Chapter 43 Now
Now
Dimple
Two hours. That’s how long I have to pull myself together on the way back from Will’s to my home.
Home. What an absurd joke of a word. What I’m going home to is a long-running lie.
A large part of me can understand why James would want to hide Chioma from me; I don’t really have a leg to stand on in that respect.
But there are too many pieces of the puzzle missing from Chioma’s story.
Pieces that I’m convinced will help me make sense of everything else.
After all, Will was there the day she died, and I can’t help but feel he’s deliberately obscuring something important from view. Somehow, I have to find answers.
If Will is telling the truth, James believed I hurt my exes, that I was capable of hurting Will to shut him up if pushed…But finding out it was my sister responsible? That would have rocked James’s plans.
I’m not sure how, but he must have still sniffed out the danger in me.
Known that I could still hurt Will, despite the adhesive in his hot-glue-gunned plan dissolving.
That he was right, that he played me so well, is terrifying.
I could have killed a likely innocent Will.
Although a small part of me, the part nestled in that dark place, says, See?
He knows you so well. You might actually be perfect for each other.
I think I need that right now. To have someone. Not be so alone. I know I’m desperate for some sort of connection, belonging, because I think about unblocking my mother. I even pull my phone out, pull up her contact, then decide I’m not quite that desperate. Yet.
Despite the churning thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me, I pull myself together string by string.
This is what I’ve spent a lifetime doing: pretending.
I can be just as good an actress as Claire and James—all I have to do is return to form.
I have two hours to swallow my heartbreak.
Because this is what it is—I have loved James, do still love him in a sense, but I have to accept that the version of him that I love doesn’t exist. That I’ve somehow chosen wrong again, having thought I’d learned my lesson.
I’m too fond of falling in love with ideas and ideals, not anything real.
And if I’ve learned anything from the heartbreak that’s gone before, it’s that sometimes it’s best to throw the whole pear out when you first notice the rot.
There’s no point trying to cut around it, not if you want to be sure of not poisoning yourself.
Still, like I said to Will, I don’t want to make any sudden moves.
Because if I’m right about James and he knows I’m onto him, he’ll have no problem eviscerating me to protect himself.
I need time to be sure of the truth and then make my move.
Despite the cool calm I drape around myself when I get home, I worry that James will smell the distrust on me, the deep betrayal.
But he doesn’t. Ironically, he seems to have finally relaxed his close monitoring of me, while I’m watching him more closely than ever.
Questions about everything—about Chioma—rise and die on my tongue.
Even to ask about his ex would give away that I’ve been speaking to Will, leaving me exposed.
I find my way back to Old Natalie, stepping out of myself to protect myself from the bad feelings.
There are too many, and it’s easier to live as a passenger in myself.
Numb, not feeling at all. This pulls me through the late dinner I have with James when I get home, pulls me into our marital bed, allows him to kiss me and for me to kiss him in return.
And the next day, I find myself able to continue to perform normality while I try to see a way out of my hole.
I tell him I want to work from home and spend my lunch break googling him, finding nothing new at first. But when I stitch in the name “Chioma,” a couple more pieces pop up.
Nothing as far back as the day she died, but there’s a local press piece about her parents’ attempt to reopen the case again.
It features a small picture of them standing together looking lifeless, leaning against each other as if they’d collapse without the counterweight.
Marionettes with their strings cut. A couple of blogs picked up the story and reran it, but there’s no new information in it.
Just that she drowned. That her parents think there’s more to the story.
At least it confirms what Will’s told me.
At least it gives me her full government name. Her parents’ government names.
I discover an old but public Facebook post from Chioma’s mom with an email for people to send information to if they might know more about what happened to Chioma.
She asks for people to share it. It’s all very aunty-on-Facebook-coded, lots of her friends adding their prayers in the comments.
It’s the kind of thing that would have gone nowhere, but I sit and stare at it.
Wonder how fair it is to open an old wound.
And then I send a message I expect will sit in an unseen void.
Send a friend request to her account from my own, untouched for several years.
When I think about James, I’m not struck with the impression of a man who’s methodical in his violence in the same way that someone like Marc or George was.
I’m sure he may even think of himself as an actively good person.
