by Shari Lapena
Hanna says urgently, “Forget about him. I’m worried about you. Stephanie, you should leave him. Take the twins and move out. Now.”
Should she tell Hanna about the gun? No, that would be too much. She shakes her head. “I’m going to see the divorce attorney first.”
“That’s good.”
“That might make things clearer,” Stephanie agrees.
“But what if he—what if he hurts you, and the twins?” Hanna says, clearly worried.
Stephanie shakes her head. “He would never do anything to hurt me or the twins, I know that.” She adds, “But if I tell him I’m leaving him, he’ll feel utterly abandoned. I feel so guilty. I—I’m not sure I can do it.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about, Stephanie,” Hanna says strongly. “You have to do what’s right for you and the girls.”
Stephanie looks back at her only friend. Hanna thinks her husband is a murderer. Hanna is right. She probably thinks that if her husband were to kill himself, it would be the best thing for all concerned. She’s right about that too.
Hanna looks back at her anxiously. “Seriously, Stephanie, I think you have to leave him, if that’s what you want, regardless of how depressed he might be, or how he might take it. Think of yourself for a change. Think of your babies.” She glances anxiously at the twins on their play mats. “What if he’s dangerous?”
Stephanie shakes her head again. “He’s not. We’ll be fine. He loves me and the kids. He won’t do anything to us. It’s him I’m worried about.”
* * *
• • •
PATRICK SLUMPS AT the kitchen table while Stephanie is at Hanna’s with the twins. He drinks cup after cup of coffee, thinking. He’s told Stephanie that he had an extended affair with Erica, that he didn’t love her, that what happened to Lindsey was an accident. He doesn’t think she believes him.
He’d been lucky enough to meet a woman who had inherited a lot of money. If Erica hadn’t come back into the picture, things would be very different.
When he thinks about Erica his entire body tightens with rage. He realizes that he’d gladly kill Erica Voss. He should have done it when he still had the chance, before she went to the police. But he hadn’t acted decisively, he hadn’t had time to come up with a sufficiently good plan, one that he was sure he could get away with.
But now, the damage is done. There’s no point in killing her now, and besides, everyone would think he did it. They already think he killed his first wife. Even if he made it look like an accident the knives would still be out for him. Making it look like an accident is his modus operandi, they’d say.
And Stephanie would know what he’d done.
Stephanie is going to leave him. He’s sure of it. He can tell that she’s afraid of him. Her leaving him is the worst possible thing that can happen to him now.
Everyone will think she left him because he killed his first wife.
He needs to see a lawyer. He needs to know what his rights are. How quickly can she divorce him? If they’re separated, but not yet divorced, would he still get her inheritance if she were to die?
He broods into his coffee. But he can no more kill his wife than he can kill Erica. He’d never get away with it. Not now.
55
Later that day, Stephanie stands in front of the bedroom closet. She has to think, to plan. Her mind works feverishly all the time. She’s thinking about it when she feeds the twins. She’s thinking about it when she changes diapers, when she’s cooking. How will she get rid of the gloves?
She has decided that her husband should kill himself. It’s the only way out of this mess. And he’s not going to do it himself. She’s going to have to do it for him.
It’s come down to this, in the space of a few short months. They’ve gone from being a happy, well-off couple to being a pair of cold-blooded murderers. How quickly things change, she thinks. How crazy and unpredictable life is. It’s like a circus—high-wire acts and people hiding behind clown masks. How little control we have, she thinks; so much is out of our hands.
But not everything. She can do this. She can take control again. She can protect her daughters. She’s doing this for them.
We don’t always get to choose.
But sometimes you can, she thinks.
She doesn’t love him anymore. She’s not willing to spend the rest of her life with him, and to share her inheritance with her cheating, lying husband who murdered his first wife. She’s not willing to live in fear, waiting for him to kill her and the twins someday. He already got away with it once.
If only she could just leave him. But she doesn’t see that as a viable option. Best case—in the eyes of the law, he’s an innocent man. He has rights. Rights to see his children. He would always be part of their lives. But she knows what he’s done. Worst case—he might be so angry if she leaves him that he comes after her and kills her and the twins. Like that man who smothered his children with pillows and stabbed his estranged wife to death. Like all those men who kill their families. There are so many of them. Angry, thwarted men who kill their wives and children.
So she has to figure out this glove business, how to get rid of them quickly. And also, it bothers her about the ammunition.
She stares at the open bedroom closet. Patrick has gone out, and she’s alone in the house. She spins the dial on the combination lock and opens the safe. She’s wearing the latex gloves she bought for just this purpose. She looks at the Glock 19 9mm handgun that she’d last seen in Patrick’s right hand. She knows the gun has his fingerprints on it, his finger was even on the trigger. It’s like a gift. But now, as she inspects the gun, she sees that it isn’t loaded. She will have to do that—that’s not a huge problem because she’s wearing gloves and she knows how. She’s fired a gun before. But she worries that the bullets might not have his fingerprints on them and the gun will. Is that a problem? Her other worry is that he might check on his gun and find that it’s loaded before she gets a chance to use it. So she will have to do this very soon. The sooner the better. She loads the bullets into the gun.
