HER: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  I want no part of this conversation. It’s not the time, and even if it were, I’m in a hurry. Even I know enough to know that delivering bad news about someone’s kid is akin to telling them their spouse is having an affair. It never turns out well for the whistleblower. “Umm…the girls from the party…I think.”

  It’s hard to tell a lie if you aren’t sure.

  “Kendall and Elea?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know their names.”

  Unfazed by the fact that the rain has picked up, Ann whips her phone out, scrolls a bit and then holds it up to my face. “Is this who you saw her with?”

  I squint at the screen. “Yeah, the girls from the party.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. But like I said, I haven’t been there.”

  “Okay.” It’s as though she is speaking more for herself than to me. “That’s good.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  I check the time on the dash. “I have to go.”

  She rests her hip against the car door as though she doesn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. “Call and tell them you can’t come in after all. I have plans for us.”

  “I just told them I’m on my way.”

  “So. Call and say your car won’t start.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can.” She backs away, slowly at first, before coming at me full force. I can only watch as she leans her skinny little frame through the window and reaches all the way down until her fingertips brush the lever to the hood. Somehow she manages to pull it, and then she is walking around the car and I am following, and she is disconnecting my battery wire.

  I should stop her. I should say something. But what? Considering that whatever I might say could land me in the hospital with broken limbs tomorrow or worse, six feet under? It’s not like I’m afraid, anyway. Curious, more than anything. She’s got me where she wants me, hanging by a thread.

  “See?” she says, brushing her hands together. “Easy peasy.”

  “Ann…I have to go.”

  She shrugs. “You can try to start it if you want…”

  “Ann.”

  “I’ll pay you double what they’re offering.” She orders me to take my phone out. Forces me to hand it over. She dials the school. Hands the phone back to me. Stares me down while I tell them my car in fact won’t start. The words come out easier than I expect with her standing there. It helps, she says, that it isn’t a lie.

  “Now,” she says motioning at me once I’ve ended the call. “Now, we get to it.”

  All I can do is stare. I’ve never met anyone like her, and it has just occurred to me that I probably never will again. She shakes her head in disbelief. “Are you excited?” she demands. “You don’t look excited.”

  “I’m—”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We have a lot of work to do.” She starts down the lane toward her house.

  I slam the hood and then follow. “What kind of work?”

  Ann doesn’t answer me at first. In fact, I’m pretty sure she picks up pace. “So. Much. Work,” she says. I realize my questions are pointless. I realize what Ann wants, Ann gets.

  Ann knows this, so I know this.

  ANN LEADS me into her home, into her office, into the belly of her life. She pulls out a chair, motions for me to sit and then she situates another chair so that she’s facing me, our knees nearly touching. “We’ve been intimate,” she says. “And, now, I would like to take things one step further. I think it’s time.”

  My eyes widen.

  She leans forward slightly. I’m thinking I haven’t yet had enough coffee to make for a satisfying sexual encounter, but I’m willing to give it a shot when Ann says, “I need to know that I can trust you, Sadie. I need to know that you want this too.”

  How can I say this? It would be a big, fat lie. I don’t know what I want. My whole life is up in the air. This doesn’t stop me from nodding anyway and telling her she can trust me.

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” Ann tells me. “You are not the first woman I have loved.”

  My teeth grind together. Whatever it takes to keep a straight face. “But I’m really hoping you can be the last.”

  “Me too,” I say and it isn’t a lie. It’s cold-hearted, unfortunate truth. To imagine her saying these words to anyone else, to imagine anyone else getting this close to her makes me feel a little bit sick.

  Ann smiles. She leans forward and kisses me hard and rough, and then she pulls away and tells me there’s more where that came from, but first, we have to change lives. She places a phone in my hand. She tells me she needs help on the suicide line.

  She gives me instructions on what to do. She says to keep the caller talking. She gives me a list of questions to ask. Name, age, occupation…lifestyle questions. She says not to worry about remembering all of the answers. She says the calls are recorded because it’s important to listen between the lines. We practice on each other, each of us taking turns being the one who wants to end it all. She says I’ll sound more natural if it doesn’t sound like I’m reading from a script. She says it’s what sets her hotline apart from all of the official ones. I don’t ask what she means. There isn’t time. The phone rings. And it rings and it rings.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SADIE

  Everything has a solution, Ann says. She is busy working on a new book. My morning hours are filled with the hotline so that she has time to put words on the page. She says she needs to focus, that a first draft requires all of her, and that she’s sorry, but by afternoon, there isn’t much left of her to give. It’s mostly okay. I have Chet for the afternoon. He’s always happy to take a break. Eagerly, he fills my evening hours too.

  He’s working on the master bathroom, and we’ve hit the shower and managed all of the counters. I’m careful not to let him fuck me in the bed. There’s something too permanent in that. It feels like third base, when I prefer to stay safely on first.

