37. Thea
THEA
Everything goes according to plan.
I’ve been preparing for weeks.
I started with simple observation. Emmy takes a sleeping pill every night, gets her prescription refilled every three weeks. But if she’s been drinking, she skips a dose. She passes out from the booze.
And she’s been drinking a lot more since Bill came into the picture.
Every time I saw the wine glasses come out, I sneaked into her bathroom and nabbed a pill, crushed it into a powder with a mortar and pestle, and stuffed it in a plastic bag I’ve been hiding in an old teddy bear.
A gift from my father before he died. It’s going to prove more useful than he could have ever imagined.
I found a multivitamin brand that looks exactly like the sleeping pills. Every time I grabbed one from Emmy’s stash, I replaced it with a vitamin. She’s getting some extra nutrients. Good for her.
Every time I’ve gone into town to pick up groceries and supplies, I’ve plied anyone who would listen with stories of Emmy’s struggles in her new marriage.
The late-night arguments, the sounds of things being thrown.
I even fashioned a tale for the postman about how she’s been looking into bumping up Bill’s life insurance policy.
Every time she and Bill went out, I got on to her computer.
Googled “barbiturate overdose symptoms,” “how to dissolve pills,” “life insurance payout.” Just a search here and there at the beginning, and then deeper dives as the weeks passed on.
Emmy doesn’t know how to check her search history, and I’m certainly not going to erase anything.
With one week to go, I snagged a cup from the kitchen. We have many, and they’re all identical. Emmy wouldn’t know the difference. I made sure it was a dirty one with her fingerprints on it.
I sprinkled tiny amounts of the bag of powder I’d amassed—thanks, Teddy—around the sink and near Bill’s bedside.
Emmy works her way down the glasses in the cupboard methodically. Right to left. Every night she prepares a glass of water for Bill that he drinks at his bedside, always finishing it before going to sleep.
Tonight will be no different. But the glass I stole will be back in the cupboard, lined with the fine powder. When Emmy pours in water, she won’t notice it. It will dissolve immediately.
It won’t be enough to do the trick, but the residue in the cup will point the way toward her.
The night comes. Emmy prepares the glass of water.
She selects the correct cup. I know because I put a small chip in it to make sure.
She places it on Bill’s nightstand. While he’s getting ready for bed, I steal into their bedroom and mix the rest of my powder into the cup.
A dosage big enough to kill a rhinoceros.
I mix it in with a paper spoon that I promptly flush down Emmy’s toilet along with the plastic bag that held the powder, making sure an infinitesimal amount gets under the rim of the toilet bowl.
Then I go to bed, ripping open the wound on my leg as I do so. The blood pours out, and the pain sears through me. I bite down on my pillow to keep from screaming.
But now I have my alibi. I’ve been in bed all night, wracked with pain from my stitches opening.
No one else is around but Emmy and Bill.
Soon it will just be Emmy.
She won’t know until morning. As far as she knows, Bill will go to sleep just like he does every other night.
The next morning, I awake to a scream.
Bill lies dead in Emmy’s bed.
Heart attack? Stroke?
She calls the cops, exactly like she would.
While she does this, I grab the cup from Bill’s bedside and clean it poorly with just a damp rag. Leave it in the sink.
The police question me. I make sure my pigtails are neat, that the gingham dress I’m wearing is clean. I mention again that Bill and Emmy had a fight last night. They did. It’s not a lie. They fight every night.
They take Bill’s body away. A few days later we get the call. Barbiturate overdose.
He didn’t suffer.
Not like I did.
They start investigating. The cup is still in the sink.
Emmy has been too distraught to notice. We’ve had takeout the last few nights for dinner.
They find the cup, discover the residue inside.
Emmy’s fingerprints, not mine. They interview locals who recount the stories I told them.
They check her computer, see the suspicious searches.
It’s all circumstantial. But with enough circumstantial evidence, an arrest can be made.
They take her away, put me in foster care.
Most people who are in foster care have horror stories, but I flourish there.
I never see Emmy again.
She’s probably figured out what I did by now.
Only two people were in the house that night, and she knows she didn’t do it.
But she’s the wicked stepmother who married the abusive stepfather.
The narrative writes itself.
When I’m eighteen, I move to Chicago. I’m going to study meteorology at U of C.
And I never return to Kettle Springs again.
The case of Bill’s death has been closed for years.
As far as the police are concerned, Emmy did it. She never confessed, of course. But it wasn’t necessary. The evidence was overwhelming.
She’s an old lady now. In her late eighties. As far as I know she’s still alive, still in prison. They might let her out on compassionate release because she’s so old, but she has no place to go. The bank foreclosed the farm and all the money she had left went to legal fees.
I don’t regret what I did. She deserved it. Every last bit of it.
But I’ve known something since I was fifteen years old.
I am capable of killing a man.
I didn’t kill Kin. But if the cops dig into my past and reopen Bill’s case, they’ll learn I was involved.
They might even deduce that I framed my stepmother.
There’s no statute of limitations on murder. Even if the bastard deserved it.
I’ll go to prison, and then they’ll have all the more firepower to pin Kin’s death on me as well.
I’m not the person who gets framed. I’m the person who frames.
These are the thoughts plaguing me as I lie in Aus’s bed. I woke up a few minutes ago, finally allowing the memories I’ve been suppressing since that night at the gala to surface.
