Chapter 33
“Erin?”
I tiptoe toward where she lies, bleeding. My legs are jittery with adrenaline. I stand over her, looking down.
“Erin? Are you okay?”
She doesn’t move, not even the flutter of an eyelid. There’s blood seeping slowly from her head, staining her hair.
I need to call an ambulance. Erin’s phone has slid on the floor and is wedged under the stove. I kneel down and slide it out with the tip of my fingers.
“Erin, I’ll get you help, okay? Can you hear me? Erin?”
Maybe I should stop the blood flow first, although it does seem to have stopped all by itself.
I put two fingers on the side of her neck. Nothing.
“Erin?”
No pulse. I bring my ear to her mouth and nose, hoping to hear or feel her breathe. Nothing.
I think Erin is dead.
I stand. There’s blood on the edge of my knees and a smudge on my hand. I take the tea towel off the stove handle and wipe off what I can.
I don’t know what to do. I could call the ambulance. And then what? I sigh, shake my head. They’re going to get me for the one murder I didn’t commit, aren’t they.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
How was I supposed to know that Erin and Veronica were the same person?
Veronica, I could have talked some sense into, shown her our wedding album.
“Look at that cake,” I would have said. “A five-tier wedding cake made of profiteroles with vanilla pastry cream, a nut brittle, and a chocolate fountain on top. I made that cake. It took me eight hours, and I made it the night before my own wedding. Can you make a cake like that, Veronica? No. I didn’t think so.
Look at those wedding photos, Veronica. Look at how happy Roy is.
Can you make a man this happy? Look at me, I look like a porcelain doll. Do you look like a porcelain doll?”
But then she would probably say that yes, she can make Roy this happy, and she can order a cake, it’s not rocket science, and she may not look like a porcelain doll, but she does look beautiful and understated and sophisticated, and that’s probably what Roy wants anyway.
I can’t stay here. I have to leave and pretend none of this ever happened.
I put my gloves back on, wipe the phone with the tea towel and put it back in her hand.
I wipe everything I’ve touched, which fortunately isn’t much, but still.
I use a clean corner of the tea towel to wipe the French doors.
I go back to the living room and wipe the arms and back of the chair I sat on.
I wipe the laptop even though I don’t think I touched it, but you can’t be too careful.
In the kitchen, I get a trash-can liner from the cupboard under the sink and shove the tea towel into it.
Then I ball it up and push it deep in the pocket of my jacket.
I take one last look around, grab my wedding album, and leave the house.
Back home, the garage door makes a clunking noise when I press the button on the remote.
I hit the steering wheel with my forehead in frustration.
I should have left the garage open. I considered it, but then I worried that someone might hide inside while I was gone.
You hear stories like that all the time: the woman of the house getting assaulted in the garage because her husband didn’t shut the roller door and a vagrant took advantage.
Well, maybe not all the time, but it could happen. Anyway, that’s why I closed it and now I hold my breath as I drive in, hoping that Meredith isn’t the type to look through her shades wondering who’s coming home so late.
Inside the house, everything is dark. I close the door and lean against it, closing my eyes. I’m home.
The squeak of a footstep. I click my eyes open.
Did I hear it, or did I imagine it? I listen in the dark, holding my breath.
Nothing. Maybe I’m dreaming. It’s the adrenaline.
Yes, that’s it. I hang Roy’s cap back where it belongs and put his jacket and his leather gloves back in the closet.
I walk carefully to Roy’s office on the balls of my feet, open the door a hair, and look in.
Roy is still in the same position, snoring away.
I close the door quietly and walk toward the stairs, and did I hear it again? The squeak of a shoe?
I walk slowly toward the back of the house, blood thumping in my ears.
I stare at the back door that leads to the back garden.
It’s ajar. Again.
I can’t breathe. Is someone in the house? Roy always makes sure the doors are locked before going to bed. That’s his job, and he’s very good at it. But then, he didn’t go to bed, did he? And the door doesn’t close properly unless you really push it shut.
I do that now. I’m just being paranoid, no surprises there. My nerves are shot. I lock the door, then happen to glance at the floor. I stop. Is that a…scuff mark? On my floor?
I flick on the light switch and get down on my haunches to study it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it’s a footprint. But it can’t be because I was out, and Roy was also out, so to speak, and Marie is out, and there’s no one else in the house to leave dirty footprints around the place.
I stand up and look around, my heart racing. Unless…could Marie be home?
I go upstairs, change into my robe, then slowly walk up the stairs in my bare feet to the top level of the house.
And what will my excuse be if Marie is home? I’ll say I heard a noise, and I’ve been really worried. I thought there might have been an intruder in the house, I’ll say, because I found the downstairs door open.
Yes. That’s it. It makes perfect sense.
I stop at her door. There’s no light coming from under it. I knock gently. “Marie? Are you there?”
Nothing.
I knock gently again, my teeth digging hard into my bottom lip. Still nothing. I turn the knob slowly. It’s locked.
She’s not there. I let out a breath, then walk back downstairs to my room, hang my robe on the hook behind the door, and get into bed.
I let out a long breath, turn to my side, and fall asleep.