* * *
• • •
ON MONDAY MORNING, Stephanie tells Patrick that she’s taking the twins out. She has a story ready if he should ask where, but he doesn’t.
She’s going to visit a law firm that specializes in divorce. She doesn’t have an appointment, but she figures if she shows up and says it’s urgent, someone will see her. She considered leaving the twins with Hanna, but Hanna has done a lot of babysitting for her, and she has been unable to return the favor.
She pushes the double stroller into the elevator and takes it to the top floor. She’s done her research and Thompson Doyle is the best divorce firm in Aylesford. She apologizes for showing up without an appointment but tells the receptionist that she needs to see a divorce attorney. The young woman asks her to wait. Stephanie takes a seat. The waiting room has a splendid view of the river, but she barely takes it in. She focuses on keeping the babies from fussing, and on what she’s going to say.
“Gabriel Thompson can see you,” the receptionist tells her after a few minutes.
She’s ushered into his office. She takes one look around and she knows this is going to be expensive, but she doesn’t care. She can afford it.
“How can I help?” the attorney asks, when she has wheeled the twins in and taken the seat in front of his desk.
“I want to divorce my husband,” she states baldly.
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” the attorney says dryly, with a kind smile. He’s an older man, dressed in a sober suit and tie, with tidy silver hair.
“My husband is Patrick Kilgour,” she says.
The attorney’s eyebrows go up and he leans forward attentively. Stephanie wonders how closely he followed the case. She hesitates for a moment, swallows.
“I see,” he says. “I’m somew
hat familiar with the case.” He looks at her encouragingly.
“It has put a tremendous strain on our marriage.” She falters and takes a moment to compose herself. “Everyone knows he cheated on his first wife. He’s admitted it. I don’t know if he’s cheated on me.” She adds, “In any event, the marriage is over, and I need to know what I can do.”
“Of course.”
“I came into a large inheritance on my last birthday. He doesn’t have any rights to that, does he?”
“None at all. In New York, inherited property does not go into marital assets to be divided when a marriage ends. You have no worries on that score.”
“Good.”
He gives her a frank look. “Do you have a will?”
“Yes, everything I have goes to Patrick on my death, as things currently stand.”
“I think we need to change that,” he says. “Any life insurance?”
She’s beginning to think this man had followed the case rather closely. She’s not surprised—it was a cause célèbre in Aylesford, as well as in Colorado. “Yes.”
His face is serious, his voice concerned. “Are you worried about your personal safety?”
She remembers what she came here to do. “No, not at all. But I am worried about how Patrick will take the news of the divorce. He’s very depressed already, after everything that’s happened. It’s been a difficult decision, but I have to do what’s right for me—and for the twins.”
“Of course,” the attorney agrees sympathetically. “Let’s do this as expeditiously as possible.”
56
That evening, after the twins are asleep, Stephanie tries to coax her husband into having a couple of drinks with her. It will help if he has some whiskey in him. And she needs something to steady her nerves.
She needs to get him into the kitchen. In a straight-backed chair with a glass of whiskey in front of him.
“I need a drink,” Stephanie says, and gets up off the sofa. He lifts his head. “Care to join me?” He looks almost pleased to be asked. She should feel bad about what she’s going to do, but she doesn’t. Because it’s not just for her. It’s for Emma and Jackie. They deserve better than to grow up with a father who is a liar and a cheater and a murderer.
“Sure,” he says, and follows her into the kitchen.
She sits in the chair she always sits in at meals, the one facing the entry to the kitchen, leaving Patrick his usual chair, with its back to the door.
She watches him open the kitchen cabinet where they keep the liquor. He takes out two glasses. “What do you want?” he asks.
“I’ll have what you’re having.” When he looks back at her, surprised, she says, “I could use something strong.”
He nods. Usually he drinks whiskey neat. He pours them each a generous amount. She’s thinking it’s good that he’s handling the bottle, the glasses. She’s thinking that when it’s over, she’ll wash her glass thoroughly and put it back in the cupboard if there’s time before the ambulance shows up. Better if he was drinking alone, she thinks, while she was in the shower. She’s lucky that the twins are so young that they are safely contained in their cribs. It would be much trickier to pull this off if they were older.
They won’t even remember their father, they’re too young. She can control the narrative, make it what she wants. She’ll have to move away, though, start over somewhere else, but not too far away. Maybe she will go back to using her maiden name. Yes, she will.
“Stephanie,” he begins, sitting down at the table, across from her. “You know how sorry I am.”
She nods without meeting his eyes. She doesn’t want to hear his apologies, his explanations all over again. It’s too late for that. What do they say? By the time most couples make it to marriage counseling, usually one of them has already decided it’s over.
“I’ve been thinking about the future,” he says finally.
She’ll play along, to keep him at the table, drinking. She no longer cares what he says. She’s found her own solution.
“Maybe I should start my own architectural firm.”