I need a distraction.
Aus’s thick cock might just be the answer.
I get out of bed, throw a robe over my naked form, and pad to the kitchen.
Aus is at the kitchen table, back on his laptop. His eyes are wide and the color has drained from his face.
I sit next to him. “Find anything?”
He blinks a few times. “Yeah… I mean, no. Not really. Sort of.”
I scrunch my forehead. “What do you mean?”
He runs his hands through his hair. “I’m trying to gather as much intel as I can about Wick. I…found a subreddit post about him. Sounds like he’s got a reputation for finding girls in vulnerable positions—breakups, death in the family, a lost job—and taking advantage of them.”
“So he’s a creep. We knew that.” I peer over his shoulder to the laptop screen. “Nothing more damning than that?”
“Not yet. But I’ll keep searching.”
Aus looked like he’d just seen a ghost when I walked in. What he just said about Wick is unsettling, but it doesn’t warrant the look on his face.
He’s not telling me something.
Could be nothing. Maybe he got some shocking news about something personal he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing.
“What about that other woman? Ausha? Have you found out anything else about her?”
Aus swallows. “No… No. Nothing more on her. She’s been scrubbed off the face of the internet.”
“Maybe we could go to the library, look at old newspapers. It would be easy to get a woman’s name off the internet if you know the right people. But removing every print copy would be a whole other story.”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s a good idea.” He frowns. “Could be a dead end.”
“Still, it’s something.” I kiss the top of his head. “At this point, I’m willing to pursue everything that might help.”
“Of course, hon.”
“And no social media, no nothing?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing at all.” He keeps staring at the computer until—
He nearly jumps out of his seat when the doorbell rings.
I narrow my eyes. “Who’s that?”
He pulls out his phone, looks at it. His muscles relax. “I… I ordered breakfast. Didn’t feel like cooking. Can you get the door?”
“Sure.” I look through the peephole before opening. No one. I open the door. A plastic bag with a smiley face on it filled with to-go containers sits on the porch. I bring it inside and start unpacking. “Oh my God. Pancakes again!”
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It certainly is.” I rub my stomach. “It was sweet of you to order breakfast.”
He nods. “There should be eggs, bacon, and potatoes, too. And whipped cream and strawberry syrup for the pancakes.”
I look through the bag. “I see the eggs and bacon. Potatoes, too. But no whipped cream or syrup.”
“Damn it.” Aus whips his phone out. “I paid extra for that.”
“Do you want me to plate what we have?”
He shakes his head. “Just bring the containers over here. I don’t want to dirty up any dishes.” He taps furiously at his phone. “We’re going to get our money back.”
“Is that necessary? The syrup and whipped cream couldn’t have been more than a few bucks.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
The doorbell rings. I smile at Aus. “Hold just a second, Karen. That’s probably our courier dropping off the rest of the food. It probably rolled out of the bag while he was driving.”
Aus takes a seat. “Right. Okay. Sorry for going off. I’m just a little tense this morning.”
“The food will help.” I cross toward the door, open it.
A middle-aged man dressed in a suit stands there.
A little formal for a delivery driver.
I squint at him. “Yes?”
“Are you Dorothea Storm?” he asks, his tone even.
“Who’s asking?”
He flashes a badge. “I’m with the Chicago Police Department. I was told Ms. Storm was staying here while her place was being searched.”
My heart starts thumping harder. I paste on a smile. Don’t want to look guilty.
I’m not, but at this point everything I do will be scrutinized.
“I’m Dorothea Storm. Thea for short. May I ask why you’re here?”
He hands me a manila envelope. “You’re being asked to come in for questioning regarding the investigation around the murder of Kinsley Blackwood. Next Thursday.”
I widen my eyes. “Why?”
“You’re a person of interest, ma’am.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“If you didn’t do anything, you have nothing to worry about.” He looks inside. “Is this where you’ll be staying until then?”
“My house should be free tomorrow—” I swallow. I don’t want to go back there. It’s spoiled. At least here Aus can protect me. “Yes. I’ll be staying here.”
“Great. Please don’t leave town. You’re entitled to bring counsel if you wish. If you have plans, cancel them. This is your top priority. Have a good day.” He turns and heads back to a black car parked in front of Aus’s apartment complex.
I walk back into Aus’s kitchen, the envelope in hand.
Aus is at the table, eating already. “Did they have the whipped cream?” he asks through a mouthful of pancake.
Right now, I want to tell him everything. Want to collapse into his arms in tears so he’ll tell me everything is all right.
But I don’t want to drag Aus into any more of this bullshit. He’s already done so much for me. Me, a woman he met a few days ago.
“Just a kid looking for some odd jobs for pocket change. I turned him away.”
“Damn. I have a TV to mount. He could help with that.”
“I’m sure he’ll come back.” I sit down at the table. “Better eat this breakfast before it gets cold.”
I take a bite of pancake. I can’t taste anything, and it’s not because we didn’t get the whipped cream or extra syrup.
It’s because I’m numb from head to toe.
Why didn’t I tell Aus what just happened at the door? He probably knows lawyers, people who can help me.
But right now, there’s something he isn’t telling me.
Fine. If he wants to keep secrets, so will I.
Whatever he saw on his computer right before I came into the kitchen rattled him hard.
And I’m going to figure out what it is.