HER: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “I didn’t,” I say. But I’m moved by her display of emotion. I realize she and I are one and the same. If the lid is kept on for too long, eventually it slips. Her rage is like a fast car: zero to sixty in no time. Maybe she senses this, and maybe this is why she steps off the gas. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, and just like that she slams the brake. She retreats backward. She smooths her dress. “No one likes dry chicken, Sadie. We have to get rid of them.”

  “The caterers?”

  Ann gives me the side eye. “No, the appetizers. My husband will kill me if he finds out I threw them away. Paul hates waste of any kind.”

  “What should we do with them?”

  “Do you know about the three Ps?”

  I don’t, but I make a mental note to learn them quickly. “I could hide them in my car.”

  “Perfect,” she says with a curt nod. “Do that.”

  I realize it was a dumb thing to say, in retrospect. No one wants to drive around smelling like chicken salad tarts, and yet I bet that’s exactly what Ann wanted to happen. Clearly, this was a test. The first of many. I wasn’t sure I’d passed. Something just told me I wanted to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HER

  The weight of the gas pedal feels good beneath my foot. Driving a car with this kind of power gives me the third best kind of rush, just below fucking and killing.

  Maybe I shouldn’t drive so fast. Maybe I don’t know these roads like I think I do. But as Julia Roberts says in Pretty Woman, this car corners like it’s on rails, and if I wasn’t enjoying the feel of it so much I might ease up a bit.

  But I don’t.

  Which is why it’s a beautiful day that’s about to be ruined in 3...2…1. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. One second everything is fine, and the next someone is flying through the air. Gravity being what it is, well—what goes up must come down. On the descent it’s clear what’s happened.

  A lady.

  On a bike.

  A car going too fast.

  Bright sunlight.

  Terrible timing.

  The woman hits the pavement like a rubber ball, bouncing a few times then rolling before coming to a full stop in the brush. What goes up, must come down.

  The scene is awful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human leg twisted that way. If I were her, and I had a weaker stomach, I might have lost my lunch too. But, no. I have to be strong. Vomit is evidence, and there’s no sense in leaving any of that behind.

  Upon closer inspection, the way the woman is splayed out in the dirt, in the weeds, in the thick of it, is really quite beautiful. She isn't conscious. Speed was a factor. Regardless, in her condition, it’s doubtful she’ll make it long anyhow. Aside, from the obvious broken bones, most of her damage will be internal. So as in life, as it is in death.

  I want to feel bad for her. But I don’t. She ruined what was meant to be a beautiful day. It’s really too bad people use bicycles in places meant for cars. There’s too much room for error, and clearly one person has the advantage. Thankfully for me, it wasn’t the cyclist. Wish I could say the same for the car.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SADIE

  A lot happened between Ann and I after I did her a solid by hiding the appetizers in my car. I guess you could say things moved quickly. From that evening on, Ann began texting me incessantly.

  I didn't mind. It’s so much easier to cultivate a relationship when you have time to curate the perfect response. You hardly even have to be yourself. You just write what you think the other person wants to hear.

  But, if she wasn’t texting, she was calling. She’d hang up, think of something else, and call right back. Sometimes I didn’t answer just so she’d text instead and I could savor her words like they belonged to me. Because, to my mind, they did. I was learning her language. I was learning to speak like she spoke. I made her feel understood. That’s how we became what you call fast friends.

  But not too fast. I didn’t see her mow the caterer over with her car with my own two eyes, but I know she did it. She was smart about it. A quiet farm-to-market road. Bright sunny day. Zero witnesses. Cyclists are hit all the time, I overheard her say to a neighbor.

  Turns out, Ann’s caterer was an avid cyclist. The odds were against her, Ann said. Four deaths in Driftwood, just this year alone. The woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ann said. Sure, she made poor decisions that led to her fate. She was lucky, Ann told me. She died doing what she loved. Not all of us get that kind of good fortune. The sad part, I concluded, was she probably didn’t even get the message.

