Chapter 16
Frank
Title: I didn’t kill Ingrid. Guilt did.
Date: Year after Edith vanished
There’s somethin I want straightened out.
I didn’t kill Ingrid.
I know how Koolaroo works. Men leanin on fence posts, talkin too much, thinkin they’re clever because they’ve seen a few bad seasons and reckon that makes ’em judges of character.
Twenty years ago, the gossip tore through this place like wildfire. First, Edith disappears, then a year later, my other woman, Ingrid, ends up in the ground. Suddenly, every ranch hand is an expert, glarin at me like they’re analyzin one of them crime shows on the telly.
But they didn’t know shit.
Ingrid wasn’t murdered. She wasn’t shoved. She wasn’t silenced.
She broke.
And that ain’t the same thing.
Ingrid came to Koolaroo for the books. That’s all she was meant to be.
The farm accountant, like Declan is now, except she had a spine when it came to numbers.
She had this way of lookin at the farm’s finances like the land itself was confessin sins to her.
First time she pointed out a way we could save a bucket load of cash, I laughed.
Second time, I realized she was smarter than half the blokes I’d ever hired.
That’s where it started.
Creative accountin, she called it once, smirkin like she’d said somethin wicked. Sweetest smile I ever saw. I told her it wasn’t creative, it was strategic. There’s a difference between lyin and survivin.
It was fun at first. Us against the world.
Late nights over paperwork, glasses of whiskey, her tappin on the calculator with her hair fallin loose while she tried to look serious.
We moved money where it needed movin. Delayed payments.
Shifted stock numbers before the banks saw ’em.
Paid certain people in ways that didn’t show up in the books.
Nothin so illegal we’d land in the clink, but flexible enough to keep Koolaroo upright till the money started rollin in again.
I’ve tried teachin Declan that. But that boy has a stick up his ass about doin things by the fuckin book. Bullshit. You think them millionaires got their jet planes by detailin every last dollar? Fuck no. The world runs on creative accounting.
Just ask Bob Ackerman. That cop’s mastered the art of bendin lines without breakin ’em. It’ll get him unstuck one day. And after what I’ve done, that day is comin real soon. Wish I could see the look on his face when he figures it out.
Anyway, back to Ingrid.
She liked takin risks. Liked that I trusted her with things most men wouldn’t let their wives near.
Then it stopped bein about numbers.
She didn’t just open the books for me, she opened her legs, too. Yeah, Edith was still around, but Ingrid was damn impossible to walk away from. The mousy accountant I hired turned into a tiger once the door shut.
Edith never knew. And Ingrid never said nothin to her.
Didn’t need to. The silence was thick enough.
But I could see the guilt buildin in Ingrid.
In her eyes. In the way she hesitated before steppin into my office.
The way she’d starve herself rather than go to the kitchen where Edith was to grab a feed.
Guilt’s a quiet thing. Creeps in soft. You don’t notice it till it’s sittin heavy on your chest.
She told me once she hadn’t meant for it to get serious. Said she’d only ever planned on doin my books, not doin me. I told her plans are for people who don’t know what they want.
Then all that bullshit happened with Edith when I found her with that bastard in my shed.
Read my other note if you’ve forgotten.
I did what needed to be done. Nobody screws my wife and lives to talk about it.
After I handled that prick, I needed Ingrid’s help to clean up the mess. She didn’t scream. Didn’t faint. Didn’t run to the police. She went pale as milk and threw up twice, but she stayed. She understood the need for secrets. After all, we’d been livin one for months.
After Edith vanished, Ingrid moved into my bed proper. Not because I dragged her there. Because that’s where she’d been headed all along. I figured she was happy. She got what she wanted.
Me.
But it wasn’t long before she started wakin in the middle of the night. And cryin all the time, but quietly so the boys wouldn’t hear. Said she couldn’t stop seein things. Said the walls felt heavy. I told her walls don’t feel nothin. They just stand where you put ’em.
She kept askin if I ever felt guilty.
I told her guilt was for the weak.
That didn’t go over well, neither.
The ranch hands noticed she’d gone thin and pale. One of ’em had the nerve to ask if she was all right. I told him to worry about the damn cattle. But I saw the way they looked at me after she stopped comin out to the yards. Like I was doin somethin to her.
I damn well wasn’t.
That’s when the whisperin started. She was hearin all sorts a things, just like my brother Willy did way back before the drugs stopped his brain workin properly.
And that’s what I want to clear up. I did nothin. And I don’t need that shit hangin over my head.
If I’d wanted Ingrid gone, she’d have been gone.
The morning I found her, the sun was high, and she hadn’t come outta the bedroom.
Thought she was sulkin again. Found her on her side, lookin like some fairytale princess waitin for a kiss.
She looked beautiful. Then I saw the empty pill bottle on the bedside table.
Them drugs were for the cows. Not humans.
Doctor said she drifted off peacefully.
Bob Ackerman asked if we’d been arguin. I told him it’s hard to argue with someone who barely speaks. Bob’s known me since we were boys. We’ve got plenty of secrets between us. If I’d done somethin, I’d have told him.
But I didn’t do nothin wrong.
Doctor wrote overdose. Bob told the ranch hands to shut their damn mouths. That was that.
Truth is, Ingrid liked takin risks when it felt like a game. Liked me when I felt like a challenge. But once blood and secrets mixed into it, she couldn’t separate the guilt from the prize.
Ingrid couldn’t live with herself after what happened to Edith and that asshole she hooked up with.
So I’ll say it one more time.
I’ve done a lot of things. But I didn’t kill Ingrid.
Weakness did.
And don’t go pokin around that cemetery lookin for the other bastard. He didn’t get no headstone. Not after what he did. He got exactly what he deserved.
Anyway, that’s it.
I need to get some shut-eye.
Frank Branson.