Chapter 17
I read the line over and over and over until the room spins.
How much longer, my darling Roy, before we can be together?
I think I’m going to throw up. He must have made promises for her to write that. Leave it with me, he must have said. I’ll take care of it.
What kind of sick man says something like that about his wife?
I press my hands over my eyes. She must have been terrified.
You meet a man who is a renowned psychologist, author of six books translated into five languages, and a regular guest on the Sophia Sanchez Morning Show, and you think you’re in safe hands.
Take a breath, Jo. Think happy thoughts.
I picture my linen cupboard, how I fold every sheet to be exactly the same width on the shelf, fitted sheets included.
Some days, when I feel especially angry, all I have to do is walk into that cupboard, gaze at my folded linen, and smell the lavender that permeates the room, thanks to those potpourri sachets I get from the market that come in little linen squares.
But my brain is broken. All I can think is, I knew it. I knew he had a reason to want to be rid of her.
And now, I found it.
And here’s something I’ve often wondered over the past few weeks. Let’s call it a mental exercise, a brain teaser: How long do your arms need to be to shoot yourself with a Winchester 70 rifle?
I don’t know how long an average person’s arms are, and I don’t know how long the barrel of a Winchester 70 rifle is. If I knew, I would do some addition and subtraction on the back of an envelope and figure out if shooting yourself in the face with a rifle is even possible.
The gun cabinet is locked, and Roy keeps the key hidden—although evidently Deborah knew where it was.
I know where the key is because I know where everything is in this house.
It’s a little brass key on a hook in Roy’s dressing room.
I grab it and return to his office, open the cabinet, and pull out the rifle.
I’ve never held a gun before, let alone a rifle, and it’s heavier than you’d think.
I turn it around and place the end of the barrel between my eyes.
Then I extend my arms to reach the trigger.
I’m just under 5 feet, 3 inches, so not super short, but not super tall, and I have to say, I can barely reach.
I turn the rifle around again and hoist it as if to shoot, with the butt against my collarbone. I’ve seen the movies so I get the general idea. I zoom in on one of Roy’s books in the far shelves: Becoming You: Heal Your Self-Worth and Attract the Life You Deserve.
And then I pull the trigger.
“What the hell are you doing?” Roy barks.
My heart explodes. I bring the rifle down. “Jesus! You scared me! You’re home!”
“Of course I’m home. It’s past six. What the hell are you doing with my rifle, Jodie? Give it to me! Right now!”
It’s past six? Already?
“I was cleaning it,” I improvise. I pull my sleeve over my knuckles and use the palm of my hand to buff the walnut part. Then I blow a mouthful of steam on the little telescope and wipe it with my sleeve over my finger.
“For Christ’s sake, Jodie! Give it back!”
“I only meant to help,” I say, handing it to him.
I check the way he holds it, confidently, the way he cracks it open to check for a cartridge, then seeing there isn’t one, the way he closes it again.
He knows how to handle that rifle, which makes sense, since it’s his.
But still. It’s interesting to watch just how comfortable he is with it.
He puts it back into its cradle, locks the cabinet and pulls out the key. He stares at it in his hand, then at me.
“It was an impulse,” I say. “I was thinking that your rifle never gets polished and it made me sad. I know how much you love that rifle. And I saw the key in the lock so I thought…”
“The key was in the lock?”
I raise my shoulders. “Well, yes. How else would I open it?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t even remember opening it. I haven’t opened it for ages.”
“Oh, Roy…” I say sadly. “You’ve been so busy, and all that talk about Deborah… Maybe you did it without thinking?”
He pushes a trembling hand through his hair. “Sorry, Jodie. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say.
He slips the key into his pocket and picks up his briefcase that he’d dropped on the floor. He puts it on the desk. “How did you get in here?”
I twirl an earring, shrug. “The door was open.”
He turns to me. “Really?”
“It was ajar. I went in because I thought you were home. Why?”
He takes a moment, studying my face, then goes back to his satchel. “Please never handle the rifle again without asking me. It’s incredibly dangerous.”
“I understand. I meant well,” I say.
“I know, babe. I know.”
I smooth my skirt. “Anyway, I have the slow cooker on. I should go and check on it. Dinner should be ready in about an hour.”
I go to the kitchen, sit on a stool at the counter, and google Can you shoot yourself with a rifle on my phone.
And it’s just as well that I have no emotions to speak of because it’s a pretty sad, sorry world out there.
As it turns out, yes, there are all sorts of ways to shoot yourself in the head with a rifle.
Using your toe to press the trigger is a popular solution. Happens all the time, apparently.
Later, over dinner, I ask him, keeping my tone light, “Did you and Deborah have a prenup agreement?”
His left eye twitches. He takes a sip of wine. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “I’m just wondering.”
He puts his glass back down. “Why would you wonder about something like that?”
“I was talking to my friend Erin earlier… Remember my new friend Erin? I told you about her? Anyway, she said her fiancé wants her to sign a prenup, and she’s quite upset about it.
I told her it’s no big deal, we signed one, and as you remember, I didn’t have any issues with it.
Because I love you, and I know you love me, and we’re never getting divorced, so what does it matter?
That’s what I told her. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.
But it made me curious, did you and Deborah have one? ”
He seems momentarily confused by this wall of words, but then he says, “No. We didn’t.”
My jaw drops. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why not?”
“I never even thought about it, if you must know.”
“But you thought about it with me.”
He sighs and takes my hand. “Jodie, honey. Give it a rest.”
“I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Marrying you was my second marriage. Henry—”
“Henry?”
“Henry Barber, my lawyer. You’ve met him.”
“Of course. Sorry. Keep going.”
“Henry thought it would be a good idea.”
I nod slowly, like that makes perfect sense. But inside, I am boiling.
Because I found it: the motive, the smoking gun, the reason he killed my sister.
Dr. Roy Davies wanted to get rid of his wife to be with his mistress, but they didn’t have a prenup.
How much longer, my darling Roy, before we can be together?
I wonder if she was in on it.