  I probably have nothing to worry about. He hasn’t tried to tell me his story yet. He could have a wife at home and a house full of kids for all I know. Not that I care. He’s a welcome distraction. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Still, in the haze of sex, he whispers that I’m beautiful. I wonder if he knows that appearances can be just as deceiving as words. Chet doesn’t know me. Not the way he thinks he does

  Speaking of appearances—in front of our neighbors, Ann blames her recent obscurity on her devastation over Darcy, like everyone. She keeps to herself mostly, and when she doesn’t, she speaks in hushed tones and lowered glances. But with investigators, I notice Ann is different. In the few times they’ve stopped by while she was writing and I was running the hotline, I notice she’s curt. She conveys a clipped and factual manner, and quite frankly to me, she seems put off by the whole thing.

  “What can you do? ” she asks one afternoon as we shop for patio furniture. Never mind that patio furniture is next to impossible to find in January. Even in Texas. Ann says nothing is impossible, and all life is eternal. The heart wants what the heart wants. She said that to me specifically about Ethan. Don’t be dense, Sadie, she’d remarked earnestly. Of course you can’t just let go. Love never dies.

  More often than I care to admit, I find myself appreciating Ann’s perpetually sunny nature. Somehow, she has an answer for everything. No problem is insurmountable—even our neighbor’s death. Ann says she wants to help by offering the neighbors grief counseling. And even though I worry the investigators will find out she’s doing it, on a suspended license, Ann says everything will be okay because when she gets to the bottom of what really happened, they will turn the other cheek. No one cares how they come by the information, she says. Just so long as they have it.

  “We’re all going to die eventually, Sadie,” she’s telling me now. “I just wish Darcy White had chosen somewhere else, you know?”

  “Me too.”


  It’s like she isn’t even listening, because she says, “What happened, happened. We can’t change that. We can only use it to our advantage.”

  I don’t see what she is getting at. I don’t see what is advantageous about a woman at the bottom of your pool. Messy business, if you ask me. But then I think of my mother. I think of all those chickens, and how she used them up. I consider that I, too, could become like her—used up and discarded. For that reason, I go fishing anyway. “How?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I shrug, because we’re looking for invisible furniture, and literally all we have is time. A story could help to take my mind off of things. Shopping makes me itchy. I feel nauseous. I don’t see the point, I say to Ann. Why not just order online from the comfort of her own home and not have to see or talk to anyone?

  How else am I supposed to show you off, she asks, and suddenly I don’t care if we ever find furniture.

  She’s right. People stare at us, and I tell myself it’s Ann’s celebrity and not the fact they’re wondering what she’s doing with someone like me. One person after another approaches and asks to take a selfie. At this rate, I’ll never get alone time with her. I take back what I said before. It feels like we’re destined to spend an eternity in this store, and all the gawking, doesn’t make me feel special. It makes me feel like a caged animal. Worse, Ann introduces me to her fans as her assistant, if she does so at all. Several of her admirers have mentioned how lucky I am. I should be proud. She has proven her point. And yet, that’s not how I feel at all. Rage builds threatening to spill out.

  “What’s with you?” Ann demands to know.

  “Nothing,” I tell her.

  “The dinner is coming up. We should start thinking about the menu.”

  “Huh?” I feel like I’ve missed something. Ethan always accuses me of not listening, of zoning out, of being in my own little world. Or at least he used to. She was supposed to dig. She was supposed to call my bluff. She wasn’t supposed to sweep my feelings under the rug. Ann is the most emotionally intelligent person I know. This isn’t an accident.

  “The invitations you handed out…on New Year’s Eve. They were for the dinner we’re hosting next week.”

  I like the way she says we. I’m aware she’s probably referring to Paul but pretending works just as well. I like the way she takes me high and then low. Low and then high. I’m falling in love with her unpredictability, in the way I wish my husband could have fallen in love with mine.

  “I thought you might have canceled, considering…”

  “No. I think we should do it in Darcy’s honor.”

  “I thought you didn’t even like Darcy.”

  “I liked Darcy fine,” Ann snaps. Her eyes dart around the store, and I realize I’ve spoken louder than I thought. Social cues are not my strong suit. It’s apparent in the way she leans toward me and says in the barest of whispers, “You really shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Sadie. And anyway, it’s not for us. It’s for them.”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah. The other women—they aren’t like you and me, Sadie. They aren’t strong.”

  I have no idea what gives her the notion I’m strong, but it feels good that someone thinks as much. I’m certainly not going to correct her. Besides, Ann isn’t fond of being made to feel wrong, so I throw in a sort of half-laugh. “I know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “A dinner party?”

  “No, how they can’t move on.”

  “We all need to move on, Sadie. I think we can both agree on that.”

  Obviously, she means me, and obviously she is referring to my marriage. It would hurt if I didn’t have a plan to rectify it.

  Ann is aces at social cues. She reads me well. “Don’t be so sensitive,” she says, and I have to look away. Ethan used to call me that.

  I check the suicide phone, annoyed that it’s so quiet. Ann insists that we take the phones everywhere. Just in case. Now, I’m glad I have it, and now I’m willing it to ring. Sometimes you just need to know someone out there has it worse than you.