  But I did.

  For several days after the accident, Ann kept to herself. At the time, I chalked it up to the impending holidays. Later, I’d learn this was her style. After hosting one of her parties, she liked to take a step back. She’d go really big and then she’d sit back and let her prey come to her.

  Thankfully, I was busy. Ann had surprised me by pulling some major strings. Thanks to her, I got a job as a substitute at the local high school. Most of the regular subs like to take time off to prepare for the holidays, and teachers are prone to want to do the same, she told me before I had the chance to mention that I hate children. Teenagers especially.

  Unfortunately, my bank account couldn’t care less.

  At this point, work equals keeping my head above water. I either kill what I eat or I don’t eat. Had it not been for Ann’s recommendation, I don’t think the school would have called, so I can’t help but feel grateful. Given my history, I’m not even sure how she pulled it off, other than the administration is known to enjoy her parties too. Well, there’s that—and there’s her growing fame.

  It pays to be an internet celebrity. An influencer, they call them, and let me tell you, I for one am glad for that. Influence is important, Ann says.

  She isn’t wrong about that. Clearly, she’s aware of what’s happening in the world. She understands the system and she’s prepared. I know I need to be too. You used to be able to escape your past buried in high school yearbooks or local papers, but today in the digital age, you are judged from cradle to grave. Big Tech sifts, sorts, and sells all your data to the highest bidder whether that be business or governments. In China, social scoring is used for pretty much everything. Citizens are issued social credit scores based on how trustworthy or credible they are perceived to be. Their behaviors are tracked and traced, and they’re ranked on these things by algorithms. Like the domino effect, it trickles down until they just start shutting down your life, one keystroke at a time. A few wrong moves and your access to things like public transportation is denied and your bank account is revoked. This system is coming to the States—I can feel it. It’s already happening online. It’s like boiling a frog or whatever. Even now, if you’re a model, or an actress, or a musician, unless you have a certain number of social media followers, it’s nearly impossible to get a gig.

  Long story long, my credibility is lacking. Ann was kind enough to let me borrow hers. Obviously, this can’t last forever, which is unfortunate. The thing that happened last year doesn’t help. While the incident didn’t involve children, Driftwood is a small town, and people talk. Needless to say, my social credit took a hit.

  Now, the time has come to rebuild. I only wish someone had told me that making friends as an adult isn’t any easier than it is as a kid. It’s worse. You have all of those hardened beliefs and insecurities to contend with. And those at the top? They like to stay there.

  At least I have a job. The people there don’t have a choice about being my friend. We’re destined to spend time together. Even if substituting is pretty much the last thing on the planet I had in mind when it came to employment, I’ll make it work. Besides, this isn’t the city. There aren’t a ton of options for work out here. Driving into Austin wouldn’t kill me, but the anxiety might.

  Thankfully, subbing does come with at least one perk aside from the paycheck—tiny as it may be—it gives me the opportunity to observe the Bankses’ children. Being in
such close proximity, you learn a lot. Already, I know Amelia is like her mom, dazzling. Neil is also like his mother, dark and brooding, but also quiet and reverent. It is interesting to see how these things can exist in one person simultaneously. I’m beginning to wonder if they might exist in me too.

  Ann says in her book that life is about the journey. I realize that this gig, this friendship, is an opportunity for a fresh start. If I’m careful, if I play my cards right, it can be a new beginning for me.

  Sure, I have reservations. Especially when I consider Ann plowing down that woman on her bike. Strangely, I can empathize with her frustration at the level of incompetence over the appetizers. Little things are important when your reputation is on the line. Believe me, I know. And in any case, now it feels like we have a secret.

  That’s not to say I think the punishment fit the crime.

  I’m not a monster.

