Killing Katie

by Brian Spangler

  KILLING KATIE

  Affair with Murder Series

  Book One

  Brian Spangler

  TITLES IN THE SERIES

  Killing Katie

  Painful Truths

  Grave Mistakes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 Brian Spangler

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First published as an eBook by B.A. Spangler on Kindle Press

  ISBN: 9781981079070

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  Thank You

  Subscribe to my Newsletter

  Also By

  About The Author

  DEDICATION

  To my friends and family for their love, support and patience.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  While working on this new series, I was aided by several individuals to whom I wish to offer my immense gratitude and appreciation. Thank you for reading early drafts of book one, and for offering critiques and encouragement. As always, your feedback has helped to shape the story.

  To Chris Cornely Razzi, Don Shope, Monica Spangler, Linda Eighmy and so many others for providing invaluable feedback, and helping me recognize the potential of this book.

  KILLING KATIE

  ONE

  MURDER. I’M OBSESSED. I can’t stop thinking about it. Even as the sound of sizzling bacon fills our small kitchen, I imagine that it’s something more tempting, something more sinister, something more lethal. And the dreamy thought of killing is more delicious than any food I’ve ever had. One problem, I’ve never killed a thing in my life. So why am I stuck on the idea?

  I wish my obsession were simpler—maybe an attraction to someone else. I’d even welcome a housewife cliché, like filling my days with frivolous hobbies or getting lost in afternoon talk shows. But that isn’t me. That isn’t my passion—mine is dark and deep and seeded in every fiber of my being.

  “I’m a murderer.”

  There, I said it. That is the first time I’ve ever confessed it aloud. I have a problem and there’s no twelve-step program that can help me. I know. I’ve checked. I used to have hope that my problem could be solved by some random act that would shake it out of my system. If I’m being truthful, the real obsession, the greatest lie, is that I’ve been trying to be like everybody else most of my life. I’ll never be like everybody else. I know I am different. I’ve known for nearly three dozen years. But one day, I’ll finally become me—the real me. I just don’t know when that will be. And when that happens, I’m afraid that I’ll be like an alcoholic and won’t be able to stop after the first one. There might never be enough. I worry I’d need a busload—if you get my meaning—the kind of murderous campaign that would spawn a storm of newly published books and even a movie or two.

  My name is Amy Sholes, doting mother of two, impossibly in love with the most handsome man I’ve ever met, and living a life that makes some downright jealous. Sure, we have our moments—ups and downs, just like anyone else. From the busy mornings to the endless patter of tiny bare feet, there isn’t much to complain about. But, like anything that is great, there is a catch—and that catch is me, and my preoccupation with murder.

  The smell of the bacon rose from the stove. I took in a deep breath and let it out. The familiar wish for something that could never be tugged at my heart while the scent tickled my palate. Sinful. Both of them. A rumble from our bedroom took my mind off this morning’s fantasy. I looked up, waited. I heard another stir. Today was my husband’s birthday. Steve’s favorite way to start his new year? Breakfast. And then a little something else too. The thought of what was coming brought a flush to my neck and face. It had been a while.

  I listened. One foot, then the other. I saw him in my mind, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes and then pushing uncombed, salty grays against his head. But then I heard him falling onto our king-size bed and knew I’d lost him to that place where you could still remember your dreams. I shifted, feeling suddenly disenchanted. Steve had been working so hard the last month; I knew I should concede that he needed sleep more than he needed me. Breakfast could wait. Bacon always tasted great—hot or not. And so did I.

  Cunning and powerful, murder crept back into my thoughts like a dark shadow. What would my friends and family think if they peeked inside my head and saw one of my fantasies? I’m sure they would lock me away, appalled, shuddering in disgust. But in my mind, my imagination seems normal. When I’m thinking about murder, daydreaming and playing out all the gory details, my heart jumps and my blood gets hot, rushing through my arms to my fingertips like an electrical charge. And, deep inside, a flutter of anticipation consumes and takes over, pulsing through my entire body.

  If my family knew who I wanted to kill, though, they might look more mercifully on me. My prey? My fantasy? Killing the seediest of criminals that, frankly, we’d probably be better off without. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. This month, I’ve been “targeting” the outcasts. You know the kind I’m talking about; you’ve seen their faces flash across the television screen during the evening news. You might have even covered your mouth in shock and awe, spit a few breathy words in disgust over what they’d done. I know that targeting the seediest of criminals is easy—it could even be considered a cop-out since the world won’t lose anything when they die. But that hasn’t always been my fantasy. There has been one murder fantasy which has haunted me for years. Killing Katie.

