Instead of reading the words in my document, I scan my desk for inspiration to start again.
“Bundy, Gene, and Ripper, Oh My!”
“Inside Manson.”
“The Blackness Beneath; and Other Short Stories.”
“Men Who Kill, and the Women Who Love Them.”
Titles of books and articles jump out at me, but nothing really sinks in. I didn’t exactly need to, having insider knowledge, but I’ve read them all, some more than once. And although they’ve been helpful, they aren’t what I need tonight. So I grab my laptop from the desk, bring it to my lap, and read the last bit I’ve been working on. It’s not perfect, but it has the bite I’d been hoping for when I was dreaming it up.
Adam’s back cracked as he pivoted toward the pooling blood, seeking it out. He wanted to lie down in it, run red, wet fingers over his face until it was covered, coated.
He wanted to bathe in it.
But he just looked, aching, knowing if he took one step, if he moved one muscle toward the growing spot of fluid, he would jump in headfirst and never come out.
That couldn’t happen yet. There was other work to do, if he wanted to do it again, and he did. So instead he closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, his body reacting to the strong smell of iron, and cleared his head.
It was time. He could do this.
###
“Adam Kahn, oh my, but it’s been too long.” The nasal, loud sound grated against his eardrums, pulled his shoulders up, and flipped his stomach. He heard it from behind him, and he wanted to pretend he hadn’t. It had interrupted him before his fingers had reached the barstool, and he really needed a drink.
That woman.
He hated that horrible woman.
But he turned, a plastic smile widening his mouth just like he’d practiced. It made him look like anyone else, making others believe he was the same as them. “Why, Bella, isn’t it good to see you?” he said, while thinking something very different.
Awful fucking bitch.
Adam signaled to the bartender with two fingers. The man nodded and started on the order. At The Club, service was fast, but nothing would be fast enough with Bella Thornson infecting his personal space. She was like a leech, sucking out everything she could from those around her before crawling onto her next meal.
“Are you still with…what is her name?” Her fake blond hair was pulled up and away from her face so tightly, he was sure she must have been losing brain cells. Though, she didn’t have many to spare considering the botox, the pain pills, the many bottles of expensive vodka and god knew what else she put into her body, already wreaking havoc.
“Elizabeth,” he finished for her, trying to end the conversation as quickly as it had started. It was already excruciating. She knew Elizabeth’s name. She’d been at the party where they met. She’d had them over for Halloween, for New Years.
Adam reached his hands toward her neck. He grabbed at her too-bronzed skin and pulled it toward him. No one reacted; the bartender kept pouring whiskey into the tumbler; the couples leaning into one another didn’t pull back or angle their heads to watch the show. Even the jukebox kept playing the overly edited song—it hadn’t turned off, leaving the crowded room in silence, like in the movies.
Bella’s eyes bulged, her mouth gaped open, and she clawed at his hands. But he didn’t stop, and soon it was over, little red dots marking the whites of her eyes.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Elizabeth. How is she?” Bella asked, after time rewound and she stood before him, breathing—unfortunately—and waving her painted nails in his direction, like she was swatting Adam.
“She must be great. Because we broke up,” Adam said.
The bartender set his drink on the bar, within Adam’s reach, and he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed it, then threw back the drink and set the glass back down, nodding for another, all before Bella had time to react to his reply.
“Well, isn’t that just too bad?” She touched his shoulder, and it was hard for him not to cringe. He managed, but it took a lot of effort. “You’re better off. She always was…” She left it unfinished, but he knew what she meant, what she was thinking.
He grabbed the second double from the bar, downed that one too, and then cracked it against the mahogany wood of the counter, shattering the crystal until he had a shard the right size.
Bella screamed, but he lunged at her anyway. They landed on the ground, him above her, loud crunches coming from her spine.
The glass dove easily into her neck, slipped like the edges had been buttered, and it fit into place like it was finally coming home.
She gasped.
She sputtered.
And then she stopped screaming.
“Well, it was nice to see you,” Adam said, blinking it away and turning, no longer able to mask his annoyance.
“Do tell your sister hi for me, won’t you?” Bella said.
“I will.” He nodded, but he didn’t turn to her again.
And as she walked away, back to her circle of friends across the room, he heard his name on her lips, and he wanted to smack it from her mouth.
###
The thrill of putting together his toolkit, of using the drill on her, of seeing her take her last breath in that dead winter air was dwindling in comparison to this.
It lapped at his toes, warmer than he expected. It beaded on his skin, feeling heavier than he’d anticipated.
He was better off, much better now that he was taking a break—taking the bath he’d been dreaming about for months. He wiggled his fingers in the red liquid, loving how they disappeared after going below the surface, coming back up pink and stained.
That’s it for tonight.
Grabbing my glass, the last few sips still sitting at the bottom ready to be consumed, I head to the back of my house. I open my glass doors, and make my way to the yard feeling distantly unfinished. I push thoughts of Harwell and his search for Eva, of the bet, of everything on my shoulders to the back of my mind. I push it all down, bury it as best I can, like I’ve done before. And I sit on my back-porch steps to look into the trees, counting the breaths escaping my lips, trying not to hear Eva’s name through the whispers of the wind.