  “Come on,” she tells me, taking my hand. “Since we can’t find furniture, we might as well do something to make ourselves feel better.”

  “Like what?” I ask, saying a silent prayer she isn’t going to force me into another box store. I hope she’ll suggest lunch. I’m starving.

  Her face brightens. “Something crazy.”

  I have no idea what crazy truly means to Ann. But as long as it isn’t shopping, I want to. I really, really want to. Also, she seems happy again, and she isn’t thinking about patio furniture or draining her pool or the police. Which is probably why it doesn’t occur to me to question what she has in mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SADIE

  Ann goes through my refrigerator first. “There’s nothing alive in here.”

  “I eat out, mostly.”

  Inevitably, she finds my stash of Oreos and potato chips. And then, she finds the back-up stash, the one I’d kept hidden from Ethan, back when keeping things hidden still mattered. I look on helplessly as she opens the trashcan and flings my favorite things in. “If you want to win your man back—hell if you want to win any man,” she says. “I’m afraid you have a long way to go, Sadie. This stuff is poison. Absolute poison.”

  I stare at the floor. It has just hit me. I have fallen for the female version of my husband. Even so, I have to admit, she is at least partly right. I do have a long way to go. A person has to burn about 3,500 calories to lose one pound of fat. I’d need to burn at least 87,500 calories to reach a healthy weight.

  Ann knows this, so I know this.

  “We have three hours before your hair appointment.”

  I look at her like she’s crazy. “I told you before. I can’t afford your hair person.”

  “Consider it a favor.”

  “I don’t need favors…”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Sadie. Everyone needs favors. And anyway, remember? I owe you.”

  “Not that much.”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve done so much. You helped with Neil. You saved me with the appetizer fiasco. And that isn’t even the half of it.”

  “I can manage this on my own…” I say. “I mean…I’m sure you have a million other more important things you could be doing…isn’t Paul home?”

  With the flick of her wrist she is waving me off, she is calling my bluff, and I already know what a bloody disaster this is going to be. “Paul is busy. Bless his heart. He works so hard. He lost three patients last week. I think he needs time…”

  She closes the pantry door and moves on to the freezer.

  “Really,” I promise. “We don’t have to do this. We could do something—”

  “You scratch my back. I scratch yours.”

  “Ann.”

  She looks back at me and winks. “Like I said—it’s a favor, Sadie. Isn’t that what friends are for? ”

  I don’t answer. I can see this isn’t going to end well, because the thing about favors is eventually you have to pay them back.

  “DON’T WORRY,” she tells me, pointing at the food that is my lifeline until I find real work. “We’re going to clear all of this out. And then I’m going to give you a diet plan and a grocery list.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say cautiously. “I can manage. In fact, I’ve been meaning to—”

  “No.” The tone she uses with me is rough and abrupt and suddenly, I’m thinking of all of the fun things we could be doing instead. “I’m not here to hold your hand, Sadie. I’m not going to give in to what you think you want. I’m going to give you what you need.”

  What I need is to get her out of my house.

  What I needed was a friend like her. Six months ago.

  What I need are her fingers inside of me, her mouth on mine.

  What I need is to stop caring what she thinks.

  “You have to see how far you’ve sunk Sadie. If you don’t know where you are, how will you
ever find your way out?”

  I fold my arms and push my feelings down. If she weren’t here, I’d eat them. Now, I can only think about eating her. Anything to shut her up. And these thoughts are worse, worse than the cookies, and the chips, and the ice cream combined. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I want to teach you how to make people do what you want them to do. But first, you have to become someone worthy of influence.”

  I want her to teach me this too. I just want her to teach me without so many words. Finally, I think all of my dreams are going to come true when Ann crosses the kitchen and takes my hands in hers. “You have to show people your best side and your best side only. Do you know what that means?”

  I’m not sure I do, which must be why she bends a little at the knees so we’re eye to eye. She stares, she searches, she probes. I’ve had pap smears that were more enjoyable. “Now, you probably think I’m calling you fat. But I’m not. I’m just saying there’s room for improvement.”

  First, my eyes register vacant surprise, and then my brow rises in astonishment. I don’t know what I expected her to say. But it wasn’t that.

  She squeezes my hands. Harder this time than before. “You remember that woman at the coffee shop?”

  It takes me a second, because my thoughts are running around my head a thousand miles a minute. “The cheater?”

  “That’s right,” she nods. “The cheater.”

  I sigh. I was afraid she might play it this way. She feels guilty. Or she wants me to. But that particular emotion isn’t in my limited repertoire. “Essentially,” she says, “You’re no better than her. Only instead of cheating someone else, it’s worse,” she says. “You’re cheating yourself.”

  My head cocks. I back away from her. She isn’t who I thought she was. Or rather, maybe, I’m afraid she is.

  She’s saying the opposite of everything she’s supposed to be saying, and it’s like we’re in some parallel universe where all of life is inverted. “That’s harsh.”

  “Life is harsh, Sadie.”