She nods. No one else will have him; he doesn’t have much choice. She sips her drink. It goes hot down her throat, steadying her nerves. She needs the whiskey—just enough to give her courage, but not enough to make her careless.
“It will probably take a lot of money to start, before it becomes profitable.”
“There’s a surprise,” she says. She can’t help it.
He bites his lip, as if hurt by her tone. Then he picks up his glass and finishes it off in one go. He reaches for the bottle and pours himself another.
Good, she thinks. He’s completely oblivious to what’s going to happen next. There isn’t going to be any new firm. She has to turn her eyes away as he talks. She decides to play along. What difference does it make? None of this is ever going to happen. She pretends to consider what he’s saying. She takes another sip of her drink, watching his face lighten a little at the prospect of getting her on board. At least he’ll be happy when he dies.
He leans in closer, across the table, telling her more about his plans, but she’s only pretending to listen. She must be pretending pretty well because he won’t shut up about it. He pours himself another drink. She’ll never get a better opportunity.
“Hold that thought,” she says. “I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”
57
She hurries upstairs. She feels her face change as soon as she leaves the kitchen. She’s cold, purposeful, remorseless. She walks quickly to the bathroom and closes the door, loudly enough, but from outside, in the hall. She hurries quietly into the bedroom, where she strips off all her clothes and drops them on the bed. Once she’s naked, she grabs the latex gloves from her nightstand and puts them on. She goes to the closet and turns the combination to the safe with trembling hands. The door swings open and she grabs the gun. She returns to the bathroom, opens the door very quietly and steps inside. She catches sight of her reflection briefly in the large mirror over the vanity. She hardly recognizes herself. She’s completely naked except for the pale blue latex gloves from the grocery store. And she’s holding a gun in her right hand. She flushes the toilet, runs the tap; she wants everything to sound normal to Patrick. She doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion when he thinks she went upstairs to pee.
She moves quietly down the carpeted stairs. She prays he doesn’t turn around when she gets to the kitchen. He shouldn’t—why would he? She arrives at the entrance to the kitchen silently in bare feet. His back is to her and he doesn’t seem to be aware that she’s there. She remembers to angle the gun slightly upward in her hand and then in one fast movement she steps forward and pushes the muzzle firmly against the right side of his head and pulls the trigger. It all happens so quickly.
She’s expecting the kick from the gun but somehow the shot is louder than she anticipated. He falls forward, slumping on the table. There’s a bright red spatter of blood and brain matter across the table, floor, and against her white kitchen cupboards. She fights a sudden urge to vomit as she stares down at him, blood from the exit wound beginning to pool on the table. He’s clearly dead. She hears her heart pounding in her ears and starts to panic. She takes some deep breaths to regain control. She looks quickly at herself and doesn’t see any obvious blood on her. No backspatter on her hand holding the gun—she’d been careful to push the muzzle of the gun hard against his skull. She checks her feet. All clean. She must not track anything upstairs. She places the gun on the floor to his right-hand side, leaving the casing where it landed.
Then she flies up the stairs as fast as she can, peeling off the gloves, and flushes them down the toilet one at a time. She turns on the shower and steps in quickly, soaping herself well, shampooing her hair, as fast as she can.
When she gets out, dripping wet, she pulls on her robe without toweling herself dry and hurries downstairs
, trailing drips of water behind her. She reaches the kitchen, picks up the phone, and dials 911.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“My husband shot himself! Please hurry!”
“What is your location ma’am?”
“Seventeen Danbury Drive.”
“Can I have your name, ma’am?”
“Stephanie Kilgour.”
“Is your husband breathing?”
“I-I don’t think so.”
She needs to deal with the glass. “Please hurry!”
“Emergency personnel are on the way, ma’am. Please remain calm and stay on the line.”
Stephanie is barely listening to what the 911 operator is saying to her. Stephanie keeps repeating, “Oh God, oh God,” into the phone as she stares at the carnage. She needs to remove her glass from the table to wash it. But then she realizes she probably shouldn’t open the cupboards and disturb the mess there, and she doesn’t want the operator to hear her washing the glass. She sobs, “Please hurry!” and disconnects the call. She rinses the glass and slips it into the dishwasher. Then she turns around and surveys the scene. Patrick is slumped over the kitchen table with a gaping wound in his head. His eyes are wide open. On the table is the bottle of whiskey and a single glass—and his fingerprints are all over both. She was in the shower when she heard the gun go off. It’s okay that she’s been in the kitchen, that there’s blood on the bottom of her robe. Any wife would look.
She stares at her husband until she becomes aware of flashing red lights in the dark outside, through the wavy glass of her front door, and hears heavy steps coming up the walk. She somehow makes her way to the front door and opens it wide. Police and ambulance personnel have arrived at the same time; they spill into the vestibule.
Now that she’s done it, shock sets in. She begins to shake uncontrollably as she points them toward the kitchen. One police officer and the paramedics enter the kitchen; another police officer remains beside her, near the front door, watching her. Stephanie lets herself fall apart. She thinks she’s convincing. She just has to be careful what she says.
