syllables. Mo-om. I remember how happy I was the first time she said “mama.” I shake my head at my old naïve self. “Why do you have to say it like that?”
“Say it like what? I just said ‘Good morning.’”
“Right.” Hannah groans. “Like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like… oh my God, you know what I mean.”
“I really don’t, Hannah.”
“You say it like… I don’t know. Just don’t say it like that.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I focus my attention back on the eggs. I pride myself in making really fantastic eggs. It’s one of my superpowers. My eggs are so good that when one of Hannah’s friends ate them on the morning after a sleepover, she said that I should be the lunch lady at their school. It was the highest compliment.
Hannah yawns loudly and scratches at the rat’s nest on her head. “What’s for breakf
ast?”
I ignore the irony: if I asked Hannah what she was making for breakfast while she was very clearly in the middle of cooking eggs, she would have a meltdown. “I’m making eggs.”
“Eggs? I hate eggs.”
“What are you talking about? I thought eggs are your favorite breakfast.”
“Yeah. When I was, like, eight years old.”
I put down the spatula I’ve been using to slowly stir the eggs. That’s the trick to making good eggs. Cook them low and slow. “I made them for you this weekend and you ate them up.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re my favorite. God, Mom.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It seems like lately, every conversation I have with my daughter is an exercise in trying not to say something really mean back to her. I close my eyes and repeat my mantra to myself: I am the adult. This is just a phase.
After fourteen years, it’s harder to convince myself it’s all just a phase.
“What else is for breakfast?” Hannah asks, even though she is two feet away from the refrigerator and three feet away from the pantry.
“Frozen waffles?”
“Yuck.” She sticks out her tongue. “What else?”
“You can make yourself some cold cereal.”
“What kind of cereal do we have?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, Hannah. Go look in the pantry.”
She lets out a grunt as she stands up that would make you think she is ninety years old rather than a high school freshman. She limps over to the pantry and studies the boxes of cereal intently.
While Hannah contemplates the pantry, my son, Liam, joins us in the kitchen. Unlike his sister, Liam is fully dressed in what is a surprisingly nice blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks. I bought a new wardrobe for him over the summer when he shot up four inches and all his old clothes looked comically short. He recently turned sixteen, which means he went to the DMV last month with my husband to get his learner’s permit to drive. I had thought my son getting his learner’s permit would fill me with terror, but I’m oddly calm about the whole thing. Liam will be a good driver. He’ll be careful, he’ll pay close attention to the road, and he’ll never drink and drive. I’m certain of that much.
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