  Katie Dawson is my best friend. As my mother tells it, we were thrown together in a tub one sweltering day, at the ripe young age of two, and we’ve been together ever since. Growing up, we did everything together. We went to the same schools. Made fun of the same teachers. Failed the same classes. And then there was college, where we pledged the same sorority and met our future husbands. An unexplainable, enchanted closeness kept us together from our first apartments to house hunting and then to having our children around the same time. Katie is my dearest and closest friend. So why do I want to kill her? Crazy, right? Don’t get me wrong. For all the daydreams in the world, I’d never, ever harm Katie, let alone kill her. It’s just my quirky fantasy—a role-playing game—like playing dress-up. I suppose the fantasies with Katie is helping me prepare for the real thing? And I guess I use Katie because she is the closest person to me, my person, and I have found no one else. Not yet, anyway.


  My first memories of killing Katie—the fantasies, rather—had to be while we were in high school. Duran Duran and Prince and Boy George were on every radio station. They were playful and simple ideas at first, like spilling water on the floor at the grocery store where we worked part time so she would slip on it. Or fiddling with the brakes on her car like I’d seen in the movies. Truth is, I don’t know the first thing about a car’s brakes. Back then, before the Internet had Google or YouTube, we couldn’t look up easy step-by-step instructions.

  I daydreamed a lot during high school. But I didn’t have the usual schoolgirl crushes. Instead of drawing little hearts on the covers of my notebook, I drew some rather sophisticated and elaborate designs for how to kill Katie. I felt like Wile E. Coyote planning a trap for the Road Runner—I loved that cartoon. And the more gruesome the plot, the more intricate the design, the brighter the murderous spark. Satisfaction. But it was a different kind of spark inside me, and not at all like the fluttery kind you get while staring at a cute boy. I’ll admit though, the two went together great, like peanut butter and chocolate. And who doesn’t like a little peanut butter with their chocolate?

  I struggled, though. Especially after I’d finished each design. What I’d drawn wasn’t exactly something I could tack up onto our fridge with a pineapple-shaped magnet, announcing: “Hey, Mom, look what I did!” Mostly, I felt accomplishment, a relief, but then I’d come crashing down. My emotions after were filled with sadness, confusion, a wonder about what was wrong with me, and why I was different. It was during those days I wished I were more like the other girls. It was those days I’d consider a murder—just one—to protect the rest of the world from who I believed I truly was.

  But like an autumn rain, my gray days always passed. I tried to fit in. I’d listen to the other girls—the ones I’d call my friends—go on and on about their plans for a dance or an upcoming Friday night at the roller rink. I’d contribute a few words too—just enough to maintain some semblance of normalcy. The girls never suspected that I was different, but Katie picked up on it sometimes. I’d blame my being distant, and my blue moods on a girlish crush, carefully picking one of a dozen cute guys who were already spoken for.

  I’d never acted on any of the Katie designs; I chose instead to pack them away in my secret box. I rolled up my blueprints tightly and safely tucked them next to a smaller collection of teen-girl memorabilia. Katie is still the closest person to me, and while I’ve never acted on my fantasies, I’ve never escaped the dreaminess of them. For some reason, the itch to do something about them has been getting stronger and stronger, almost urgent.

  I jumped when Steve wrapped his arms around my middle—I’d gotten so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t even heard him come downstairs. He held me tight, and I leaned into his warm embrace. He kissed the back of my neck and then pressed against me. And at once, I could feel just how happy he wanted his birthday morning to be. The earlier spur of excitement awakened. I moaned a sexy tone I knew turned him on, and as if on cue his hand wandered up my side, touching playfully before landing on my breast. Another moan slipped from my lips, and I felt my nipple harden beneath his fingers. A moment later, the stove’s burners were off, and I was humming “Happy Birthday.” We made our way to the couch. I came with him, thinking of my fantasies nearly the entire time. Like I said, some things just go great together—like peanut butter and chocolate.

  TWO

  MOST OF OUR mornings are nothing at all like our celebrated birthday mornings. I suppose that is why they are so special. That’s not to say that Steve and I don’t have a good sex life—we have a great one. Maybe we are just lucky and hit a relationship lottery of some kind, connecting on all the right levels. I’d like to think so, anyway. Or maybe we’d just become more comfortable with ourselves and each other in our middle age, which, by the way, I’ve found to be one of the sexiest things about us.

  There was one moment, though, when I nearly ended us. It wasn’t because of my quirky murder fantasies. I shook my head, remembering how young we were back then—hot, oversexed, and way too naive—I had truly thought we were over. Steve cheated on me. The memory of it aches like an old scar. I cringe and cover my heart when I think about it: a wound that never quite healed.

  The extent of his cheating, you ask? As I’d been told by a friend who’d witnessed the indiscretion, she’d seen Steve wrapped up with a beautiful, tall redhead. Tucked away in the shadowy corner of a neighborhood bar, hidden in a bubble of lust, their heads turning, hips grinding. She’d said there was no mistaking what they were doing. She’d recognized Steve right away and even raised her hand to wave hello before she realized what was going on. “Heart-shaped tattoos,” my friend remembered seeing. “A set of three between the skank’s thumb and forefinger.” There are some things you never forget.