  I have my moments where I waffle back and forth about what to do about my suspicions. Should I go to the police? Maybe. Should I tell someone? Probably. But it’s not like my track record is all together squeaky-clean. Besides, I didn’t actually see it happen, and you can’t very well ruin someone’s life on a hunch. The last thing I need is cops asking questions—or worse— pointing fingers. Not now that I finally have a job and a friend.

  A lot is riding on this and I’m counting on Ann. She is helping me—even if she doesn’t yet understand to what extent. With any luck, I can improve my social standing, and maybe even get my husband back. Maybe there is still a chance that what she says in her book, about my life getting better, could be true.

  And who knows?

  Maybe it was an accident, even if it didn’t sound like one.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SADIE

  The chairs are lined in rows, not in a circle like I pictured in my mind. This bothers me more than I let on. In her chart topping motivational book, Ann says we have to let go of expectations. Believe me, this is harder than she makes it sound. Here, we don’t hold hands, and no one feels sorry for anyone, not really. We’ve all come for the same reason and mostly not by choice. It’s court ordered. I suppose this explains why no one is particularly friendly or happy to be here.

  Here, they aren’t concerned with social scores or social standings. They don’t seem to be aware of what’s happening in the world. Or perhaps maybe they are, and that’s what landed them here. In an attempt to find out what I’m working with, I strike up a conversation with a short odd looking woman who is seated next to me. “Do you know what’s happening?” I whisper.

  “Well, sweetheart, I hate to break it to you,” she answers a little too loudly for my liking. “But they aren’t handing out awards, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  I tell her about the social credit score.

  Her eyes narrow. “What’re you talking about? Social credit?”

  “Companies are basing our car insurance rates, our interest rates, on what we do on the internet. They’re cataloging every digital move we make.”

  I expect her to be outraged, or at the very least surprised. But she isn’t. Instead, she cocks her head and looks at me like I’m the crazy one, when she’s the one with electric blue hair and more piercings than I can accurately count in a thirty second conversation. “Honey,” she says. “Ain’t no one here got any kinda good credit anyway.”

  I consider telling her more. I consider warning her about what’s coming down the pipeline, about the need to take this seriously. But she scoffed at me, and I hate a scoffer. Anyway, it’s no use. Like my husband, she doesn’t want to hear it either. I settle into my seat and prepare myself for the long haul.

  These meetings are the same every time or at least the three times I have attended in the past week. We meet, we state our names, and then we are educated on the dangers of drugs and alcohol and the perils of living under the influence.

  I’m not like these people. I’m not an addict. I made a mistake. A simple mistake. A rookie mistake. In fact, I’m so new at this I thought I could serve my time by just showing up. I thought the more meetings I attended, the better off I’d be. I thought it’d earn me brownie points. I thought I’d be pardoned on good behavior. But that’s a different kind of system, the instructor said. Not this one.

  It’s fine, I told him. Aside from trying to earn a living, it’s not like I have anything else to do.

  He says knowing we aren’t alone is good practice for getting out in the world again. He says sometimes our demons can feel real but they aren’t, and that it’s up to us to fight them.

  He’s partly right. The class requires me to drive into Austin for this, which means I have to take an Ativan at least thirty minutes prior to getting in the car.

  On the way, I stopped and bought a coffee, the most expensive latte I could afford. Even though I can’t really afford a six dollar cup of something I could make on my own for next to nothing. The coffee makes me feel accomplished. It makes me feel like my demons can’t get the best of me, not so long as I stay one step ahead. It makes me feel normal, not like I have to pop a pill just to get in my car and drive somewhere. It almost makes me forget that if I don’t do something, and fast, I’m never going to get a real job, or a decent interest rate, or have friends or a family of my own. Those are normal people things, and that pill is a reminder. I am not normal. If it costs me six bucks to fool myself, then so be it. Ann says this is impossible. She says people can’t lie to themselves as easily as they think they can. But she can’t see me here with my fancy cup. She can’t see how put-together I look. Not like the rest of them.