“How you holding up, Mr. Playdate?” I say with a smile in my voice, but I regret the reference as Aidan’s face falls.
Then his lips part.
But they close again, no sounds having come out first.
I watch as he opens his mouth once more, only to close it without saying anything.
“Practicing for something?” I ask. When he looks at me confused, I mimic the fish face he’d been making. “Have something to say?”
“What can I get you folks?” Our waitress walks up, saving Aidan from whatever he hadn’t wanted to say—his eyebrows knotted up together in a furrow, and the lines of his mouth straight, tight.
We give the young, pretty brunette our order, but after she walks away Aidan still doesn’t answer me. So I give him time, knowing pushing won’t get me what I want anyway. Not when he’s not ready, not usually.
Grabbing my phone, I scroll through my notifications. Social media comments, text messages, none of it very interesting, until I open my email.
From: Brandon Bichel
To: Bee Iverson
Subject: Don’t forget I know
Bee,
When am I going to get that manuscript? I know your novel is almost finished, and if it’s half as good as your synopsis I need my hands on those pages. I think this could be the big one.
Anyway, give me an update.
Best,
Brandon Bichel
Senior Agent
The Write Words, literary agency
New York
“So, what do you think?” Aidan says.
Crap. With two options, to fake it and guess, or just admit I wasn’t listening, I take the safer route. Putting my phone down, face to the table so it doesn’t continue distracting me, I tip my head to the side and eye Aidan
.
“I think I wasn’t listening.”
He smiles. “I know.”
And with impeccable timing the waitress comes back with our salads and appetizer, taking a moment to chat with Aidan, annoyingly. But he’s a make-as-few-impressions-as-possible kind of guy these days, which includes bad ones. So he obliges, and I don’t wait to start eating my salad. I try not to let my mind race while I eat. But…
Brandon wants to see the pages.
That’s simultaneously exciting and terrifying. I don’t even know why I told him about the book. I’m not sure what I want to do with it, if I want to do anything with it. I’m not sure it’s a smart idea.
The book is almost done. It’s close enough to send him.
But Aidan doesn’t know about it.
I look up at him, my mouth full of dressing and lettuce, while he talks about the price of good seafood or some equally ridiculous topic with her, and I know it’s not great that I haven’t told him about the book. I can admit that to myself. Not that I’d admit that to him, or anyone else. In the time we’ve been together, I’ve mostly published articles and short stories, freelance work on the side most of the time…and I’ve never mentioned this project, this side project. I almost did once but changed my mind and blurted out something about shopping instead, then I distracted him with sex.
It’s sort of awkward to try to talk about now, because I’ve been writing it so long, and should have told him ages ago. Actually, I started it when I was watching him, when I was learning all about his playdates and what he liked to do with women when no one else was watching, or he thought no one was. I came up with the best ideas in the manuscript on nights I was watching him. I stole it all, barely giving the ideas a facelift before adding my name on top of it.
The waitress leaves, and he starts eating too, smiling before digging into our appetizer. His smile goes all the way to his eyes, lighting them up. And god, now I feel guilty, as I pick at the ends of my salad, on top of the anxiety the email stirred up. The book is a psychological thriller, and while logically I know people don’t think authors go out and chop people up in their free time like their characters do, it’s a worry because…well, because I sort of do. And so does Aidan.
And I just don’t know how he’d feel about anything being even a possible red flag for us. If it were published. I don’t know.
Aidan opens his mouth, likely to go back into whatever he’d been planning to tell me, as he clearly needed nutritional encouragement first. “So,” he says, then stops.
“So,” I echo.
“So, what do you think?”
“About?” I try not to sound frustrated, but there’s no reason to point out my distraction again.
“Sorry, about our moving away.”
I choke on the water I’d been dinking a moment ago, water that is now down the front of my shirt, and on the tablecloth, and on the crab cakes I hadn’t even gotten to try yet. Still coughing, my throat spurts up a chunk of ice cube which falls from my mouth and into my lap. Aidan starts to stand up, concern written across his face, but I wave him off, the worst of it past and the sputtering subsiding.
“Not the best way to bring it up?” he asks, pink in the cheeks and eyes on his plate. I don’t see his hands, but I assume they’re in his lap.
Shaking my head, I widen my eyes, not trusting my hoarse voice to produce any words yet.
“I’ve just been thinking, since Eva disappeared, and I’ve been questioned by the police a few times. I don’t know, I thought it might just be a good idea, preemptively. They haven’t found anything yet, and they never traced the watch back to me from the first…so that’s all good. But I still worry.”
He opens his mouth to continue, barely taking a breath, but I cut him off. “You do?”
I didn’t know.
“Yeah. I do. A lot, actually. I just thought, maybe it would be good to move. To go somewhere no one knows us. I don’t know. Maybe we could even start fresh, new names and everything. Just get out before we’re forced to.”