  And I remembered that night. I’d been home with the flu, too sick to go out. I’d thought it fortunate that Steve’s friends were gathering at the bar for a guys’ night to watch the Phillies sweep the Mets. That is likely how it started—buckets of beer, baskets of wings, and cheering or jeering the baseball game on the big screen. But when it comes to those sports-bar tramps, they’re as easy and as free as the chips and peanuts.

  A month before we were to marry, Steve told me everything. He spilled like a fountain. I’ll never forget how he said it either—abrupt, like an accidental cut of a knife. My hand in his, walking to his car after a weekend showing of the original Titanic, and Steve blurted the words: “I was with someone.” I had flinched as if slapped in the face, and then stopped in the middle of the road. I stood on the double yellow lines for what seemed an eternity, slipping one foot over to the other side, tempted to run from the small burst of hurt and jealousy that came with his confession. He pulled me close to him then, smelling of movie popcorn and cola. I gazed up, searching his eyes, my view clouded by the sting of disappointment. The moment seemed surreal—our magical fairytale ending in tragedy. I thought that I must have misheard him, that he must have said something else. In my mind I tried to reason with the confession, but the logical part of me would hear none of it.

  And just exactly who had Steve been with? Who was this vixen with the long red locks thrown over my man’s shoulders? I never did find out. I know that some women have to hear a name and to see the other woman’s face, but I never understood wanting the torture of knowing. So I never found out—accidentally or otherwise. Steve offered me her name once—I could see it perched on his lips, the first syllable tumbling out and rhyming with nah. I had quickly raised my hand and pressed my fingers against his lips.

  “No names,” I’d told him, not wanting to know who this scarlet lady was, not wanting to add her name to my list. Up until then, my list had stayed short and safe and deep in my mind. Who knows how easily something could materialize later in my life? I’d kissed him long and hard then—sensually. I told him that he was allowed this one slip, this one mistake, and that he had the rest of our lives to make it up to me.

  “I love you,” he repeated later that evening, the agony still in his voice. We made love, and I never doubted him after that. The thought of who nah was has crossed my mind from time to time. Yes, I’m human too. But my gut told me never to try and learn her name. I trusted my gut, and it was a good thing for nah that I listened to it.

  While the suddenness of Steve’s words had stopped time and nearly broke my heart that day, what he did to us—to me—wasn’t fatal. Why would I give him a second chance? Simple. I believed him. But more than that, because he gave me the opportunity to make a decision before I walked down the aisle. That is more than I can say for myself. After all, who was it who was really bringing the most baggage into our marriage? I already had plenty of secrets—a trunkful that I dragged with me and kept hidden in my nest of lies. But there was another reason I didn’t break up with Steve. And with every part of me, I hope that I am right about him. Somewhere, deep inside me, deep in my heart where love is magical and comes alive, I believe
that if Steve ever saw me—the true me—he wouldn’t run. That is why I love him. That is why I married him.

  Our busy and chaotic morning passed like a sudden tornado after that—the dog barking to be fed, bodies whipping around in the kitchen, eating breakfast, lunches being made, and the rush to get Steve to work and Michael to school. My boy is about to become a new teen. He’s just beginning to hit that stage of awkwardness with that forever feeling of self-consciousness. Now and then, I’ll catch him diving into an old bin of his Legos or watching cartoons, and I know that for the moment he is still a little more mine than the world’s.

  We were young when we had Michael, early in our marriage. I can still see the furled eyebrows and the curious looks from friends and family as they counted the months and tried to do the math. Steve and I called Michael our honeymoon baby, but secretly, we knew he was a few months older than that. Like I said, we were always horny and oversexed, and we didn’t always play it safe.

  That was early in Steve’s career too—fresh out of the police academy, filling his evenings and weekends with work. I was alone most of the time and often felt like a single parent, but I think most new mothers feel like that at times. Steve’s hard work eventually led to him being promoted to detective, which only meant that he was around even less. But no matter how tough things were, we’d made it work, even later, when life delivered one of its biggest surprises.

  I’d mentioned the patter of bare feet . . . that would be our little girl, Jennifer, but we call her Snacks. “She looks funny and smells bad,” her older brother told us the day we brought her home. “Can we send it back?” We had laughed nervously and kept her, in spite of his request. We almost never call Jennifer by her real name, preferring to call her Snacks on account of her endless need to snack between meals. Michael jokingly came up with the name one evening when Jennifer had been particularly naggy and bugging us for something to eat. She’d clopped around—a messy tangle of hair bouncing above her head—yelling “Snack! Snack! Snack!” The nickname stuck. I’m not sure Jennifer even knows what her real name is.