But he’s a coward. This is his ultimate flaw—ruled by fear beyond the point of reason—and that still makes him dangerous.
Dangerous enough for me to not risk slipping.
When I find myself in Dimple’s office the day after, I am still successfully holding myself together, although all my pieces are being kept in place by a single taut string.
“How are you doing today?” she asks with a kind smile.
“All things considered, okay.” I need to work my way up to talking about this. There are limits to what I can share, but I need to talk about James.
“I appreciate you coming back here despite your reservations about continuing our sessions.” Head tilt, hair swish. “But, Natalie, I have to remind you that for this to work, I need you to be honest with me.”
I nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to do better today.”
“Thank you.” She looks genuinely grateful. I wonder if this is an honest reflection of her feelings, or if she’s just as good a liar as James. “So, how have you been managing your temper over the past week? There are still several stressors in your life and—”
“Actually, if it’s okay, I’d like to start with something else.”
Dimple blinks. It’s one thing for me to agree to play ball, and another entirely to start volunteering information.
“Sure.”
“It’s James.”
“What about James?”
And so I tell her what I’ve found out. In an approximate way, at least. She needs to know about Chioma; about faking the threats from Will; about…
well, I can’t say I’m sure he was trying to get me to attack Will—it hardly reflects well on me—but I tell her I suspect he wanted me to hurt him, that he was promising Will that I would.
Dimple removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes sliding shut. I’m alarmed; Dimple doesn’t emote. A second ticks by, and then another.
“Dimple?”
Eyes ping open. “So you’re telling me that your husband killed his high school girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And that he has been threatening his brother with harm if he went to the police.”
“Yes. I mean, it sort of makes sense why he looked so unsettled by the news of my innocence. It totally messed up his plan.”
She replaces her glasses, mutters something under her breath, and then looks back at me.
“This is all quite a lot, you know,” she says.
I wonder if she has her own therapist. I wonder how many of our sessions have sent her to them.
I wonder if this new update will finally send her to the police.
Right now, it’s hard to care that it might.
“And how are you feeling about all of this?” she asks.
“It’s strange. It’s like someone’s stabbed me with a nine-inch blade, and it’s healed badly.
Like if I’m still, I can almost forget the wound is there, aside from a dull throb, but if I move the wrong way, there’s this breathtaking pain that threatens to topple me over.
I’m pretty good at moving carefully with it, though.
” I see Dimple opening her mouth to ask another question, but I need to get this out of me, my next words verbal vomit.
“The thing that really gets me, though, is that I thought I’d learned my lesson after George.
I thought I knew how to spot the wrong type of guy, so how the hell am I still here?
” I feel the string pull tighter. I’m not sure how much more it can take.
I’m not sure how much more I can take. I close my eyes, swallow hard—tears, panic, pain, in that one gulp.
I fear how naked I’ve made myself in front of Dimple, but when I open my own eyes, I see that hers, too, have been closed.
Dimple’s fingers are on the bridge of her nose again. I’m beginning to wonder if this is too much for her. If I’m too much for her.
When Dimple opens her eyes again, they’re alive with incredulity.
“So you’re positive that James killed this ‘Chioma’?”
My mouth twists. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I’ve done some research. Chioma really did drown on holiday with his family in Corfu. Of course, Will might not be telling the whole truth.”
She sits back, removes her glasses entirely, and tosses them onto her side table, mouth hanging open. “Fucking hell.” She touches her fingertips to her mouth, tries to wipe the words away. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
A burst of laughter leaps out of me. “No, I…” The laughter is a little wild, unhinged, but it’s nice to feel something nice for a change. “No, I’m sorry and glad that you’re having to unpuzzle this shit with me. But how did I get here?”
We dance around the answer to this question—the “how the hell have I ended up with a killer” one—spending time revisiting my relationships with Marc, Luca, and George. Something’s different about this session, though. Dimple’s like a hound that’s lost the scent. Her heart isn’t in it.
I’ve been white-knuckling it through the past couple of days in anticipation of this session, hoping Dimple would help me see a way forward.
But Claire’s the only person in this world who’s ever truly looked out for me.
Besides, I’ve made the mistake of expecting too much of one person with her.
It’s now up to me, and only me, to save myself.