“I get the thought,” he looks hopefully at me, “I do,” I say. “And I’m not saying no. I’m open to it. But I’m not convinced yet. Or maybe I’m not ready yet.”
“That’s fair,” he says, disheartened but not too upset.
The waitress comes back, again, with nothing to show for it other than a fake smile and a voice that gets more annoying every time she comes around to ask how we’re doing. We’d be doing better if you left us the hell alone for more than two minutes, but ya know, great. Thanks.
“I know I just sprung it on you; I’ve been thinking about it for a while, so I get why you need more time,” he says after she sways away.
“I have to tell you something.” I bite my lip.
I should have told him before. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. And hopefully it’s not a fight, but with his feeling guilty for a moment, there’s no time like the present to get a reaction in my favor.
Aidan pushes his empty salad bowl to the side of the table, and I do the same, stalling with another sip of water afterward. But then I spit the confession out like my ice a few moments earlier. “Harwell questioned me too the other day.”
Aidan’s jaw drops. I almost react, but I stop myself just in time, and instead I cover it by puffing my cheeks out to hide the smile that was starting to form. Plus, it’s anything buy funny.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I add as almost an afterthought, which I should have started with.
“When? What happened? Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, though he doesn’t actually look angry. His eyes, his mouth, they show something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
He waves his hands in my direction, swiping the words away.
“It’s not you. It’s the situation. Why did he want to talk to you? What did he ask?” Aidan’s voice is strained, but he’s breathing slower now and maintaining eye contact, no longer looking like he may bolt down the street. It’s amazing how quickly he can calm himself. If he had a superpower, that may be one of them.
I don’t say anything right away, and the absence of our voices is eerie, setting me further on edge. Even the silence, the absence of sound, makes a distinctive impression, almost its own noise.
“He didn’t ask a lot. Pretty much just wondered if I knew anything,” I finally say after the loud silence gets to be too much. He deserves to be mad that I hid it, but I imagine the fear is taking over.
“What did you say?”
“What I could. I didn’t know her. She had blowouts with her bosses. I tried to put the focus on her bad reactions at work.” Aidan smiles weakly, but he keeps nodding his head, like a bobble toy, wiling me to continue the good news. “Of course I admitted she stalked you, but I said she stopped, and that was about it.”
He pauses, pursed lips, then closes his eyes as he says, “He called me too this week.”
“Really?” I whisper it, not meaning to, but not having the power to put my strength behind the syllables. I mean, I know it’s not that bad. But it doesn’t sound great. And it knocks the wind from my sails, putting me off-kilter. I just didn’t expect it.
“Yeah. I haven’t responded at all, haven’t called him back.”
“Why?”
“Honestly,” he says, “I sort of hoped that if I ignored it, it would go away.” He croaks out a little laugh, just one “ha,” then looks down, ashamed.
“I get it,” I admit, much louder this time, confident, because I do. It’s what I wanted to do too. If I’d have been braver, Harwell would be impatiently waiting to hear back from both of us.
My hands twist in my lap; I wind my fingers around each other, hoping the wringing will make me feel better, only it doesn’t. A tiny ball lodges itself in my chest, putting the smallest amount of pressure on everything inside. It’s not unbearable, but I can feel it, and I don’t like it. It doesn’t help that Aidan looks to be on the same page, the same level of frustration and
panic written subtly into the DNA of his cells.
Maybe I’d feel better if we moved.
“I’ll think about it. I promise I’ll think about moving.” It’s all I can say, going back to the first part of our conversation, and though it’s not what he wants to hear, Aidan nods his head and lets it all go, everything we’ve admitted in this one tense meal. Surprisingly, he does look calmer after I relent that much, more so than I expected.
Our meals come, and the waitress leaves after receiving no response when asking if we need anything else, again. We eat in relative silence, not uncomfortable but less talk than at a normal meal.
That is until Jason walks by the patio seats, just on the other side of the iron fence, and hedges separating us from the sidewalk. I see him first, knowing I should say hi, but I don’t. It doesn’t matter, though, because he sees Aidan a moment later. Jason waves with a goofy grin on his face and jogs into the seating area.
“We could have heard him say hi from the sidewalk,” Aidan whispers as Jason comes up to our table.
I laugh, just a little, on an exhale, so it sounds halfhearted.
“I’m just glad he didn’t hear anything about Harwell or Ev—”
“Hey, guys,” Jason’s loud voice interrupts me, and Aidan widens his eyes in an I-told-you-so look. This time my laugh is loud and more genuine. Jason looks slightly puzzled, but only for a second. “What’s up?”
He drags one of the metal chairs from an empty table nearby, across the concrete, making the loudest, most cringeworthy sound possible as it scrapes.
“Can I join you?”
“Umm.”
“Uhh.”
“Thanks,” Jason says.
Aidan smiles, but with his lips pressed together. I know he’s annoyed. But his eyes soften quickly, and the two start chatting. Though not before I see Aidan roll his eyes. Jason missed it, and he wasn’t intending for me to see either.
Jason flags our waitress and puts in an order for a beer and an appetizer of his own.
Deeper into Darkness Page 9
