Chapter 2
When Hugo arrived, he was surprised to find me leafing through a magazine in the living room. He looked away and hurried into the kitchen. I followed him.
“Are you really going to just ignore me?”
“I don’t even know why you came.”
“I didn’t really have a choice, did I? Give me today’s guest list.”
Reluctantly, he grabbed a sheet of paper from the counter and handed it to me.
“Just let me get to work,” said Hugo, turning his back to me.
In the bedroom, I glanced at the seating chart.
Umberto would be at the dinner. I felt an unspeakable pleasure at the prospect of that miserable old man choking on his plate of steak and gravy in his colorful bow tie.
Almost everyone on the list had attended the first dinner at our apartment.
Taking the place of the troubled couple, Kássio and Gustavo, were Maitê and Mateus Sampaio, a country music sister-brother duo who filled stadiums across Brazil.
They’d attended previous dinners at the Jardim Botanico villa and were seagull meat aficionados.
In Cecília Couto’s place was Heckel Axull, widely considered the best tax attorney in Rio de Janeiro, a miracle worker for the city’s business leaders.
I counted down every tick of the clock. At exactly one minute to four, I shouted out to Hugo from the bedroom. I had to call him twice more before I finally heard his footsteps on the stairs. I lay on the bed, pretending to be ill.
“I don’t feel well,” I said when he came in. “Do you have any medicine?”
Hugo looked me up and down. “What’s wrong?”
“Heartburn, nausea.”
“I have some antacids in the kitchen.”
He turned to leave, but I called him back. “Wait. I want to talk to you.”
“Do you want me to get the antacids?”
“Yeah, but … I don’t want us to keep fighting. I think maybe I overreacted a bit. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Immediately I realized something was off. Maybe he could see right through my plan. Hugo slammed the door and sprinted down the stairs. I jumped out of the bed, hoping Arthur had had time to hide.
“What the fuck?” I heard Hugo shout.
I got to the kitchen in time to find him wrestling with Arthur on the floor beside the sink.
They were trading blows, but Hugo was stronger.
He started to strangle Arthur, roaring like an animal and keeping him immobilized with his legs.
Arthur was gasping for air, about to pass out, but managed to grab Hugo by the ears and began to twist, almost ripping them off.
Hugo then punched him in the face once, twice, three times, bloodying his face.
I needed to break them up. I knocked Hugo off-balance with a kick to the back, giving Arthur a chance to crawl away and get to his feet, leaning heavily against the counter.
Hugo broke free from me, spinning and elbowing me in the stomach.
Before I could react, he knocked me to the ground and started kicking.
I shut my eyes, certain that he had us beat.
Then, suddenly, the kicking stopped. As I lay there, panting, feeling like my stomach was on fire, I saw Hugo’s eyes freeze, his legs go limp and his knees buckle.
He fell to the ground, writhing in pain.
Arthur had stabbed Hugo five times in the back.
I crawled to Hugo, my bones aching. There was no doubt that he was dead.
I was surprised to find that I felt no emotion as I looked at my childhood friend’s lifeless body.
A single, evil thought crossed my mind: Well done.
I closed his eyes like someone filing away a solved case.
As his blood pooled and seeped across the floor, Arthur grabbed a mop and motioned for me to help him carry the body to the guesthouse.
“We can’t stop now,” he said.
We wrapped Hugo’s dripping body in a blanket and made our way out back.
I looked for any signs of the struggle as I retraced my steps, wiping blood spatters from the stove and cabinets.
I washed the dishes in the sink while Arthur poured the entire jar of poison into the saucepan, stirring with it a wooden spoon, turning down the heat slightly.