  I’m different. I look like I shouldn’t be here, like I actually care to make my life better. And I do. I sit in the front row and sip my poison-flavored latte slowly and righteously, just to prove my point.

  Ethan showed me the ingredients once. It’s absolute garbage, he’d said. What you’re putting into your body and the amount of money you’re spending to ingest toxins, he ranted, was reprehensible.

  We all die some way, I assured him. At least my death won’t come cheap, and it’ll taste good. He didn’t laugh like he might have once. I feel like I don’t even know who you are, he told me, and that was the day I learned: marriages have social scores too.

  The lady beside me scoffs again. I don’t take it personally. I don’t think she likes the speaker. It’s fine. I realize this probably isn’t the kind of place I want to be making friends anyhow. I don’t know if some are better than none, but probably not. Still, I learn their names anyway. Just in case. There’s a guy named Keith, whose eyes make me think of the Grand Canyon. Cassidy, young and pretty, who couldn’t care less. James, who cries.

  I like it here. The rest, I forget.

  I forget because Ann texts and asks if I’d like to come down for coffee later that afternoon. I’m relieved. It’ll be nice to see her. If only she’d asked earlier, back when I was six dollars richer.

  Sometimes I like to think about reversing time, about what it would be like if you could hit a rewind button, if we could get do-overs. Ann says in her book that there’s no point in looking back, that we can only move forward.

  I decide to test her theory by saying yes to coffee at her place. It’s not like I have anything else particularly interesting to do.

  There is only one not-so-tiny little problem. I learned something this morning that I think Ann would want to know. Something that will cut to the core. It’s unfortunate, finding out something you can’t un-know. Already, I realize what an issue this is going to be if our friendship is to continue. Things are not as perfect in Ann’s world as she would like to believe. I just don’t want to be the one to have to tell her.

  I know I’m supposed to be trustworthy. But am I trustworthy enough to break her heart? I haven’t yet decided. For one, I don’t want to mess up a good thing.

  It’s a perverse choice. But I can’t tell her. Not yet. You can’t deliver news like that and remain on a person’s good side. Anyway, who says you have to b
e honest about everything? Omission isn’t exactly lying. Besides, timing is important. I know this better than anyone.

  Coffee can’t hurt though, can it? It’s not like she’s a mind reader. Just in case, I make it a point to push what I’ve learned from my memory like my social worker taught me to do after my mother’s death.

  I practice by spending the rest of DUI class thinking about getting a dog and which breed might be most suitable. Something small might be nice, but something big and protective could work too. It is a nice fantasy while it lasts. When I mention it to the lady with the blue hair, she gives me that look again and tells me dogs are like children, just another thing to possibly fuck up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SADIE

  It helps to know what kind of moral gray area you’re dealing with, Ann says. She picked me up in my driveway and said we should go out for coffee instead. She said she needed to get away from Penny Lane and wondered if I might want to come along. She suggested we do something crazy, something to take her mind off of things.

  Ann has a way of making seemingly small things like coffee feel like a grand adventure, so, of course, I knew I wanted in.

  Now, she is sitting behind the wheel staring at her phone. “This will only take a minute,” she tells me as her fingers furiously text away.

  It’s nothing new. That’s what I’ve learned about her. Ann always seems to be working. She always has an angle.

  “There,” she says, finally. “Now that that’s done, let’s get coffee.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we wait.”

  I don’t know what we’re waiting for. But Ann seems happy, and she isn’t thinking about overcooked appetizers or work, or hit and runs or overly emotional teenagers, or any of the stuff she said on the way here is nonsense, and that is kind of nice. It’s hard to get her to open up when she’s in one of her moods. She shores it up, battens down the hatches, tightens her borders.

  After we place our order at the drive thru, and Ann pays for our coffees—she insists—she parks in the lot. She didn’t elaborate on what exactly she meant by “do something crazy,” but maybe in her world, a chai latte in the afternoon qualifies. Maybe this is the skinny people’s version of letting loose.